Do you remember this night my darling?… I want to say that it was 1990. But it
just as easily as well had been 1991; But never mind any of that, much like The
Ancient Recluse* dates have always eluded my interest. So lets just call it some-
time in the very deep setting of the last summer of that particular branch of my
youth (and self).

We were there in your backyard. Just laying there in the night on a laid-out
blanket from your room; I could smell the coiled frustrations of your caged
femininity (and your peculiar rashness towards it) inlaid deep into its color
faded fabric.

Your mom and step-dad were there as well. Somewhere way off out there among
the mortgage payments, credit card debts, grocery list and morning commutes,
half gazing upon the scattered fireflies pulsating mysteries and lusts that were no
longer open to them.

Our bodies were touching…. Very quietly. Very deliberately. There among and in-
between the more flamboyant generations of the night ;…
(And oh how we lost ourselves to its Suburban Metaphysics that fed us into such
a mild subdued moment of vulnerability and honesty, making the words, that we
were already choosing so carefully, seem so far away and delicate in nature, that
they began to boarder upon being dangerous in our mouths.)

Maybe it was from our parents inability to notice such metaphor…. To notice
such beauty, such literature, such reasons…, such beyond themselves, that
moored our openness to it all.
That kept us to keep so close to the vest–– ourselves.
Maybe it was all that that curbed our intimacy into such mediocrity…. And maybe
it wasn’t. I don’t know. But never mind any of this ramble. This was before any of
those pretentious curiosities turned into such tentative self analyzing poetry.
This was the night that i felt your powdered cheek, and inhaled very deeply, one
of your life’s younger anxious breaths… and so cunningly stole from it–– and
felt its change!

But now you may be wondering to yourself, why have i re-opened up this night
to you?
For what purpose? For what gain, and to what ends?
No other ends nor gain but to illustrate this thought–– While some may say of
time: The cruelty. The larceny…. The blatant criminality in the abrasive finality
of its nature!
I say now, instead: What a wonderful gift, this delicate seeding. This beautiful
blooming of reason and meaning that can only exist in a one directional time!
This moment. This moment here is MINE! And it will not last! So i love and i
laugh and i anger and i hate as importantly as it is to love and to laugh and to
anger and to hate.
I acknowledge the fact…, without bitterness, that all and everything shall come
to pass.
That all chances have their ends!

* Nothing is known of the ancient recluse other than that he lived in the Chungnan
mountains south of CH’ang-an and called himself T’ai-shang ying-che (The Ancient
Recluse); Taken from the ‘Poems Of The Masters, China’s classic anthology of T’ang
and sung dynasty verse’. translated by RED PINE .

The Poem–– In Reply, by The Ancient Recluse
Somehow i ended up beneath pines
sleeping in comfort on bouldars
there aren’t any calendars in the mountains
winter ends but who counts the years

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