Robert Wallace Paolinelli

Crumbs

I threw the bread

crumbs from our picnic

table onto the sand, and

before I knew it, blackbirds

alit and, differentiating

from the grains of sand,

pecked up the orts from

the beach, then, satisfied,

flew away.

*/*/*/*/*/*/

Recumbent Penis

Recumbent penis,

quiet between my

legs, resting after

many long years of

service to joy, sensu-

ous joy and to

humanity.

Veteran.

One well-acquainted

with the limitations

of itself--

yet ever-ready to

plunge deeply into the

unknown, probing into

secret spaces and

regions, pushing to the

limit the barriers of

flesh and bone that

prohibit going farther.

Yet the penis ever tries

to enter, going deeper--

though knowing one can

only go so deep.

Warrior.

Covered with blood--

rich red first blood

sacrificed on the

archetypal phallus

from virgins, seduced

while gathering rosebuds;

blood from unexpected

menstral tides, thick

blood carrying the

cosmic egg down the

tube wherein the penis

is soaked with menstral

blood and the act is

well-lubricated.

But not tonight.

Tonight himself

rests, weary after

more than thirty-five

and more years of

service to the state,

to Venus, to motherhood

& fatherhood, an exchange

of souls and bodies

through mucous and motion,

a fulfilled yin-yang,

completion--the joining,

the becoming the Tao of

the womb, the tireless

continuation of the ori-

ginal penis, the penis

as of old which is and

was and shall be forever

and ever, for as long as

men are born, for so long

as women have cunts and

ovaries.

But not tonight;

tonight the Old

One rests, deserving

repose, a well-earned

retreat from the adit

of heaven and hell, the

door of conception and

deception, the lure of

lust and love;

from all of this

the Old One withdraws

into semi-retirement,

relinquishing his place

so that other fresher,

sharper tools can be put

to the test--and

with time also come

to rest a while in the

crotch of asylum,

seeking refuge from an

old and wonderful

habit.

*/*/*/*/*/*/

Afraid of nothing

but myself being

afraid of something

is being afraid of

something.

*/*/*/*/*/*/

The inner room,

the place mimicked by

man-made rooms in (so

called) special, or

holy places, a legion

of holy of holies

with an inner chamber

only the initiates

could enter and then

only after long tutelage and

special practices and

rites had been fulfilled.

But that's not the

room I speak about;

no. Those places

were built by men

for other men and

by their place have

no power or distinction

above or beyond any other

such place.

The inner room of

which I speak is

inside one's self,

one is surrounded by it.

If one tried to find it,

it would not be found;

but that does not change

anything, for one's inner

room, one's inner sanctum,

one's personal holy of holies,

exists--everything and all

conditions--notwithstanding.

The space that is

the soul's "room" that

portion of relative

time and space and

continuum is the

soul's abode--only

no one has ever

"sat" in this room

for it has no physical

presence--yet

it exists: the seat

of the soul, the true

identity of man.