saying the unsaid as theraputic diastole

the opening comes
when you least expect it
though there is rhythm
you cannot bear.

in the circle of drums, you become
the focal point, then the antimony
in the pill. you think there are spells
so you work to unweave them.

there's no need for that kind of substance
in your life. you're trying to rid yourself
of delusion, but with it you find pragmatic
reasons for staying inside.

you expand.
expand some more.
the chamber fills, distends.
you were not aware you had
this much corruption inside:
begin to wonder if perhaps
contraction is for the living
and perhaps what this is
is the opposite. you've seen
warp and woof in flesh,
on the streets, understand life
vs. automation. what you didn't know

previously, was how coming from there
and getting back to the basics of robotics
requires a stasis field. you hunt for the makings
in your boxes but there's only old receipts
and ticket stubs and coin. they may have
to do. still the balloon expands. there is room
yet, for a therapy. you want to distill it
toss into the ever expanding film
but the beat brings you home. it goes on.

the magic was not yours, alone. it never is.
a large plastic sheet becomes a wave in stone's
backyard and you sit in the swing, motionless
so that when the wave breaks, you can see
the wind sigh, feel the muscle, emptying.