Whole, they said, it is about being whole.
Whole, I said, is that a place where one
can be, or an idea of what one should be?
Or is it a dream, where birds fluff feathers
in ridiculous blues, reds, chestnut, where
life is shining and the dark days of monsoon
lie drowning in the dirty gutters of reality?
Is the peacock whole? Is it more complete
as it changes tone, reduced deep decibels,
relaces them with fluty cry, with trills and
echoes which ping as music, blends as one?
Or is being whole when I take the broken
rocks of self, the branches of spirit and
the dust of soul and mix them with the
water of emotion, to make the mud of me?
My lungs suck deep the teachings and the
should, wheezing as they cling and close,
the I of Me and the Me of I, as life demands
I swallow fermenting fruit in order, to be