with the doors opened—
perception cleansed—
we can see the paths
as they have been
laying before us.
one always said
the door is a construct.
break through it,
reach the wasted dawn,
spread those sheets of gold,
copulate,
don’t hesitate,
the horse’s eyes must die,
rid yourself of the lie,
go to sleep and cry.
another,
much the same,
elevated more than a name—
key-frenzied chaos
over a cacophonous combustion—
reminded us to resist
the system’s game.
who could blame
when a stone projects fame
upon a name in shame.
one more still,
drove the rhythm,
reason—the bossa nova beat—
“this is cool,
“but what about this
“encroaching heat?
“we might become
“flayed and roasted,
“burnt and toasted meat!”
at the end of the day,
the final path—
a more taoist play—
said, “hey,
“we don’t have to go today.
sitting here’s another way.
“say….once i finish
“my delicious burrito
“and my conversation
“with this here mosquito,
“well, what do you say?
“we might as well go
“that-a-way,
“no?”
POET’S NOTE:
Part of the Wait. What?!? collection.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
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