when the sun enters the song

[saw]

I'm shooting for honesty
that isn't boring, details
that have simmered for six decades
or more, lounging on a hot stove,
what a silly frog am I thinking how much
I dig the new spa when deep inside
I have to know I'm sitting in a boiling pot

but a lot of clarity can come
to limbs and flesh when they are heated
to the proper temperature, when the realization
surrounds your pores in ways you cannot ignore
and the green wrinkled skin you were born with
changes colors in the steaming turbulence
and a beacon shines in the eye that is still open

the closed eye is already dreaming 'bout another way
of dissecting the universal cinema's showing,
another way of seeing below the surface
of the bubbling water where germs go to die
and rebirth rises in the mist that's heading
for the ceiling, there is nothing clever
about fancy words that miss the point

the point should be sharp like aged Gouda
like Parmesan left to think about it's old composition
the point should be prickly like spines of steel cacti
yet succulent and fleshy with the hidden moisture of truth
sharp enough to penetrate leathery old cellular walls, sharp
enough to puncture rusted chromosomes left abandoned,
so the sun can enter the song

[the mingo]

* *

[saw]

thanx mingo....