Muscle Poems

There is this question of the existence of a God or even really a Universe.  The question’s intensity sometimes produces a euphoric stupor. Some moments are hard enough to comprehend when synchronicity occurs, mysteriously insinuating that we are more secure than we think, or that our existence is scarily predetermined. I hear in musical tones the idea that this God and Universe is space responding to magnetic gravitational forces. Embedded in our zodiac are secret truths, we individuals not as original as thought to be. I heard from a book esoterically written that each one of us expresses a planet. Our choices insignificantly affect the pulls of each turning hour. Or do we? Writhing in the invisible web.

The spheres’ spin and orbit in operatic magnificence. There is a fear we have deep down that there exists too much power. That we have little but confused control and a deeper need for freedom while still being able to lay safely in a lover’s arms. Our cars rip through her Earth.