THE JUICE
comes at its richest once denied,
say if you’re caught
in a dryland you can’t pass through
and it’s eight years wide,
or when a face seems just a “this,”
or when your damnable correctitude insists
till nothing in its native self exists —
it’s then the juice makes progress.
How do we get cemented in
one corner of the spectrum,
color gone black & white,
stuck at some single sticky end?
Dear passengers in our universe-boat,
comrade sailors, let juices flow,
savor the zest of the billion-paged menu,
for where is it written that you must be
one item? Do it, Genius-Person,
aged and ageless, of multi-hue —
O carry on, kaleidoscopic you!
Let juices flow as they are meant to do!
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