The Trick with Balance

is to keep a lion
heart
at the precipice
of each unforeseen incoming
and to hold the hand
of monkey
mind, while the walls
are scribbled on-

a chaotic fiddling,
an unorganized sequence,
a rabid settling.

Sky mirrors the earth, a parallel,
but the feet,
as much as they want, cannot grow
roots, and often times
kilter and equilibrium
have this marxist dialect
with Time-

falling when flying should be,
crying when laughing should be,
eating when hunger is not,
and burning when the coolness
of aloe, guarded
by spikes, is at hand, waiting
to be broken, squeezed, and oozed
over discomfort.