it contains wisdom, but the "all good" has become washed away by endless vapid repetition. I wrote this poem on July 4, 1999. I guess it's my version of "it's all good."
Falling Off
It always falls
off,
away from the center,
to one side or the other,
just as you thought
you had the perfect understanding
the right groove,
the hint of a divine moment.
The divine moment is in
the off
as much as the on,
the sour stomach,
the moment of paranoia,
the lancing of passionate bubbles.
There is no off.
There is only on,
and the other on.
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