... even killer-bees that suffered me to walk among
them!

...the python stretching so long across the road that
its head and tail was obscured by the encroaching
junglement...

... the huge blue slow flapping flutterbys, ...

Thus my affinity with all tropicalities: the procession
of humidity and heat...

But I was reborn in the jungle! I found my manly fate
in the tropics!

... while never settling into a pre-fabricated
template—a habit.

Precisely: take in everything possible with heightened
perception ...

...and to sensitized discernment, and to activity
without habituated involvement.

Conversant tourism predisposes one to fun engagement
with a probing awareness...

…to live like a tourist in a potentially predatorial
universe seems to me to be not simply a valuable
strategy, but an indispensable one.

But in a universe which can be changeable and
predatorial, ...

...yet the structure of which is otherwise largely
unknown, habits—either good or bad—may turn into fatal
assets without warning.

One learns how foolish mundane *expectations* can be.
One learns to live like a tourist in a potentially
predatory universe…

No room for routine as each succeeding surprise washes
upon you like a tingling ocean wave.

What a strangeness always the world brings when you
open yourself up to it vastly!

LOL

I can't wait to see how this goes

but throw a
line in once in a while that says

*hey you I love
you* LOL

in this flurry,

this romance,

this collusion of
delusional moments:

our dance.

step for step,

changing yet changing together

Leap and interlope together

knowing that the moments
we each have to ourselves

are, nonetheless,
perfectly-matched

Arrange our near-moments

(forever bequeathed only unto
self)

into a synchronous prance.

Still...

We can dance:

So thus with exactness doomed

by time and its
distancing inventions,

I shall never know the precise
moment of you

in your timeless immediate bloom.

by a fleeting temporal chasm

interposing between near
and far

like a pane of glass

between two lovers'
kisses.

Even if we huddled in a near-time

of sweet bubbling
caresses,

each very moment of self

would remain an
instant separated

And thus by delay beset,

and with synchronicity, if
only by nanoseconds,

rendered misfit,

we'd regress to
perfect loneliness

(if rationality would permit).

Though each moment of mine

blazes as brilliant
soul-lightning,

your grasp of that moment

is more
along the nature of thunder heard.

We seek a simultaneity

that time will never beget.

Why is my *now*

forever always your *yet*?