What Gives My Freedom?

What gives? What gives my freedom? When the sky is a big blue lantern, raised by a strong maiden, to view the planet's happiness from happiness on high early in the Spring-- Going by? Pass this way! Toss with me to the wind a while a ballast: ten thousand million billion things. Away! A wind screefs the sky, then rain, a gentle reminder: let go: Die. Gently. Each rain trajectory a sweeping scan, lazy exclamation mark, and as it touches down in your ears/soul/shell: all is well where wind and willow linger. Dip a finger. Lull. Loll.

When we layed back lackadaisical, you and I, on grassy dunes above the beach, and towers of white clouds yonder played out our lighthearted majesty--

When with a palm-cup of sand held, global gold drift from fingers, when wind among firs was drifting sufficiency. When a river removed its shoes, I went barefoot to meet it, prepared at first to download, to deposit in this old bank my old account, or unaccountable, what was thought of rot down there, the river said, and the riverbank, but bliss? Here I said is the model of my bliss! Who sang songs out the long twisted cave of my ancestors, spun their Ariadne's thread to this flying shuttle, carpet that I am, that "weaves itself"? Who in the promotions of Karma uploaded into music--a "piece" of music--or a whole of music? Who was the Fur Elise radiated (maieusis) in raptus trance by Ludwig Beethoven, here from the CD, here from the Walkman cassette? It was the body who wanted a different name, because the name flew out to the "biography." To what extent is the body biography, this biography? What, precisely, may be the poles, terminals to arc the medium? What is not media? What is not downloading, uploading, sideloading? Re-loadings in the high summer's buzzwords, wasps, honey soldiers off in their cups, AWOL? Shaking gold dust from their feet.