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how has it taken
forty six years
to become exposed to the word:
ineffable?

what other word
could have been the heart
beat of this lazy poet.

we are not human beings
having a spiritual experience.
we are spiritual beings
having a human experience,
was what a sign said
in august
on winston farm,
just west of saugerties,
new york  
in 1994.

we’re covered in mud
sweat, blood and urine
intertwined in our bizarre
mycorrhizal network.
happiness is slavery
the leadman beckons,
as we slither over each other.

there are things
we understood more clearly
through the fog of youth

like how to be
in awe of the universe
and unafraid of anything.

the world and all our experiences
were ineffable in those days,
before we were worn down
and bored and lured
by the false promise of security
and peace.

we had glimpsed
enough
behind the curtain
to sustain us
all this time.