Once upon a time

there was a man

named God.

Once upon a time

there was a man.

Once upon a time there was

a boy named Quentin.

Once upon a time there was

nobody who laid in bed.

No. Lied in bed. No. Nobody

laid noself down in bed where

no lies, caressing noself’s nipple,

comforting noself, lying with

noself, lying to noself about noself’s

beliefs of noself that noself

is somebody, or maybe that noself

is nobody. No’s not quite sure about

noself, where no’s not to be.

Once upon a time is an easy beginning,

some mantric melody, sweet as birdsong,

windchime, riverrock, the rustling of leaves

from wind, from rain, and the sound of

asphalt on a hot summer day.

Once, once, once, once, once. Just

this once upon a time a boy

curls—

to a boy’s left side

—up

in bed because his mother said this is the

side one lies on when in abdominal distress,

and she should know, being a woman an’ all.

Boy knew well the hardships of womanhood

taught to boy by woman mother that boy

found woman to be of lore, supernal,

walking sacrifice to the gods that

once upon a time boy dreamt of woman

not erotically. Perhaps, perchance,

reverently, as much deference as boys

had earned in respect to give.

Boy cashes out boy’s worth,

homage to girl.

Once upon a time, this time,

there be a woman whose image of

which the boy cannot materialize

but whose aura of which is rising

yellow, green, blue.

Once upon a time

there was, and was easy,

the summer equinox at dawn,

nothing was wrong for no

search was there for right.

Habits past shed from the

lining of inner births

to be. Free. Empty. Free.

Liberty. Liberty. Liberty.

Tone atone me not save

not injury to me but me.

Once, once, once. Once.

Once upon a time,

man be. Be free.

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