Fine Tuning in the Morning

I have no idea.

Sitting in August, fine tuning counting hands to trip in autumn bargains. Waiting for cheetahs and hyenas to licking with tongues of babes my matted hair. Ear drums full of passing shades and monsters of passed cries. Blinking through the cracks of light in the growing darkness that creeps through reality into a normal way of life. The food sends an email through my body; an electric message to the pit of abdomens everywhere... everyday. In separated shores of sounds through jazz to distant romance of times long ago. Ancient sounds found in recent markets. Beat up mounds of drums through ducking heads near explosions. The universe now falling back on itself to image a time it misses for it knows God. Stripped fish find in shallow water their mother, the clay from which they came. Sing through gill motion, through respiration, through breathing. Too early for this, the scales I mean, found only on the black keys the hymns are known. Humming of old slaves, they mesmerize my fine tuning. I wonder how they made it. I know they were loved.