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Mr. and Mrs. Spratt

My father,
who tolerated no fat,
predicted I would do nothing right
or good,
much less healthy,
in my lifetime.

My mother,
absorbing nothing too mean or lean,
felt I could do nothing wrong
now,
so probably later as well,
welfare wellness.

Neither my father,
mother,
or I
seemed particularly surprised
when I rose and fell
somewhere in-between
these two extremes,
as do we all
I suppose.

And yet I wonder
about my father’s hierarchical value structure,
placing perfection on Earth’s highest
biggest
thickest welfare state.

And remain silently awed
by my mother’s reverse-hierarchical terms
endearing depths of greatest compassion
for who is deeper
and thereby more robust
than whom.

I suppose this means something
about where sexuality conjoins
sensuality,

About triangular cognitive structures
amid diamond infolding co-relationships,
about 1’s
intersecting 0-Zones,
about light
foreshadowing dualdark reminders
of perfection,
about fullness of time
within timeless absence,
eternally co-arising.

Although,
neither Yang’s ominous
hierarchical value predictions
nor Yin’s generously interdependent
deep learning hopes,
sexual and sensual,
were all that helpful
for adolescent me,
struggling with spectral we.

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