The Soul Loves The World More Than You Know Poem by Mike Finley

Habit leads one to suppose
all it thinks about is heaven,
it is the only thing on its mind
the unimprovable place
the out there the not here the sublime.

And you can see when it lies sleeping
it wants to move out of here,
it is running as fast as it can,
it is galoopigating to a better realm
that is always snapdragons and pie.

But the soul is too dumb
to be anywhere but here.
Behold the furrows folding in
on themselves, behold
the stuporous stare.

Even in its dreams it is rooting in the now,
it is a digging a channel to get to where it is
it is roaring out at the speed of thought
because movement keeps it from thinking.

The gases climbing up through the soul,
the messages drip down every wall,
even the yelp of a stone in the foot
is perfect, is right, is all right.

It requires reshuffling on our part
to change everything inside out,
to think this filthy moment matters
with the growling stomach
and the itchy armpit and the squint

and the way we disappoint one another
right now and the only thing giving us away
is this sense of ripe cheese.

The soul says don't be a drip
What it is, it says, is, is, is...