Tracing spontaneous, broken lines,
which cut jaggedly across your palm,
this gypsy woman can expertly index
what situations you'll end up in the middle
of, and who might just put a ring
on your untouched third finger.
The gypsy fortune-teller will put her fingers
on precisely the problems in your life and love lines.
She slowly spins her gaudy silver ring
and asks you to please palm
over money so she may be the middle-
man between you and the spiritual index.
You hand over the cash carefully, with index
finger and thumb. She snatches it from your fingers.
You think perhaps you're in the middle
of some shady, questionable lines
of action, but then she grabs your palm
and the brass gong beside you rings.
This medium examines from your ring
finger down to the wrist, to form an index
of premonitions about what she sees in your palm.
Suddenly, she gasps, looking at your fingers.
She shouts, "They say what you will do, monster! The lines!"
She stands up and flips you the middle.
She stormed out right in the middle
of reading your fortune! This ring
of fortune-telling gypsies seems as crooked as lines
drawn by a toddler! Your anger index
is now growing bigger than a giant's fingers.
But now you start to wonder what she read in your palm.
You begin to worry and your palm
sweats, and you're shaken to the middle
of your bones. You wring your fingers
and fiddle with your rings,
and consider what ominous index
of predictions lies in your lines.
Beware what reality from your palm may ring,
for from your middle finger to your index,
the gypsy fortune-teller reads your fingers and your truthful lines.
her graceful hand, more fragile than the rain,
like a call to the angry heavens above,
more melancholy than an artist's pain,
holds soft. yet tightly. onto twisted love.
her nails are crescents like the hiding moon,
her thin fingers are lavender and thyme,
with joints that know no work and are immune
to this mad world's evil prime-time war-crimes.
she cages all her laughter in her heart,
keeps a sophisticated look always,
but palms tell truths when lips don't ever part;
those hands don't have to beg or even pray.
un-calloused, innocent and fortunate:
she bangs her fists in nonsense and regret.
a few bones sit alone,
supine and absent.
they can not pivot.
they can not extend.
so what happened to the Hand?
where has It gone?
the Hand from above,
uncolored and regardless.
look over your shoulder
wrap your arms around yourself
and then reach upward;
can you feel the Nerve?
feel hard enough,
starting with that little finger
and your thumb.
the bones will come alive.
Source: The Anatomy Coloring Book, by Wynn Kapit and Lawrence Elson
His quietly dangling hand
seemed as if every joint
of his every finger
spoke of, breathed of,
glistened of truth.
Ah, but nothing could be
achieved by killing the random
self, because that high, bright
state of being awake
had slowly become a memory,
but he had learned
the truth of forgetfulness.
He was truthful down
to the gesture of his
he was lost.
Source: Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse