I miss the wind
As I stood on the porch
And watched it
All pass: my love
kriyamana
does a poet's karma
escape since the words are conscious
each space deliberate
is that why tears flow so easily or laughs come so true
once written life emerges
where none was: it all flows so calmly
each correction, each movement of the fingers
the back spaces the going forward. it is all karma
undisputable incoherent unimaginable karma of life
outstretched throughout this abyss
*******
non-compliance
. . . . . . . . . . what - ever: enough to get a blurb
a skip into life - how does a child
. . . . . . . . . . go from zero to what - ever: how
does a mother understand that the ever
. . . . . . . . . . the what is what she needs to go
into the next realm: she'll be my equal: surpass me
her life
. . . . . her own
. . . . . . . . . . still what-ever
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . is where we are
hour glass
. . . . . . . .and it all comes down to a little picture
chosen by someone: a tiny blurb of birth - death
chosen by someone: a tiny blurb of birth - death
a nice little quote, a few flowers, and a certificate
a box, urn, a catacomb - the end remains the same
a reintegration into the very earth claimed in deeds
how sad - i want to say. why fight - i want to plead
the end remains the same. & during the dash of life
the sand runs out - drifts into the ocean or made into
glass by the lightning that strikes each of us as each
storm strolls past awaiting the sun to hit & draw us
away
y as a function of x
if someone was to graph my life out
i believe a definitive derivative function
of my life would be a bird: a red one
that taps at my window and lives on
my shoulder. at the other end a blue
it will soon take flight and cover my
arm - a trajectory of cancellation in
my ever expanding mind and body &
what i've learned to explain as an identity
squared away nicely into my existence
homeomorphism
in the dreams ahead - i will see
more and more until there is no
more: i am approached by each
corner of the earth - edging me
on: promising that there's just a bit
more for me to do until i'm done
a robert frost poem, or a bad tele
novela. how my worlds collide
a venn diagram & i am nowhere
closer to sleeping thru the night
last night's dream a step into a future
where old familiar faces appeared
and hushed me - letting me know i
had stepped into another level of existence
"Holding on is believing that there's only a past;
letting go is knowing that there's a future." Daphne Rose Kingma
pursuit
if all is a simulation then why does everyone
not look like me. why does everyone appear
like a glow of what life is suppose to be - who
designs my simulation? who decides the flavors
the sights, the sounds, the very creations of those
who walk besides me. the broom used to sweep
the food i am given. if it is all a simulation I
would pick such different sounds, a song to fill
my soul, people who resembled me - even care
to stop and pick up litter. there, there is proof
there is a God - because only a God would drop
us in to simmer, maybe even boil until we awoke
realizing there is no simulation: just recurring events
read off a card
trivia
the narrowness is hard
it keeps us in control
if there is no then a possibility
still remains - however small
if there is no God no love no
nothing then it all is for nothing
and not one thing can be wrong
and it all can be wrong - it is the ultimate
is self delusion but perhaps that is what
is needed after the bottle of wine and beers
what is the point if there is no point at all
is that the greatest fear
to ash
When the core unbalances
It becomes hard to stand
A loss of life and thought
A path unearned relearned
Comes back to our youth
When our muscles hurt and our heart was still ours to give - mine is shattered and walks about
Freely and I’ll be wrong every day and twice on Sunday - every mother knows this and every mother gives this
生き甲斐 : Ikigai
time is slow - do not fear
this is how it often goes
i've been in practice now
for over fourteen years
each year blends into the next
a slow roll - slower for
some than others. each
calls. the calls do little
to speed time: resets: so
many resets; pawns sacrificed
no real move. no check
or even mate. just laughs
and stories and clicks on
hard marble floors. benches
of woods hundreds of years old
how many has it been now
for me - hundreds, i believe
each with their story & loss
carefully balanced in the back
of the mind. rarely do i give thought
the one given twenty gives me
pause: life enters and he fades
a check to mate was what that
was. others pass like tiny flames
when i die and i will die: each loss - out
weighs the wins. and to the one
who got that last chance: i often
want to call, forgive his debt so
he can call me: expand on how life
matters
paradoxical sleep
the protective nature of pain
allows us to learn: it's said if
no pain no growth. drilled in
to us in the army. i can sleep
anywhere. but i didn't learn
that in the woods where we
trained in the rain and cold
i learned to sleep when i was
very young. it was a game
of pretend that led to just
being a doll: nothing more
perhaps that's why i like pain
why i gravitate towards it, why
i miss it in my life: it lets me
pretend to sleep and sometimes
i just float away . . . . . . . . . .
18 minutes before sunset
. . . . . if it all comes down to a checklist
then what is the rush. it won't ever
. . . . . all get done. some morph. others
become extinct. a headache in fumes
. . . . . candles lit like bodies stretching
across years. the little light, the little
. . . . . heat insufficient: a dandy tune
and a rhyme and so many paintings
. . . . . if it culminates to a checklist
and it all will never get done and
. . . . . really at the end of ends: for who
for what and the why - why must
. . . . . it come down to a little lit string
transduction
in a small corner of a large structure
i sat: was confronted with such truth
two hands that never touched: to let go
it was time to let go. he thought he said
such a small thing. an easy left. made right
a tree here, a leaf there. a red bird over near
the window: what a turn of events. it takes
time for the echo to disseminate through out
the body. a fall. a winter. a spring. a summer
a life made by the verbalization of unbeknown
honesty
I'm still holding on: Luther Barnes
chiral knot
. . . . . they always seem to have a purpose
even when they sit believing in the silence
not meditation: not even life not any more
at each corner, each lane, a decision made
years ago: of what to leave behind what to
keep in the back of the mind, in storage -
btwn the sunday and the monday and each
day in btwn: the many years collapse in
time: exhausted. given little reprieve so it
eases into purpose. each lost pet, lost life
lost family, lost job: an opportunity at most
a transformation of the mind, the soul, life
Milliways* table 31
all things considered
including the sky, the night
the turn arounds - it
all has been a good
ride. he said during
the transformation
from man to energy
it took a few life times
one too many to live
out: still the variants
of life: the equilibrium
felt right: at each turn
the lessons piled high
such tolerance a learnt
science of tenacity and
someone lookin out
for him waiting for -
at the table on the left
* Restaurant at the End of the Universe: Douglas Adams
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