–I am not God The breath inside of me is closer than I could ever be to grace- it is closer to the essence of creation than what I perceive myself to be daily The wind dances across the world an act of worship and of life as I sit and watch and worry about the too many things, everything, the quotidian A misunderstanding of my understanding of God, the being I am not, […]
-…as a yellow-tinted sliver streaks across the fallen day shedding ashes of light on the edge of dimensions the layers ripple, a wave of consciousness breaking apart – as celestial bodies drawn to a common rock splinter into jagged fragments that never reconcile, yet remain stranded in the solitude of proximity, the weight of each an argument toward existence shaped around distinct edges and position- so consciousness agrees, while we argue vehemently the subtleties of edges, the difference between you & me
For Shyla -Being a father is not a suit or a mask or a performance…it permeates each and every manifestation of self, it is intertwined and woven into the entirety of the concatenation of self, from the moment of a child’s birth…our current modes, society, communal cultures often break away from this truth, as father’s abandon their children…but it is an undeniable truth, as a father, you are changed, your child is an integral part of you, just as you are an integral part of your child…as a father, it is my privilege, and I embrace the responsibility, to strive […]
-Life is a life-long process; a series of decisions, choices, possibilities, lost and found strands of personal story in a chaotic complex system; governed by the conflict of reconciling subjective perspectives with the only tool we have-which often fails-language. It means what it means dependent on the philosophy/spirituality embraced, all of which remain ambiguously true to each subjective embrace. None of us exist together in the same world ever. Thus, everything means and does not-objectively, but never subjective. There is no figuring it out collectively, only individually and personally.
-Oh me, oh life Of the possibilities and strands which still exist the many variant paths still to be met the footfalls and quivers which do not rest the mind and imagination frenetically creating fantastical forms in flux movements and sequences still shaping Oh me, oh life Take breath, take heart each new moment a new start each new day brings its rain each mildew crested sunrise washing what has been away breathe deep, be whole stand still, then go Oh me, oh life The powerful play goes on and you, may yet, contribute a verse…
-The morning of death we mourn the dead no, not death, not the dead we do not mourn the dead we do not mourn that death takes the dying it is the fleeting of possibility the defeat of what could be too suddenly becoming what could have been, far too quickly– to ever dream of being. It is not those that leave we mourn; it is those who stay, and what they will not create. It is not the dead we mourn; it […]
-The horizon tilts. The world becomes different. If only momentarily, the quotidian is allayed. There is a freedom in the gasp for breath. The not knowing; will everything turn out? It will all be all right. It always is. But, there is always the not knowing. This may be the moment it all turns. The trope which ends it all. Not a trope at all. It’s not. The horizon returns to its antithetical position. A straight line concealing a universe of possibility. Everything encompassed in the possibility of troping without a trope. That gasp, that breath, that not knowing. It […]
-space evaporates and the miles between the u and the I fade to find these side by side, a trope of a trope of a trope…the u an I remain outside the trope, still distant…still, continents in their own drift…towards some ephemeral bliss…or the hope of this blissful ephemerality…an illusion, which only momentarily, finds breath…
-It seems we’re there now. Never had a moment to think things through. In the lost breath shed between attempts at clarity, the cycle continued. Life. It is a wave that rolls and before you can regain your balance, it’s coming back your way. You roll with it, or almost float with it. A big gulp of salty suds. Perhaps better than tears. Grit your jaw and hoist your chin above to the sea salt air. The rocking ship will not abate. Would you want it to? Lost equilibrium is better than none at all. Who needs a touching down? […]
–the whimper of the world’s turning the tiny question …does it matter… everything fades by evening a trace of our moment’s left That ethereal breath a halogen Dissipates the rich color of life sleeping without dreaming, ever the pallid palette Over a billion faces the same thoughts regurgitated tell the same stories failed voices creak the rustling of thought heard for millennia