–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
-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 […]
-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…
–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
-Numb after the long day (each day a lifetime)previous breaths resurface (the scent of absence)each lifetime hollowed by want (nothing reaches resolution) A recursive lesson springs out of breath (each day has its breath)each breath fades into oblivion, erasure (the mind holds only the moment)the lifetime is dispersed like exhalation (the day is blurred to one moment) Oblivion; everything and nothing indiscernible (erasure marks the remaining image)the absence is weight, the removed (what was never there remains also)the permanence of stars, fallen and shining (the latent remnants of experience)
-Poetry is cipher the emptiness of the mind imagining The imaginings of the imagination shading and giving shape to outlines of smoke and breath Empty figures swirling into the forms of nothing nothing that is not and is Dissonance is truth as absence forms all presence and presence empties out This Theatre of Trope figurative misrepresentation of what is and is not there
-I dreamt of happiness in a smile a ring a life in the sweeping away of the dust that settles on eyelids the calming of the nightmare the pre-trembling of a house that falls the reification of breath as it becomes and animates the self in surrendering the solitary word leaving open the wounds of possibility surrendering the words of solitary imagination’s dreams and footfalls surrendering the mystical words of forgoten prayers and incantations
-Memories like fallen ash, fade the ideas we create of the life we lived. Nothing is real, every illusion an abstraction. Some creation of the imagination. Every point is then a momentof genesis. Life in its many colored panes represents nothing that is fixed. Everything. Waking, each, until there is no more consciousnessis the genesis of breath and life; memoryis where the imagination plays, and revisions visions. Propounding wandering of wonderings,as the dust, like fallen ash, dances in the wakingbreath of creation, imagination and abstraction.