Category: Secret Religion

-The fatigued fist unclenches like grains of sand, time defies constrainment a lifetime gone, a lifetime left listen to the laughter, taste the tears …live

–In the middle of a restless night, the moonlight crashing; on, through, dissipating in – the window’s pane, the glass, into the moments of the past.   The wrestling of the body  the mind writhing in attempts to extricate and mount all memories remaining of moments exposed ———-now displaced.   The etchings, now time worn vaguely recollect life, some times a lifetime, some times simply brief breaths held so long nothing remained but laughter.   In the night’s breeze, in its debris what remains tumbles about, reminding etchings of origins and whispering of a possibility that has long been spent.

–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