WouldWander upon grain of wood and feel yourself misunderstood
despite attempts to reason for a doubt that helps to lesson
the felt treason of the clout, eroding wind.
The pressure and the ringing, antithetical to singing,
slowly slivering the seething of this most unwanted teething,
clear the ramparts. The dust swirls where feet no longer tread,
and the winds blow unbuffeted by apish form instead.
Leftover tendencies toward competition never quite resisted
by petition for a more careful existence. Hard to see this.
Stream of conch-ousness, the sealess bliss of memorandum activus,
the way the words cadence and twist but never stretch to stress or slip.
The way the feeling fire soars to rhythms and patterns of yore.
Tempus from the salty shore. Beats that know not what they're for,
but simply are, and simply roar, cast from stars that burn with the anticipation of mystery.
Deep within the ancestry of all the felt experience
is a wandering and perfect kind of witness to all brilliance.
MettleA ringing has begun inside my head that will not go away.
It's gradually clearer that it's something that is here to stay.
Peeling at my mind with a forceful gentle flaying, it's
a constant shallow scream that renders silence beyond saving.
Lessons in this life's complacency surely force me to see,
that we can only pave our streets with borrowed energy.
The line I thought by luck alone was fair and straight will twist,
bending toward a rule of ground that must constantly shift.
Unexpected instability, unseemingly abating,
will let me, when distraction of greater peace, appreciate
the serendipity that helps define to us our grief,
and ultimately grant us the source of our relief.
(Relief it seems at times can become a two-way street.)
And should, in time, the situation see a new perspective,
I shall again experience the joys I thought I'd miss.
What would be a world without contrasts in this way?
Would we even know it as our empty laughter fades?
This is not to say that suff
RemindThe fevered glances 'round the room, the walls adorned with eyes.
Eyes that stare unflinchingly, projected from inside.
Twisting turns of colds and burns, unchosen circumstance.
The pins and needles in the air will beg perspective's chance.
No event that happens is intrinsically unjust.
But fear is found that this psyche has become too much.
Schizoidal nerves are too aware and urges spread too thin.
Difficulties conjuring security within.
It's all in how the look is looked, but looking's looked at too.
This meta-spective meta-shit is ruining the stew.
Now to find the pattern that will do my being kind.
To meditate the agitate out from the the core to rind.
To allow this suffocating dust to catch the winds of time.
To allow the dance that twirls and shakes, the jig that will remind.
To Be [and] Not To BeThe man sat with his chin rested on his knee, a hand wedged between for comfort as his other leg dangled over the ledge of the bridge. His mesmerized gaze followed the ephemeral, shifting waves dancing lazily upon the water's surface. Each wave was utterly passive, influenced by the one before it, but in turn influencing further waves.
When everything is equally passive, he thought, everything is also equally active.
Psychosomatic or not, he could feel the sensation of the thought as the electric pulses it was made of fired through the gray matter of his brain and specialized groups of neurons sung out frequencies in synchrony. This amazed him completely. Here he was -- this upright, lanky ape -- fully aware of the subtle sensations of the clump of evolutionarily-patterned, electrically-conductive matter that was enabling his entire experience.
With minimal effort, he flicked his leg outward and watched it swing back and forth with momentum. He thought about the collectiv
A MazementAs the wind gives voice to the trees
in the form of their rustling leaves,
I find myself amazed.
There are things in this world
that cause me to whirl
in place despite the maze.
continue to choose
which hallway to hitherward to,
a head turns to swim in the craze of a phase
of irration made necessary.
Here We AreThe cosmos is not only within us -- it is us. The self-awareness we possess is like two mirrors facing each other, one the force and the other its reflection, begetting an infinite tunnel of self-reference of which the very head that is trying to see down it gets in the way. Baffling and absurd, we find ourselves, to quote Saul Williams, "participants in a ritual older than our collective memory," a seamless stream of energy attempting, in an eddying moment of self-realization, to find out what the flying hell is going on.
"Why?", however, is a question that grasps for intent, for a fundamental reason. It's impossible to answer because in the context of reality itself, rather than elements within reality, there will always be another potential "why?" until we find ourselves staring the void in its faceless face, its answerlessness, its stoic silence, the only answer.
Though we also find ourselves imbued with stubborn genes. We march on, a logical and meticulous methodological to
Goodbye, ButterflyGoodbye, Butterfly. I'll see you again
where ground meets sky and peace meets din.
Where black meets white and void meets form
and laughter meets cry and fear meets scorn.
Where sheath meets sword and being meets time
and peasant meets lord and body meets mind.
Where bones creak stress and muscles knot
and flowers wilt and things are forgotten.
Where child is born and elder turned
and names are made and body burned.
Where names are lost and labels bent
and translation fails to convey what's meant.
Where I meet you and you meet they
and they meet amorphous bodies of gray.
Where lightning lasts forever to a pixelated eye
and time winds down to spin a story from the lines.
Where erosion and wear meet a weary-eyed stare
and an unspoken bond is discovered and shared.
Where diction falls short and rhetoric fails
and reason is lost and chaos prevails.
Where lines can't be drawn with no medium ready
and hands clasp a head for a psyche unsteady.
Where a smash meets a mend and a foe meets a frie
Remember to BreatheRemember to breathe. Your poor, dismembered breath. Remember the rhythms of troughs and their crests. You're in the eye of a storm, bereaved at the prospect of eventually having to leave.
These elements exist despite us. Their chaos is meant to be braved. Sunbeams can deliver a sliver of hope when feelings are shades of depraved.
Remember to breathe. Allow yourself what time you need to see a reason spark from inner reeling. A season's change from ruthless seething. A shattering smattery of desperate graspery becoming contentment with self-actuality. An eruption of mirth, at being alive and on Earth from a stomach-sinking wave of grave gravity.
Let endless throngs of remembered wrongs kick up their dust and settle into the most beautiful songs.
Buried by InfinityA puzzled puzzle piece, riding ceasless entropy.
Searching for a secret within a singularity.
Buried by infinity. A lock without a proper key.
Existence on condition of unalterable mystery.
Perhaps this is the only way in which it all could ratify.
I'm not sure anything could motivate the truly satisfied.