Tag Archives: #thoughts

A BEST DAY

THE BEST day is one of love
not by flesh nor kiss
but Nature

the best i’ve ever known
and not much to say
so beyond my eyes

so far many scores of years

Today is a great chasm
that anyone could slip into
and threading these skies
with angel wings — my heart
sings

today is today is today is
a greatest moment ever known.

ooh.

today is yesterday’s wishes
and more.

:: 08.31.2021 ::


SOUL INSIDE SPACE-TIME

Why did you leave me naked in this cold wasteland?
You were gone for light years so go away go away

But don’t leave me alone i cannot take this
my body has grown small in singularity

i am a Soul inside time-space

you are like a molecule and i a leaf
i have spread my fragrance through every apple and every bloom

We were in love with Paris
We were in love with Bluebeard
We are so close but dilated by light

And now We are dead in form

We were in love with the moonlight
we were in love with the salty sea
you know how some things stay with us
but not all things

i am a Soul caught in space-time ah!

we were in love with the sun and the moon
i was in love with You but it wasn’t enough

We were in love with the green ground
We were in love with the blue seas
We were in love with the black side
of night

we were so close but now dead
we are dead.

We were in love with every spice
i am in love with You
but it isn’t enough

We are dead
we are dead

we were in love with every flower
life in love with You
but it wasn’t enough

i am in love with every scent
i am in love with you
but it isn’t enough
in love with every sound
in love with every smoke

but caught in a terrible space-time web
of life and thoughts fighting myself away.

:: 05.26.2021 ::


SORROW BEYOND TEARS

I have bound myself to God and to the Mysteries; all things also I comprehend.

AS love is not given to the wise man for his own personal gain. Love is neither given to the savage for his own personal gain, nor to the poor man for his own personal gain, nor to the country for his own personal gain, nor to the lonely man for his own personal gain.

NO.

It is given to the sick, in pain and those deep within despair and loneliness, for their own personal gain is not a thought given.

As Love is not given to the prostitute for her own personal gain; to the youth for their own personal gain; for the Love is the product of long awaited joy, and the joys and sorrows of the individual cannot be their own!

:: 05.19.2021 ::


THE VORTEX OF LIFE

AND what is a friendship without warm feelings and devotion?
As those who go to and fro from bed to work without
a gentle smile or hello!
I would share a drink with you but first i must be sure
the label is not high alcohol but a label that reads either:
“life,” or “death.”
As the sun dips behind Mother Earth we eat and clean ourselves
then ready for bed. We read, watch something on the magic box
called television or stare at the walls. Some dream, some smoke,
some drink, some fight. Who is mad? All of us! Call it what you like
but the moral of that is — ‘Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love, that makes
the world goes round!’

Our human intentions only make matters worse!

Then the turtle spoke: “Those lovers we read about: to all the characters
drawing in colourful lines… you keep emotions at an anchor deep inside so
you can move far above the bubbles’ tricks — but the people swimming in
fish-glasses are freaked out. So many lives spilled, even all living simple
souls, cannot sustain the waters of love.

:: 04.22.2021 ::


SO NOW

so now

That the Iris opens her eyes upon early morning sun
that the wind dances her showy flowers and is luck
the lost voice of forgotten lovers?

some Not

when wind forgets its dance and green devours
(feelings) by nature’s beauty shall the fisherMen
of hearts sail from continent to unknown places;
their gravely instilled by amorous desire.

some NullAS not would never go there.

:: 01.21.2021 ::


FOURTEEN

i wish I had more time and opportunity to explain my disgust to your rust-stained sarcophagus. To offer a calm palate of meditative colors for our feelings (why not) — you seemed so surprised to be called from a glass prison.

Oh, blessed crystal, what do I have to do to kiss your hand with a succulent kiss for you have forgotten the grain of truth to your rust-stained sarcophagus!

To offer a calm palate of meditative colors for our feelings (why not) — you seemed so surprised to be called from a glass prison.

Oh, blessed crystal, what do I have to do to kiss your hand with a succulent kiss for you have forgotten the grain of truth and your heart could only love the person who feeds it for nourishment — is a difficult task; so you resorted to Cupid’s slingshot!
But here’s an alternative: follow my heart down the garden path, until my sticky feet block the entrance of Cupid’s grave.

Here — get me the jar of colorful paint and I will show you the
sparkle of love.

Here — get me the fork and I will show you the flavor of our love
that came from one man.

Here — get me the ball and I will smash it across my canvas of life.
Here — get me the pencil and I will draw you a gentle, tender picture.
Here — get me the jar of colorful paint and I will show you the
sparkle of love.
Here — get me the fork and I will show you the flavor of our love
that came from one man.
Here — get me the ball and I will smash it across my canvas of life.
Here — get me the pencil and I will draw you a gentle, tender picture.
Here — get me the paint bucket and I will lay it on a canvas of life

It was exactly 14 days since you told me you left the store early.
14 dreary days and I do not think you’ve been here once (not that I
would blame you for believing it).

14 days since I was mean to you, and then you said you’d be back
by 14.

:: 12.24.2020 ::


TODAY HOW POETRY DAZZLES

TODAY how poetry dazzles gradually
  as rain falls slantly
our eyes surprised by equally
blind.

As children weep for adults
and adults ache for youth.

Within love lies a beating heart
and death echoes circuits of life.

Our often dismal living flesh
feels delightful in death.

:: 12.18.2020 ::


STRIKING IMAGE AND RHYME

THIS THING called Tourette’s
where I sometimes stop breathing.

TONITE, HOW I AM I…
Good morning, my children. This day shall soon be
filled with wet wind, droplets of rain,
birds beginning their morning call,
snatches of birdsong from nearby trees.
Rain, our god, provides for the earth
With its rhythms. And yet this
drenched car park, unshod and
mucousy, here I stand. We are
all here on a rock. We will always
be here on a rock, as we continue
to flow, endlessly, into the ocean.

Together, my children, let us remember
the former days. The days when our words
were ragged and unsavory, language was crude
and violent, full of striking image and rhyme.

O, yes. Today we shall honour our words, as
we pick through the words. They have so hurt us,
and we leave them sodden in the rain.

–>FIRST MY OWN VOICE ::::::
It seems the air i breathe and touch, when walking
alone in the city has given me a disease
like Tourette’s.

I’m beginning to turn red or green, or blue,
sometimes not even my face has become a fault.

Lately, my head seems to be filled with ocean tides,
titian squid, clams, mussels, sand, ice;
specks of some faultless fish.

And here we stand, wet and lost, looking into the garden.

O, only the garden.
O, only the garden
–>SOME HEROES

The stars were dying in the night
when I woke to find my brother dead,
from being driven by a steamroller,
into the ocean.

I miss him.

They were here, on the island, back when the skies
were blue and the seas breathed their contented
voices.

(Oh this hillside, what color is it with my words?
O, only blue.)

:: 12.10.2020 ::


FIGHTING FOR COMPLETE UNDERSTANDING

i held my arms, sleeping, around her breasts, bending, allowing myself to fall, the ghosting, dark wake, the fiery sands burned by a storm of thorn trees, burned by the march of sea and the keys of incense that hang near her bed. Soft and fiery sweetness, a book of songs that didn’t affect me, a white dress with a tattered hem, elegant skin whose breath has already evaporated.

There is no physical reflection on her breasts, my love, the fluidity of a river in the shadow of the heron’s head. There is no destruction of a dead river in the pale water of her beauty. Your eyes, the depths of their ravines, the fire in the dark, your hearts, holding mine, their tornness, the loss of a companion, in the silence of the corridors where the footsteps of strangers run.

From the raves I must admit I will never feel intoxicated, but I need so desperately to feel intoxicated, to finish my life in the warehouse,
under the light of an old beveled mirror with a knife propped against the square of glass, the light of the ghost, of the burning card,
of the ghost of unimportant dreams, of the funny dreams I dream every night. I would like to exist like the strange creature that thrives
in the laboratory of an art dealer in an abandoned warehouse.

Held her ankles, enjoying her existence, trembling, embracing, trembling, our breath circulating the smoky air of a kiss.

She only exists when my back rests on a cold polished floor, in the darkness, in her natural state, my brother, my pride, my hope.
To touch her, to feel her breasts, her lips, her hands, all the parts of her body that run all over mine, that brings me nothing, for this expression
is simple, low, they do not consider her existence, my love, to raise her up or to lower her, to grab her legs, to kiss her lips, to kiss her nose.

Everything but the head, where she is still touched by the forehead of a stranger, from one of the corridors, one of the cracked doors, where her
lovers walk, from the stones and shadows of cold halls, the one that is lifted from the depths of a world of books. You only exist, my love,
with the touch of your palms.

From behind my childhood wall, I have met the daughters of stars, from behind my own walls, the girl that lives in the corridor, has warmed up my life, there with me on the cold polished floor, my passion.

Everything is there, hidden in the dark depths, revealed by the hallway, the fading curtain of candles, the evening light, a kind of passionate romance,
my love, whose bones are growing every day as if they were long-dead, those young girls, the memory of the last night, the abandoned street,
the shadow of an old bed, a memory of the night that passed, but only lives in the room where I am lying.

Leaned against a window of a skyscraper, red-eyed, like a demon, muttering, covered with a black apron, sobbing from an open wound.

What was that, love? What did you see?

Those eyes of the future, seen in the silence of my mind, in the chaos of my thoughts.

It was dark, I have left the house in the street, I have entered the house.

What was that sound?

I can not go further, there is nothing here, it was dark, it was closed, the doors were closed, it was dark, the house empty, but it was empty as
the city when the people pass through fighting for love, compassion, and complete understanding.

:: 10.21.2020 ::


TRYING TO SPEAK THE UNSPEAKABLE

Is it a society of wicked liars?

Is it a race of contemptible malefactors?

Or is it, instead, just a group of people coming to terms with their lives in a different way?

A growing number of people are choosing to live—and die—without judgment, without the reward of popularity, without the flattery of public adulation.

Most people—without much fuss—are choosing to die quietly, often in comfort, not coughing up blood, losing organs, gasping for air. Rather, they do the things they like, they have their lovers, fall in love again. They experience as many experiences as possible. They have children, watch them grow up, let them out. They do the things they love. In fact, they do as much as possible.

Maybe they are only one of millions who will die this way, quietly, without much attention at all. But for those who read about the Swedish model, maybe they’ll read about this man who, when he was ten years old, decided to end his life when his family wouldn’t let him live the life he wanted to. Maybe they will read about one of the last people on the planet who were given the opportunity to kill themselves.

Maybe they will read about the first person.

Whether he knew it or not, it was Doran, the poet, who led us here. In 2020, when he was 36, he pulled his wife and a friend onto a commuter train in Paris. They sat at a table, drank wine, and ate wild boar with the train’s conductor.

After that, he had a drink with friends. By 2:

Then they all took colors all within their head. And they tried to say the unspeakable.

:: 10.21.2020 ::