Migration Reasons

These fair-weather feathers

blew south for a spell,

this was before the

morning chimes sang through us

sending kings to the floor

and fools to the post,

I could smell those days a´coming,

like fire in the wind

upstream, blowing back at us

as we fished and lived in bliss.

Tides rise and fall, I suppose

and we shan't be scared,

but we do scare,

we run home from the crook,

wet shoed and broken twigs

behind,

the hot breath of safety

in which we lay low for a moment

gust away in an atomic wind

the worst of outcomes

for we'd have starved to the end

if that is what He'd asked of us.

Man, take away your bellicose tin,

your toys of cataclysm,

potent bombs like balls hanging

before a greedy, hungry slut.

Ah, the forrest and the creatures

through which God sees.

To take them is to gouge out an eye,

to dismember the bread

to undo the risen flesh

upon which we omnivors feed,

to do so is the cast away belief

like a ghost mistakenly made sacred

after millenia of men,

and now who are we

say the ancients who never slept,

who are we to claim to know,

to be beyond belief?

Ay, how men self deceive

and in such deception render

every solider of love weeping,

the day of an impossible surrender

has come to pass,

they cry, they gasp,

the clasp at their own finger tips,

the gnaw out their own hearts,

they bleed for you and me,

and we will all die

and you may come back.

So while here, learn love from

hard to tender, from solid to mist,

from slave to savior, from addict

to prophet, from pulpits and upon graves

songs sang and words writ,

but none like that which

silence tells us all,

speaking in riddles and confounding dreams,

tangled into life like all the things nobody sees.

Love Story

The yellows slip out from my head

onto things

and I think its strange

and I tell my doctor

and he gives me medicine

and I'm still not better.

I see things that they don't say

I hear things that

they don't show.

I feel my shadow, more than most,

I feel like some sort of creature

upon a host.

I want to be good

and do my best.

I don't want other people to hate me

but then again

I want to be friends,

so I stay to myself,

I talk to the Earth,

throw my coins

in her well.

I'm just a boy

whose passed through

a bunch of time

but nothings really changed, of mine.

I'm still going to take it

smell it, taste it, and wonder

what it is all about.

I'm still going to speak

to things like your thoughts

and thunder,

I'm going to dive off

where your fears won't wander

I'm going to cycle through

the whole damn thing

and tumble down

like everything

that ever was,

No, I haven't

had enough.

Give me your love,

long and slow,

you impossible, buoyant thing.

I slip when you touch me

and then time rolls back again

from that moaning ocean

to my strong emotions,

to the celestial bars in motion

spinning our love

into the timing

and fine lines between things.

My love has once punctured

the moon,

those dark marks of hers

are where many before

have shot at her.

Not all hit their mark

and supposedly they are

those who fall in the stars

but the moon

is much closer

like you

your gravitational groove

your magic

I'll sip your brew

we'll be two

in one.

Untitled

While denying what is divine

and what

the sacred says

curious minds do

go to rest

lay and dream

and if they wake

they do not know

there difference

until what seems

becomes a bright light

and living becomes a dream.

Only then,

said a sage

on the internet, back in the day,

does your soul

have the lightness of being

required for the

escape.

There is no way out, though,

Camus prays still,

in his eternal afterlife

for the dharma to birth him

into that zen darkness

that fundamental taboo

which his heart

saw the waning nirvana

and queens in the maria

spreading the clouds

with their song of lament.

Finally embracing the magnificence

he saw not the light

but all that is light

existing in its way.

As red blue green and so forth

come from which

so, too, does everything living

or otherwise

soon come to live, as it were,

once its buoyance is felt

and the melody jiggles

the floor from your feet

and it feels

you are walking on air.

"Woman in Doorway"

Age like sunshine

rest your weight here

lay your darkness

on the ground,

let the light

press it there, down.

Rise up again

like a qi flowing

from the ground

like a flower

up into a lotus mind

blazing an eternal light

my love,

rest with me here

tell me stories

and I'll tell you mine.

Untitled

Don't worry if your steps are

2, 5, 7, 3, 1, 9 and not in line.

What keeps the sea breathing

as it does is the moon,

but she does not describe

every wave.

In a cove

of a buddhist relic

in Laos

or a maze of

underground schoolteachers

watching kids predict

the future like fractals

without math,

the moonlight behaves

in mathematical paths

and the waters always reach

as far as they can.

FAKE MEDITATION? (take one):

What I will tell cannot be imagined, it is not fiction, but it is put into words, and words, themselves, are a fiction, an agreement of sorts.  Because when one writes words, one expects that the reader understand the meaning of those words.  For without that, one cannot understand the bigger picture the writer endeavors to display.  And the writer, if he is writing, is better off saying nothing at all.  “Time, itself, they say, will tell, and the light will reach the eyes of every man, before he falls, and love will take you back here again if you have not known it, and this is fact, and this is the life that you have.”  A writer truly at the act, not the business of, but the act, in time immemorial, of recording and testifying to worlds ignored...all of this requires a fundamental belief that the world being perceived is one that is worth the path one must walk to put it to words.

Frankly, we live in a world where many wordsmiths manage their way into positions where they can put their mastery on display, and this is great and grand and freedom, by some definition.  It is also an outrageous spray upon the canvass of time, by more individuals than ever, testifying, in their attempts to make it big by identifying with the personal worlds of others through their art, that ought be chronicled, organized, and compilated for what it is, which is a collection of testimonies regarding the struggle of the identity to release itself, and all of the shared imaginations involved in that process.  Indeed, when we reach to language, and at the same time to, in fact, communicate, we borrow from the heaviest words, the most known ones, those that have the weight of meaning and can thus pass a message...so the messenger desires and believes, perhaps even with all his heart.  But his own conviction betrays him, as I betray my own now by writing these very words.  For, in truth, in the absolute truth where feathers and stones fall at the same rate, hit the ground at the same time, there truly is no need to say anything or to even inflict a quote unquote “free” act upon the world or the universe.  The only act I should endeavor to know and carry out with my life is that of surrendering my so-called powers, if I ever should, indeed, acquire them, and give them to the greatest power there is.  For to do so is to endow my acts with the momentum and power of those which are always acting, regardless of what man does.  And this is not a perfection, but simply a different pursuit. It is a different landscape.  Man as I, I daresay, do not wish to conquer the material or the ideas or any of that.  We wish to be here now in the fullest most complete way.  And this requires slaughtering so much of what you know, and even more so, that by which you define yourself.  That great nobility, that saintly shame, whatever it may be, is nothing, absolute vanity, if nothing else.  It is the cloak of the narrative in which you envelop and involve yourself in this world.  But you do not see the world as Paradise.  You do not see and experiences the world as you, extended, expanded, and at the same time minimized to nothing.  Not because you are a fool, but in part because education does not promote this manner of thinking.  It may be that education does not conscientiously guide the evolution of thought and understanding as much as it does the evolution of content and retelling.  But I digress.  The great woe of the artist and the great man is that it seems you cannot be who you want to be.  Society is constantly urging you to be someone else, to be someone that fits in a little better.  And if you are righteous and proud, you will say fuck all that, I am me and I will tear this bitch down if I have to, etc.  And you might act that out for a while, but ultimately you will need to look forward and see if this path leads to anywhere at all.  And here you decide if you want to, indeed and fact martyr yourself for some cause with which your identity is so attached, you actually think it is worth the loss of your life.  This can be great, and this can be utterly foolish.

Who is to say what it is.  Certainly not I.  For I cannot see the whole narrative of life, I cannot predict the unfolding of events, even if I presume them to be guided by a hand or force or being or anything, for that matter. I can only know that I am here and I instinctually want to continue to be here.  And so my world should be a place where I would want to continue to be, no matter who I was on Earth.  If I were not me, I should still want to be, want to exist, want to know God, for our privileges permit.

Billboards

I'm fucking Mike Tyson

when it comes to gnats:

I fucking hate'em, 

wanna kill'em all,

eat their children,

and so forth.

Quite disagreeable, indeed,

and I tell Jesus

"ayo Jesus, forgive me,

nah mean?"

Sometimes I call him

"hey-soos" and imagine him

to be ethnic brown

and bearded,

like God.

"Fuck that", my homies tell me,

"get that quid"

they call it in England,

but it's also called "paper"

"cash" and clear-as-a-bell

"cash-money".

"Mafaquer", my mother says,

"get with the program

and materialize your big business, then"

and I'm like,

"damn world has no compassion

for dudes like me,

but I'ma show them."

And I imagine all that

walking down the street about to do something

and this dude walks by

coincidentally

wearing a shirt saying "gansta"

and he's the messenger from God,

that stupid billboard mafaquer.