Controlled Confusion

Pace the house,

let the Devil tap you on the shoulder,

and contemplate,

"what is reality, really?"

Then walk all the way

back to God.

Lit Serpents

Men and women of letters
there is a food chain
of which you ought to be aware
or warned
depending, I suppose,
on where you be at.

Book worms,
there are lit serpents,

lit serpents
there are uninterested folk.

Itajuba

a melody of clouds.

the sky
a shade of blue
no other thing on Earth
ever had;

they tell me
where the higher winds blow.

Above cobblestone roads
I, a dreamer,
a believer
sing with the morning
and raise the sun.

And I recall:

I once disappeared
when I threw the world away
for what it seemed.

And now --
despite the wilderness of this life --
I find myself again.

untitled

Reminiscing, over coffee,
about cigarettes became as bad as I could be. My party days were long gone. The twelve steps led me to freedom.

Only some of the time, I would think about cigarettes. The rest of the time I was just being. Not thinking about anything, driving here, walking there, oblivious and totally aware at once.

I'd come a long way, is how I'd put it.

Just being was the strangest of achievements, but it worked wonders.

Ode to Story

Philosophy will turn my angels to theories.
Science will disintegrate my constellations
into flames randomly set in the void of time
And space.

Where else is a man to go
But to story,
which is free;
which needn't neglect any reality.

Poetry

Poetry was the topic of conversation just now. I'll leave names out, but one said something along the lines of, "poetry is a group effort...it's inspired." Another had just read two poems from a book he recently self-published, and another sat on the couch, quiet, and yet another stood before the author, attentive.

The moment passed at the pace of conversation, but the truth lingered. Poetry is, when all those words come down through the pen, about the sublime relationship that inspires the man to set them to a form a bit more permanent.

blind bard

You have the eyes
Of a blind bard;

Neither of which has seen

But for sight
Have searched the untold far.