Saturday, July 16, 2011

tomorrow morning

i'm a side door away from peace. desperate and fearful of a meditative pause. being immersed in solitude is very different than knowing the ever-present silence. it's difficult to bare. so i've kept the music on, inebriated the mind, made my unconsciousness a purgatory for any pure energy. letting it wait. covering my ears. making noise. like a child tuning out. dodging the universe. anxiously avoiding my only redemption. the silent pain. universal patience. expansive immersion. discovery of breath. like a jagged spiritual transfusion. footsteps in the sand. nothing in my hands. it's been awhile since i ran on the beach.


Thursday, July 14, 2011

life feels most real when it's so dreamlike it can't be remembered

love in a sarcophagus. pleasures of flesh, chemistry, all the dreams we fail to describe. you floated into my waking and grabbed me with something real, greater. feelings intensified beyond tired confines of sleepy days. grabbed me. grabbed you. pushed, pulled, hungered, delved, laid down and listened to black quiet death, pounding in rhythm with the universe. bathed in honey, molten lava, my resolve obligingly finding the drain, sinking away. the sun's splendor, pale ash to the night's magic. on a rickety bed, the physical exchange, bodily merge, power, fire, liquid warmth, symbols of passion explaining the abstract clamouring of our loud invisibles. The banging of pots and pans, slamming of porcelain, shared journey, that's what you were talking about right? the shared journey. i said the moments were best. dynamite could probably solve the quandary of perspectives, collapsing the middle to rubble, drawing together both poles, leaving us, indistinguishable dust, merrily indistinguishable.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

at daybreak

the seahorse carousel of hollywood movie ideas circumvents space and laughs in your face. Every cafe in this town serves microwaved eggs. I swallow an oatmeal life to contrast the colorful world surrounding. A nearly blind gentleman stares nose to screen and speaks crystal clear, probably the smartest guy in this town. This town. If I was in Ireland, I'd be another dirt road musician. Hawaii, a fat man playing ukulele on his porch. French Revolution, an imprisoned melodramatic or poet sadist. Arctic, a smiling beluga whale. Cold, cold, go north grow berries. Warm, warm, south avocados. Cultivating the earth provides the magic. The time is ripe. The fruit will fall. Everything into the soil, to grow again.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Life Is Out of Sight


Most of my friends are long departed writers. Away somewhere, busy specs of dust, earthly ruminations, global participants, stampeding tides. The rest are patient satellites, destitute sunbeams, molding cabins near forgotten mossy earth. Pieced together, unified in their human forms, fluttering words through the communal language. And we're appreciative. I am anyway, for my friends. Profound logic, morality, inanity, entrances to shared experiences. Shining light on everything we fail to recognize even as we wake immersed, bound. Our very lives, governed by documents of written language shedding accountability on primitive mechanisms. Movements shackled with compromise. Private thinking lorded over by public language. The brain belongs to society. The heart belongs to children. The soul is a shit word, but that thing, that thing which shall remain nameless, locationless, against recognition, that which we know, pray, kill to be true, flowering light obliterating the self, shall redeem, continue true energy from this communal prison, freeing that genius again.

Saturday, July 2, 2011


Your phone is glowing in your pocket. Misery thrives on rejection which births direction. I love that golden sheen. The caricature of health. Even as our cells rot, smoke drifts onto eyelids, resting, realizing that everyone is working in harmony. Right and wrong if we just understand, we're all destined for an interwoven fate. Like strangers on a rollercoaster.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Alan Watts