convergence

do you find many people here
at the convergence
of sensuality, technology, spirituality
where the ladder being built takes one toward art
the space that comes with such freedom
and the possibility of liberation to follow?

there are still a few of us out here
we know this for certain
beating in that corner of heart
where that which is never understood
(no matter how close we convince ourselves we have become)
resides and waits and laughs -

this is why we continue to wander
wondering whether or not
any can walk the road for such a duration
those who have kept the flames burning
for so many years of life
who have not let the world
frighten us into silence
somewhere around the age of twenty 5

but when we have yet to meet
and in this endless travel
come across the plains of white birch
(the illusion of a zebra's world to the untrained eye)
we walk haughtily into this forest
with the expectation
there is no need to come out alive
until the snowstorms fall

they say
in the end
we are all dead men
but somehow
those such as us
refuse to believe such a story
and will die finding a way
not to give in

to catch a flight such as a cold or fire

in the lands
far apart
where the living
miss the dying of the dead
we are saved from the images
of transfiguration
that grasp the face in final hours
and render ourselves absolved
from memories
that are filled with horror

for if we are so untrained
at removing the images of media
burned into our minds
toward a melting corrosive consciousness
how can the moment
once the lightening has passed
be ever dissipated
from the mantle
that sits right behind the eyes

this is not a field that is level nor balanced
and to scale the hill of bones is to set sail
through a mountainous storm of aeons ago
that speak endless endless words
against all that one might dream to possibly
become that which is true a generation or three from now
yet certainly not in time
to remit the contract for our own demise

for here, as the harbinger of death watches
sits next to us in movie theatres
sings along at our concerts
graces age after page of our novellas
we have left our fate and neck
bared to the mercy of the whim of players
who are of a game and plane
we are yet not so certain of

11

on a darkened road
that leads into the backwoods of the town
the headlights shine upon the face
of the only sign that knows you have returned home

here, where the population
is measured only by numbers
you do not expect fanfare or a band
and without any to do
you are driven to the p(a)lace of showdown
long ago determined
the game of chance no longer in control

a sigh of relief
is breathed upon windshield pane
and for a moment
in the reflection
there is a memory
of that which was dared to become

yet this is not about nostalgia

the years-before metaphor
of arch-angelic promises to the gods
that they who must be defeated
brought to justice
for the subservient service toward those sub-servient
will be tried and convicted
before the laws of the land
(though the laws of the land
are not the laws of the living
or those that make promises to the gods)

this is the place where life shifted
from the service of that which was a higher power
to a seeking of one's own power
the realization that to serve
one must already know some greatness
to serve in the presence of those
who have already back-traveled
this same road
and bid adieu
to the headlight sign
for the final time

with this a second sigh of relief
washes away the fingertips
this breath
a gift from the gods once angered
allowing
the breath that should have been
to be tucked away
as a gift
for when another
requires
though all gifts from the gods
being double-edge swords
will ask something great in return

this is the bargain of forgiveness
not found in basement stores
or in the towers
of temples
where only the holiest of holy
may go

this is the deal
once made
never unbound
traveling tattooed to the back
and ears and toes
til the end of the contract made

there
where the bodhisattva
must kill to outshine
we will not be governed by color of robe
or act toward man
but within one's own design
of judgment
not judgment of design

this is the glimmer and glimpse
of all that was imaginable
when the keys were handed over for the first time
the year before metaphors
when all that mattered
was a mattress to sleep upon
and a dream upon sleep

essence and effort (begun)

the consistency
of personal history
is the rewriting
of the order
in which we can claim our realizations
(as if knowing in youth
could have saved any of us
from the follies
we played forth upon
our supporting cast -
those who we so dutifully chose
with an attempt at perfection
rather than precision)

this
is where
we sit from here
unseen
the inevitable theme
of the fine line in between
knowing and feeling

out there
when chance is enough
for the road trip
and we achieve
the dissemination
of metaphor and meaning

here
at the starting punt
of the treasure hunt
with the personal
contemplation complications
who arise
long after sealed fates
revealed
turn and wheel out the doorway
through the field
only to collapse
and drown
in the hay

to all this
how is reaction formed?
with a circling of the lips
a turning of the wagons
a frown of arrogance and a place of impetus
where the woodwork
vomits out the care and sacraments and tidings
of unnamed and long forgotten foes

to tell this tale
any tail
due to some brief shimmer
(or shimmer of briefs)
that the warning
may be useful to another
is to defeat the telling of the tale

to tell the tale for purpose
will change the story for worse

thus, find no conclusions here
no completions
no complications

no tidy ending (yet)

(and maybe a cheap causation at a sequel)

sport

turn this journal
into a drinking game

every time the words
turn
too serious
take a shot of something

you will not make it far
but the seriousness
will surely cease

the rotation of the ball in flight

within a glimpse of the grasp of the moment
the decisions that are made on what must come next
is no more than an equation betweeen
numbers statistics and patterns
somewhere in the midst of pi
rather than skill or chance
or even the fated luck which seems to drop in
and allow itself to be beaten on the rare occasion
that the proper sacrifices are made
the proper superstitions followed
the proper maze satisfied
and free will becomes not the question but the consequence
the solution if you will
to equation of choice and chance wherein even variables
are absolutes

extinguished

these fires sneak within us
only to be extinguished
(though we did remember
to leave the gates unlocked)
“to satisfy the longings of our pores”
feeding on air, not only to breathe

while climbing there are no questions
just drive, directions forgot, a lack of hero’s plan
speeding through thought unspeakable
the magic is lost
as the words are spoken

thus it is:

the bowl of pasta
turning the stomach heavy
wanting nothing but a nap
when the story of a lifetime
begs you to ink it away

the smile of another
lifting the body high
at naked
there is nothing for which to rise
not even to wake for dream

the night turned morning
when sun brings sleep
the whole day through
fearing the light turned back to darkness

as the cycles fall we will fall to you

traversal (version 2)

he smiles at cobblestones talks to walls
walks slowly not quite on this side of madness
or silence never screamed so loud as when he sat
alone for twenty days with fourty others just like him
they sat together each alone by fireside forming circles
not of prayer, communion or friends singing into the emptiness
of still night air warmed by flame some turned to warmth to let her fall
upon their face while others turned their backs to feel her warmth without having to

look
[nevermind seeing]

as they had come to this place to circle in upon feeling
at least as a beginning a deeper less spoken role to be that of a place of seeing

seeing beyond
[nevermind the simple eyes]

up and over and not the in-between pushing through
two walls having collapsed on either side there is still a way out
up and over to something that had not been thought of before
and that is what these words are for those whose minds are not yet closed
sealed in stone and can think of things never thought before

so the mind may move from two dimensions passing through third dimensional thought into the place of ten forming from sound where music art
and words falling from fingers and tongues of the ancients
find life in the breath of the men who live giving life to these things
within giving them form not defining them
refining them by fire and circles and cycles
of life and death of thought as it once was
bypassing traditions as controls that we have set upon ourselves
to keep things simple unchallenging
as if what we are is all that we can be
and no more not a drop more not a moment more not a possibility in sight
and as we would wish to be remaining forever at some place in a wilderness
thinking that the places of beauty are but legends of false prophets
sent back from tribes of mirage towers of bricks that translate only as lowly heavens

there are no promises of better places if only we keep our feet and hands clean
there are no promises that can be wrought from any iron gates
there are but possibilities and insights and cities to be built of our own design
not wrought in the stones of history but given breath to be known that the breath must always change for life to traverse these sands to move in the direction of our will
in the motion of our spirit as we too must evolve or grow stale bitter and crumble
ourselves becoming ancient ruins our words becoming responses
when all that is creation falls when we falter and follow when the first word
and the last breath are the same force and our stories are left to legends
of campfires and midnight skies beauty lost in the translation
of those who failed to understand

___________________________________


there is no human nature as if we were some unalterable beast sprung from seas and plains or heavens and creationist theories that has not the capability of an upgrade or evolutionary concerns or transcendant feature sets that include the ability to only love or hate, go to war or let live in peace, choose black or white for the landscaping of our planet as we choose christian or muslim for our interior designers.

truth or lies and mirror images cast from the mold of a god or his evil sidekick his brother once upon a time an angel

until the day he wanted more than that which he was. aspire to evolve only to be cast out. eternity in a lake of fire for reward or retribution. so we have been given these lines of mathematical division invisible lines in spiritual sands creating sides and original sin requiring forgiveness before even a breath [much less a thought] has been formed

so here we are standing

[much less a thought]

at a crossroads as it were and i ask you if the only image you can conjure in your mind is that of the guitarist standing by the fenceside waiting for ‘ol Lucifer to walk on by and offer fame for soul, death for life, and all other sorts of trades that have some sense of equivalency doled out over time as if the now were really the most important as if tomorrow might never come

[much more than thought]

give me blue skin and yellow eyes or a choice of paisley and plaid with a trade-in at thirty years or three hundred thousand miles on foot that allows for a paused game and a player change and a game that does not quite so resemble a race. this is where we bail out and take the plunge into the clouds for we know with a feeling and an insight (which is not so different from your faith - just that it is not a faith in anything particular) and a thought that even if what we seek does not yet exist we will wish it into creation on the way down

[not to be confused with descension from heavens]


these creations of ours are not those of your god or theirs. not given under directives of obedience adherence to our ways or commands to suffer for our glory. do not sacrifice your children on an altar bearing my name your worship means not to me what it does to your father, his son, a prophet or a spirit given the name of holy. it is the creation which gives pleasure not the control. it is the expression and formation of that which is ours that you witness

of things that are not simply
[black or white or shades of grey]

creations not classified in control groups [subsets] heroes and villains and scripted foils and all things part of the Plan in place long before we arrived on the scene

strutting in across the canvas spreading color over black and white changing the landscape in a way it was said things could not be affected. sliding down black mountains in red pants while laughter flies coloring birds in brand new shades with songs never before fallen upon your ears

[to these sounds one ought to listen]

or get caught up in the devolutionary ladder as if greased and ready to go we slide down thinking that this is some new form of playground game that we only find access to at 25 after the drinking and smoking and porn and car rental timeline-landmarks have been passed and all that is left on the path of birth school marriage kids death is the downhill slope (leave it to you to decide where the peak of the meter begins and where the ascent ends)

for these are the chain-link disguises that read no adults allowed without a legal child guardian’s accompaniment like some sort of orchestral open-mindedness that one is required to have not simply in tow but implanted fully into the system and unscrupulously a part of all intents purposes and acknowledgements of greetings which become either salutations or cacophonies of inquisition - not in the sense of the crusades that we have imploded upon but under the terms conditions and warranties herein that are not so much a caveat but a disclaimer that says you can not buy your way to wings and thus beware we promise you nothing from these books and songs and lessons without an equal part sugar butter and effort put back in

[check this then at the foot of the stairs]

and decide whether or not you believe in the stairway to heaven or the escalator to some floor higher above in a high rise with no escape route and only a few who can sift through the buzz of what might be on those other floors that one believes cannot be achieved without a key although the simple defense of having a keyhole has stopped all those from trying when a little secret to let you in on is this: the door has never been locked - all you have to do is push where it says pull and all would have been granted to you - though if you take this too seriously you won’t ever try to find your way back there to follow this detailed map that you still cannot believe was so easy to track down because it actually has walked right up to you

[where it had waited for some time]

while you continued your search through over and around for it’s appearance was not as you had anticipated. standing on the level awaiting the repairman who might come to fix this esacalator frozen in a moment of ascension never realizing that an escalator is never out of order

[it just becomes stairs]

traversal

he smiles at cobblestones talks to walls
walks slowly
not quite on this side of madness
or silence
never screamed so loud as when he sat
alone
for twenty days
with fourty others
just like him
they sat together
each alone
by fireside forming circles
not of prayer, communion or friends
singing into the emptiness
of still night air warmed by flame
some turned to warmth to let her fall
upon their face
while others turned their backs
to feel her warmth
without having to look
[nevermind seeing]

as they had come to this place
to circle in upon feeling
at least as a beginning
a deeper
less spoken role
to be that of a place of seeing
seeing beyond
[nevermind the simple eyes]
up and over
and not the in-between
pushing through
two walls having collapsed on either side
there is still a way out
up and over
to something
that had not been thought of before
and that
is what these words are for
those whose minds
are not yet closed
sealed in stone
and can think of things
never thought before

so the mind may move from two dimensions
passing through third dimensional thought
into the place of ten
forming from sound
where music art
and words falling from fingers and tongues of the ancients
find life in the breath of the men
who live giving life to these things
within
giving them form
not defining them
refining them
by fire
and circles
and cycles
of life
and death
of thought
as it once was
bypassing traditions as controls
that we have set upon ourselves
to keep things simple
unchallenging
as if what we are
is all that we can be
and no more
not a drop more
not a moment more
not a possibility in sight
and as we would wish to be
remaining forever at some place in a wilderness
thinking that the places of beauty
are but legends of false prophets
sent back from tribes of mirage towers
of bricks that translate only as lowly heavens
there are no promises of better places
if only we keep our feet and hands clean
there are no promises that can be wrought from any iron gates
there are but possibilities and insights
and cities to be built of our own design
not wrought in the stones of history
but given breath to be known that the breath must always change
for life to traverse these sands

fortune/fortunate

there is fortune in the wind i fear
and there are hands stretched in mourning sleep
grabbing letters on wings in air so sheer
that there is not more than a moment meant for each
to reach to the sky
and cry out thinking that heaven is above
with a hope and a prayer and a flag waving “Here!”
as if to speak some call to a blind omnipotence
who may be everywhere in every passing moment
but has not the eyesight
to go with the job

so men and children wander alike
each alone but for the one “watching over” them
in their wanderings meandering searching for the one
who should know where they should go
the one who might tell them
which path might lead, to eternity