Just a Note; October 4, 2011
autumn swirling reds, yellows, n’ browns,
exhaling whispers through yo’ silk dress.
step by step, our lips hum sundown,
harmonious motion and hair raising rest.
hillside matrimony, raw spirit fighting air;
despite ever-changing seasonal cycles.
yes, somewhere out there, we must beware,
crowded streets drool misleading titles.
here, we are safe, under blankets of fleece,
outside, November wind sways sturdy oak.
here, in dreams of moans n’ pulsing peace,
we lay head on chest, both blowin’ smoke
waking up the morning after midnight rain,
I feel you twitch asleep, n’ feel a lil’ sane
You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.
A one-word poem. It’s very full. It doesn’t need more words. I’ve always wanted to write a song that goes, “I love you” and a book that goes, “Something happened.” Something very direct. I have yet to do that, but now I’m trying to say the most in the least amount of words.
Just a Note; March 7, 2013
bad boy twitch
catchin’ bad clues
hint lovely stuffin’
killin’ whale songs
a honey liaison
a classic haunting
deep within our hips
and all hope unholy
if only, if only…
Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him.
Just a Note; March 6, 2013
We are sensual beings. Reacting before we think. Talking before we listen. Writing before we read. Preaching soft melodies to entertain ourselves. Capable of fulfillment.
We are full of delicate tangibles; full of fragile balance. Shamefully striving to be honest with ourselves, gentle with others.
We are creators pondering amazing questions. Looking into third dimensions. Ironically afraid of trying new things. Ironically afraid to follow what we love.
We’re learning madness can lead to great spiritual freedom but not peace. Learning only work can make our soul divine. Learning constantly.
Love all creation, the whole and every grain of sand of it. Love every leaf, every ray of light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-embracing love.
Just a Note; March 5, 2013
All I want to do is scream. Someplace where no one can hear me. I want to cleanse my body, and give my spirit the warmth it deserves. I want to stomp away dirt, and feelings unreal. I want to break my positive facade and weep ‘till the morning. I want to tell you how much I miss you in gory detail. I want to get lost in all things sensual. But I won’t, for all is lost with impulse.
You will see great sorrow, and in that sorrow you will be happy. This is my last message to you: in sorrow seek happiness. Work, work unceasingly.
Just a Note; March 5, 2013
I am a lover. Full of honest thought and crippling revelation. A chain reaction igniting goodwill towards the ones I hold dear. An ever-changing solidity swayed by midnight moons and naked bodies. A patron of simple language and it’s natural wonder. A believer in the fact that poetry’s not dead. A consistent force rising to new levels. A mad skeleton running around for wisdom in the wrong places. A breath-taking sunset shining through the trees. A warm companion, wide-eyed with innocence, following his heart. A mellowing fool inspired by silly things, keeping promises and mementos. A contradiction in the best way possible, striving to understand what I cannot. A soft blanket that survived childhood, full of holes and safety A bomb after the explosion. Fragmented and ever-ready for reconstruction. Fighting for my life.
I wish I could walk till my blood should spout,
And drop me, never to stir again,
On a shore that is wide, for the tide is out,
And the weedy rocks are bare to the rain.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Just a Note; March 3, 2013
Time, switch, impulse. Impulse at two o’clock in the morning sharing a cigarette on top some kegs in warehouse backroom. Impulse eating. Impulse drinking. Impulse pissing in guttural bathroom, shit-gray-shit. Impulse hip memento under black light lime green electron cheese. Impulse for familiar face. Distraction. Nicotine Impulse. Impulse to make sure one person is okay, but stronger impulse to find friends for cab. Impulse laughing. Impulse pissing in the middle of the street. Impulse sway, sway, swaying, Alright I’m back up. Impulse substance abuse. Four o’clock bagel-sandwich Impulse. Impulse, fall asleep in dog bed under pea coat.
He was simply a lover of humanity, and that he adopted the monastic life was because at that time it struck him as the ideal escape for his soul struggling from the darkness of worldly wickedness to the light of love.