We want mankind to be saved.
But in the presence of all that takes over
when we are gone –
Should we interrupt that beauty?
From the blue, from the deep, from the dark.
From the ocean.
Feet walk and bodies follow, leaving words like
breadcrumbs in passing. Creating paths that
can be followed no more, as those who listen steal the syllables.
In the fleeting conversation, spontaneity strikes.
Ideas are pulled from the blue, from the deep, from the ocean.
As if creativity and thoughts sprout simply from willingness
and want, to be plucked from rest by what does not exist and
a hypothetical hand. The water is where the blue meets Blue,
it is. But it is also where the Light meets
the Dark, where the Open meets the Closed.
The Horizon and a surface unbroken.
Reflections as counterparts.
Glance up and all is revealed, never was it hidden.
Birds fly on a current that is their Stage, presenting a show
for the bourgeois land below. The Sun has arms that
wrap around every raindrop, illuminating air.
The only conciliatory element is the cloud.
They are the changing screens for the Heavens.
Existing for the modesty of those above.
But look below.
I hear from lore of the folk
there is life,
there is movement,
there is something.
But I look down and all I see is me.
One face on the unbroken surface of Everything.
Who is to tell me there is anything else.
Why should there be
If ideas grow from |this blue| then they must come from
It is the iceberg on the surface.
The Roots grow deep below.
Delay, delayed, delays.
The sight of words shuts my eyes
The lines and letters turn to topography
that guide –
But also create the trips and tumbles
That arise from the terra incognita of type.
The Braille of Being.
Wondering, Wandering, Painting
I am writing a book
with every step I take.
Each footfall leaves behind font
The treads of my shoes are
the words that tell the tale
– A Journey –
That have composed what I now
call the chapters of my life.
That which can only be written by
I wish stars were able to
Float steadily down,
Hovering just within reach
So one could jump and grasp
The bright dream of another
And feel the beauty
That is pure and vital life
It’s a break
Not to the bone, not to the soul
A break between who I was
And who I will be
Who I am never quite exists
It’s a break in the system
A moment faster than fleeting
It’s the breaks that make
I guess this is what it shall be.
If you are not in this moment,
Where are you?
Does crass still exist?
Have we become units
That live on low wattage stimulus
And have no watch towers for snobs
To decide our base nourishment?
Splat! One life segment departs
Depleted with time to take a look
What’s the count
Down to reserves or well stocked?
Easier not to look
But naught do ‘I Have a Dream’.
Instead, there are colors that mold into shapes that then
whisper themselves into smells.
There is texture that is also energy when the sky sings.
Octagons and Oblivion.
I create Worlds.
I live, I live like a spider you’ve trapped
in an overturned cup.
Moving and breathing,
moving and breathing constrained.
I cannot do
do Anything but exist
until I cease to do so.
I like to believe that
Postage has Wings.
That every idea
attached to a stamp
Flies, That We Fly.
The best of me is what
I give to others.
I have been suspended
in the air and
I have seen the greatness
that comes when people
Choose to Fly.