There is no trick to it
this living thing
this moment we own
this motion we exist in
a vector toward/from
here/now
no special thing to be done
accomplished
surmounted vanquished
it is simply who we are
when, logically denuded
we shed the ego that

divides
describes
decides

denies

ourselves from
ourselves…as if being
here and now
or really just being
will never be enough
because “enough”
is a measure
a measure of something
that we must destroy
until it is

completely
totally
entirely

gone

There is no trick to it
this living thing
this moment we own
when we connect
and finally know
we own it…a point
in time/space
a vibration of
who we are, how we
affect that point in
time/space we call

me
you
us

love.

It is the human condition, the
inertial complacency to remain
locked into position, stabbed
into soft ground, a placeholder
for the rest of our living

but

living breathing moving seeing
acting achieving creating receiving
deleting freeing bleeding retrieving
and meeting meeting meeting

are

acts of intent, of desire, want
and cannot be done from the
seated position, the waiting position
the never-mind-I can’t-be-bothered
position, they are

actions

best left to the willing; the wanting,
the fearless and fearful, the odd
and the normal but the willing part
the essence the trigger the thing
that pushes us

forward

is non-negotiable, dyed in the
wool, and an integral stain on the
human heart, we cannot live, really
live (not like the TV us) if we’re

unwilling.

Standing in your
darkness…knowing
if love was a light…
you’d see, you can
feel shadows collapse
around you, smother
the choices deny
the voices…

Swimming in your
fears, your dreams of
madness float you
create you…a less
than adequate idea
of being seeing and
believing the world
is more for you’re in it

Running in your
place; your face a mask
of intent and escape
the most and the best
all distilled into the
least and the worst,
you fail in order
to succeed

Living in your
silent box, your
less than shallow
resting place, a
moment of knowing
feeling, having
stealing and
grabbing…

…when you are
and
are not

It was unexpected, sudden
and eventual…it was the far
end of the orbit; the closest, 
the perigee…vibrating a
frequency/singing an
internal song felt external
projected/played across mind
skin lips heart; it was
life and love coming from
an angle from a place,
from a moment forgotten or 
never regarded.

The heart as epicenter
as focus as target…
moving moving
moving; how
ever did it get hit?

He was less than impressed
with his own idea of the
moment, his own reaction
to the movement of his reality
from there to here then
to now he could only see
as far as his shadow his
idea of where in the
universe he stood…
the spot under
his toe that the
shadow grew and
stretched into tomorrow

The heart as bystander
as muted as ignored…
waiting waiting 
waiting; how
long will it stay?

He embraced what he could
understand, watched what
he couldn’t ever know
fall away into a time not
found on the clock, not
found in his heart
just not found but
love—the thing that warms
that sustains that
lengthens and livens—is
always always only
based on what is
embraced, not
what isn’t found

The heart as receiver
as magnet as vacuum…
pulling pulling
pulling; how
could anything miss?

She walks in the haze of my remembering
feeling and re-feeling…the continuous
motion of thoughts unrequited, she loses
me in the thread of a conversation long
gone many days ago, miles and miles…
too far for me to find except when I feel for
it, when it is a frequency inside, a moment
resonating from a passing shadow, from
a mark left by her on my skin, on my life

She walks and I am watching, sad and
still, a notion rises within me and I look past
her…past the place where her feet are now
step by step I imagine the next and the next
and they are farther than the last and still
away from me, away from my idea of her, the
thing inside I think when I think of her…but
she doesn’t leave, it just feels that way
every time she walks around my life

She walks again but I don’t think it’s goodbye
the store, some bread, fruit…but it still feels
that way, again and again, my internal clock
ticking over another minute hour day year as
she walks and walks…me watching, waiting but
content I think…I love her want to love her feel
it inside and she is happy wants to be happy
like me but that is what it is, she should be
happy, she should be in my life.

She walks in sunlight
and dreams of times
past present she lives
in the idea of having
and being with love
and family friends and
church…she floats
heart to heart to
soul to soul, a cloud
descending enveloping
and wrapping the small
corners the ends with
warmth and firm hands
a firm mind; she holds
and is held in turn and
in dreams she relives
each smile, each laugh
…the eternal Christmas
wish …the endless dream
she walks in the sunlight
of her smile, within the
hearts of all who cast
shadows from it as if a
saintly cloud floats down
streets, down alleys
and settles on the lives
of all whom she touches

When I try to tell my side of the story/my end of
the stick swinging loudly strongly all bluster and
meaning…only (it seems to me) when I try to tell
my story; I stumble on words/ideas/feelings/things

People laugh make jokes move the ball toward a
different goal line while I stare and talk with drive
with stern direction toward my point/my didactical
effigy of thoughts on life living and motion

I should lighten up/should settle down should take
it easy; I talk too deep, they say, words scraping the
bottom of their understanding casting shadows of
doubt of swirling philosophy left damp and piled up

There is no stopping—though—no waypoint on this
long arc to awareness I must—I will—I have to wander
toward the end knowing there is no end and never
will be/never can be while it gets easy and difficult

I write words that mean something (to me) hopefully
others—more likely me—but I try to tell my story…try
to spread ideas/meaning/feelings felt deep on the
surface; inside I tell them the way I tell them

I don’t stop; I mean them. I feel them. They are real
words-real ideas-going toward a place felt seen
known without knowing; never been but I have a
map a picture all done inside in my eyes ears head

The story lands where it does, plants seeds where
it does, makes sense or not but where it does it is a
creation a moment of splendor—mine—but all in all
a reason for wonder and wander and welcome.

I’ve lost the will to be
afraid, to be
herded into that sad
dream, that media
event, that investment
of the psyche so
wrongly directed, a
madness shared…I’ve
lost the thread that
ties me to the idea that
we should ignore who
we are want to be, can 
…imagine
I have lost the thing I
never wanted and I
feel only freedom inside
only a great empty
space to explore, to
roam—to own—to create
in the image of only
what I feel think see
…am
I embrace the
loss of hesitation, the 
absence of anxiety as
I wholeheartedly jump
headfirst into the hole
where that great
pain of loneliness lived
I have willfully and
completely, conceitedly
and unashamedly 
let go of myself 
(subsumed and devoid
of self), in order
to save my
soul

There is a small sound coming from somewhere
somewhere close by, somewhere inside her head
it’s barely heard, more felt, more than anything
it mews and moans and is barely said

A sound without words without a voice…it is
the sound of hopes, effort and dreams dying
from a slowly encroaching, enveloping sadness;
shadows creeping across her face and crying

She believed in miracles, so
miracles could save her dreams
She’s now lost and out of control
and nothing is as it seems

All the history, time, the moments laid end to end
she realized that what she thought was real
that where she thought she’d been and existed
was a world she now couldn’t even feel

Hurt by the blaring glut of too many people
telling her what to think-do-act-be-see-believe
to know that she could only do what she could do
and only do what she could ever conceive

She believed in miracles, so
miracles could save her dreams
She’s now lost and out of control
and nothing was as it seems

Rising up from the floor of disappointment
where she had been living all these long years
she can see the beginnings of an awareness
through the crystal waterfall veil of tears

It’s all what she imagined in a dream so long ago
the one destroyed, she thought, by a world so mean
so bent on denying her the center of her soul
and erasing the paths of everywhere she’s been

She believed in miracles and help,
but miracles couldn’t save her
She’s now found an image of herself
and fallen into her own favor

she fallen into her own favor
and edited the version
of her own savior

You can maintain
the mirage
of your existence
believe the media
the lies; your parents
your friends (that
stuff things success
cars houses clothes
make you matter;
real & have purpose)
you can buy that
box of bullshit with
a pretty blue bow
feel OK…feel like it’s
fine, feel that
you’re here, but
believing only works
has a result, an
outcome
when its possible
true honest, while
the bottom of the box
you’re carrying
only contains
another box
inside a box
inside a box
all the way
to the end of
the end…and
you can believe
and believe and be
OK… (I saw it on
the news so it
must be true), but
the box after the box
after the box…
is completely
all the way
full of empty