Psalm 139

The gist of it is 
I miss the wind 

As I stood on the porch 

And watched it 
All pass: my love 


kriyamana

 does a poet's karma 

escape since the words are conscious 

each space deliberate 

is that why tears flow so easily or laughs come so true 

once written life emerges 

where none was: it all flows so calmly 

each correction, each movement of the fingers

the back spaces the going forward. it is all karma 

undisputable incoherent unimaginable karma of life 

outstretched throughout this abyss

*******

Āgāmī

non-compliance

. . . . . . . . . . what - ever: enough to get a blurb 
a skip into life - how does a child
. . . . . . . . . . go from zero to what - ever: how 

does a mother understand that the ever 
. . . . . . . . . . the what is what she needs to go 
into the next realm: she'll be my equal: surpass me

her life 
. . . . . her own
. . . . . . . . . . still what-ever 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . is where we are  


hour glass

. . . . . . . .and it all comes down to a little picture 
chosen by someone: a tiny blurb of birth - death 
a nice little quote, a few flowers, and a certificate 
a box, urn, a catacomb - the end remains the same 
a reintegration into the very earth claimed in deeds 

how sad - i want to say. why fight - i want to plead 

the end remains the same. & during the dash of life 
the sand runs out - drifts into the ocean or made into 
glass by the lightning that strikes each of us as each 
storm strolls past awaiting the sun to hit & draw us 

away 

y as a function of x

if someone was to graph my life out 
i believe a definitive derivative function 
of my life would be a bird: a red one 
that taps at my window and lives on 
my shoulder. at the other end a blue 
it will soon take flight and cover my 
arm - a trajectory of cancellation in 
my ever expanding mind and body & 
what i've learned to explain as an identity 
squared away nicely into my existence 

homeomorphism

in the dreams ahead - i will see 
more and more until there is no 
more: i am approached by each 
corner of the earth - edging me 
on: promising that there's just a bit 
more for me to do until i'm done 
a robert frost poem, or a bad tele 
novela. how my worlds collide 
a venn diagram & i am nowhere 
closer to sleeping thru the night 

last night's dream a step into a future 
where old familiar faces appeared 
and hushed me - letting me know i 
had stepped into another level of existence 

"Holding on is believing that there's only a past; 
letting go is knowing that there's a future." Daphne Rose Kingma

pursuit

if all is a simulation then why does everyone 

not look like me. why does everyone appear 

like a glow of what life is suppose to be - who 

designs my simulation? who decides the flavors 

the sights, the sounds, the very creations of those 

who walk besides me. the broom used to sweep 

the food i am given. if it is all a simulation I 

would pick such different sounds, a song to fill 

my soul, people who resembled me - even care 

to stop and pick up litter. there, there is proof 

there is a God - because only a God would drop 

us in to simmer, maybe even boil until we awoke 

realizing there is no simulation: just recurring events 

read off a card 

trivia

the narrowness is hard 
it keeps us in control 
if there is no then a possibility 
still remains - however small 
if there is no God no love no 
nothing then it all is for nothing 
and not one thing can be wrong 
and it all can be wrong - it is the ultimate 
is self delusion but perhaps that is what 
is needed after the bottle of wine and beers 
what is the point if there is no point at all 

is that the greatest fear 

to ash

When the core unbalances 
It becomes hard to stand 
A loss of life and thought 
A path unearned relearned 
Comes back to our youth 
When our muscles hurt and our heart was still ours to give - mine is shattered and walks about 
Freely and I’ll be wrong every day and twice on Sunday - every mother knows this and every mother gives this 

生き甲斐 : Ikigai

time is slow - do not fear
this is how it often goes 

i've been in practice now 
for over fourteen years 

each year blends into the next 

a slow roll - slower for 
some than others. each

calls. the calls do little 
to speed time: resets: so 

many resets; pawns sacrificed 

no real move. no check 
or even mate. just laughs 

and stories and clicks on 
hard marble floors. benches 

of woods hundreds of years old

how many has it been now
for me - hundreds, i believe 

each with their story & loss 
carefully balanced in the back 

of the mind. rarely do i give thought  

the one given twenty gives me 
pause: life enters and he fades 

a check to mate was what that
was. others pass like tiny flames 

when i die and i will die: each loss - out 

weighs the wins. and to the one
who got that last chance: i often 

want to call, forgive his debt so 
he can call me: expand on how life 

matters 

paradoxical sleep

the protective nature of pain
allows us to learn: it's said if 
no pain no growth. drilled in
to us in the army. i can sleep 
anywhere. but i didn't learn 
that in the woods where we 
trained in the rain and cold 
i learned to sleep when i was 
very young. it was a game 
of pretend that led to just 
being a doll: nothing more
perhaps that's why i like pain 
why i gravitate towards it, why 
i miss it in my life: it lets me 
pretend to sleep and sometimes 
i just float away . . . . . . . . . .
 


18 minutes before sunset

. . . . . if it all comes down to a checklist 
then what is the rush. it won't ever 
. . . . . all get done. some morph. others 
become extinct. a headache in fumes 

. . . . . candles lit like bodies stretching 
across years. the little light, the little 
. . . . . heat insufficient: a dandy tune  
and a rhyme and so many paintings 

. . . . . if it culminates to a checklist 
and it all will never get done and 
. . . . . really at the end of ends: for who 
for what and the why - why must 

. . . . . it come down to a little lit string 

transduction

in a small corner of a large structure

i sat: was confronted with such truth 

two hands that never touched: to let go 

it was time to let go.  he thought he said 

such a small thing. an easy left. made right

a tree here, a leaf there. a red bird over near 

the window: what a turn of events. it takes 

time for the echo to disseminate through out 

the body. a fall. a winter. a spring. a summer

a life made by the verbalization of unbeknown 

honesty  

I'm still holding on: Luther Barnes

Broken:  by Lifehouse


chiral knot

 . . . . . they always seem to have a purpose
even when they sit believing in the silence 
 
not meditation: not even life not any more 
 
at each corner, each lane, a decision made 
years ago: of what to leave behind what to 

keep in the back of the mind, in storage - 

btwn the sunday and the monday and each 
day in btwn: the many years collapse in 
 
time: exhausted. given little reprieve so it 
 
eases into purpose. each lost pet, lost life 
lost family, lost job: an opportunity at most 

a transformation of the mind, the soul, life

Milliways* table 31

all things considered
including the sky, the night 
the turn arounds - it 
all has been a good 

ride. he said during 
the transformation 
from man to energy 

it took a few life times 

one too many to live
out: still the variants 
of life: the equilibrium

felt right: at each turn 
the lessons piled high 
such tolerance a learnt 
science of tenacity and 

someone lookin out 
for him waiting for -
at the table on the left 

* Restaurant at the End of the Universe: Douglas Adams