Void is prohibited
Traction, necessary -
To bind my back
Against the wall
And make me add 1 + 1
To figure a 2 is different than 1
But not necessarily better,
Unless you think that turning
Toward a falsehood,
Being blinded by desire
To seek the truth
I cannot see,
Outweighs the option of watching
Shadows dumbly define what is.
Even in the fingers of finding justice
Creation damns beauty through its
Birthing channel.
Serendipitous situations seem to occur
simultaneously with my openness
to the possibility of connection,
Pushing perspective towards the place
of realities in the making,
Partial still
to those who abide by
moments
sought as truth,
Although known universally as
falsehoods filled with hope
or feigning madness -
Inside the veil of president,
they call the almighty.
It’s the scapegoat for what’s within.
The one who touches the godliness of
whole existence
In an instance
One is mad
One is right
One is all
Right by me -
Since I know we all get swept away by our own gilded frame
No matter how ever expanding one
thinks, feels, senses it is.
Even if you think you have touched the lips of God
You failed because God has no lips.
The two soft apparitions
parting ways for miracles
only exist due to our mere limits.
Yet, we can speak from touching the
spirit we can not conceive
In totality
Like reality
we try to seek.
It exists whether we touch it or not.
And, perhaps might just exist far fuller
If we relax our search and accept it is
far
from our reach
as long as we’re
reaching through
chambers of perspective.
Truth is much simper than that.
I think.
Trespassing whirlwinds of seperation
have twice fueled
the bitterness of women,
isolated in entanglement
subdued by the trespassers of others upon others
motivating the play to stand alone.
So, ascended atop a pyramid of complicated pains,
she’s thrust to the depths of dust
sitting amidst the icons of reasons.
It’s only with
fingers and palms formed closely
to the edges of illusory armrests
that she may lift, upright,
poised to tread,
wavering on pathways of air.
Whirling stampedes
conjured
deep among
the idealism
of what should be,
splitting my
instinct in two
undistinguishable plots.
Melodic songs
of want
of dissonance
trouble the sustaining
hope of resolve.
The pulling time
is amongst me
and reflections of
the still standing
still lifes
are proving
empty of emotion
from afar.
Clarity arrives
or submission resides in
the reality of the
progression of “the world,”
lifting off in the distance,
leaving my exhausted stand
in a mirrored image of
cremation dust.
Pulsating rhythms
wrap around my
soul tonight,
void of default-
truth.
Today I ran
with anger burning under my toes,
enough to make my feet
stay short.
I ran fast
with fire.
And then I turned the corner,
and could not contain
my smile.
Two trees appeared intertwined,
but separated by a short distance,
rising up the side of a textured white wall.
The light shined on their thin pale trunks,
as the light shimmered over the touch of your skin
when the sunlight came in between the window panes
New Year’s morning.
Shadows revealed the soft curves
and bends
of your face and arms.
And as I gazed upon these trees
at the stop sign this evening,
warmth rose into my cheeks -
remembering that moment
etched quietly in my memory.
The last pocket of
burning light drifts
downward, scraping the
edge of the earth.
Residue of warmth
spreads out,
dissipating amongst
clouds and night,
until streaks of dark
become all that is apparent,
spreading thin
like a memory of a lover.
A kiss.
From someone who wants you,
a friend far away,
a past in the shadow
of who you are becoming,
of a future not yet met.
But the sun shall rise again,
and so shall the darkness
envelope the sky.
I thought I might begin with my own writing space of choice.
The place that I feel most at peace and least distracted is outside, near water. Either by a pool or on the beach is where I can find the sanctity to imagine, to think, to create. Even with a pen or pencil absent within my grasp, I find that my mind frees to wander and wonder without limitations, so that when I do find the keyboard under my fingertips I am ready to work out the details of language and logic. I think it may be a combination of factors that allow for my creative process to flow by the water’s edge. The outside noises, that otherwise may be distracting, become part of the ambiance. I feel that I am part of life, rather than being tucked away in some cell of a room. This gives me a comfort, I suppose, to delve into my own head. The contrast of being drawn within my own mental space, while physically sitting outside in the elements, seems to provide a balance. I don’t have to rebel against one or the other. I find this to be true in cafes and such too, but for much shorter periods of time. Perhaps the repetition of sound can be exhaustive in most establishments. The water gives me a peace, the sun and breeze a gentle hand upon my back. It’s easy to pause, take a breath, and dive back in when necessary. And, I find the need for less pause because I’m physically, emotionally and mentally where I want to be – in my outside writing sanctuary.
