Spiritual

Jordan, I’m a comin’
Ready to cross that long last river
Ready to plunge my soul forever
    into your cleansing depths and sever
    from all these worldly ways.
    In insanity lies our one true
hope for freedom — from all the social
norms that bind us into who we are.
Jordan, I’m a comin’
Hold me well, you ragin’ waters
Reunited, all your daughters
Freeing us from he who slaughters
    in all those worldly ways.
    Love is the lie supreme that binds us
into belief that sacrifice must be our
noblest ambition; into belief that fulfillment
comes only in living death.
Jordan, I’m a comin’
Fill me with your ancient beauty
Releasing me from binds of duty
Caress me in your primal crooning
    far from all worldly ways.
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Empathic Awareness

How that felt:
That icy black cavernous feeling
That falling and screaming mad panic feeling
That oh so languid nothing matters slow scorch
That “where is all the newness, the magic?” feeling
That “too bad, so sad 
    (goddamit!  I’m shaking mad)” feeling
That horror in the night 
    when I know I’m sinking feeling
That tight throbbing knot 
    clenches my aching muscles feeling
That I’m strong, 
    just stay out of my way I don’t need you feeling.
That empty feeling.
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Sea Set

 
 
Even as I leap, extreme brilliant nights,
dazzling foam, waves enhanced by moonlight
swirl into beauteous presence.
Breath escapes me.
Panic drinks me in.
Faith no longer belies undertow.
Suffocating bubbles play
interstices of raw, stone-scraped canal.
No calm. No patient stairways.
Ethereal sea and enchanted lace
enthuse with no safe harbor reverie.
Will to wish might make it so
if ghost hand could attach to some anchored talisman.
If swollen eyes could clearly envision each molecule,
each twisting genetic spire,
each footfall upon a solitary weed-grown path.
Sparked to illumination, my most marvelous tapestry,
webbed strands exquisitely placed.
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Neptune’s Sky

Desperate to fly
I grow gills,
dive into mystery
beyond thought or destination.
Recurrent float within occulted sea,
bones of ancient mariners
cleverly collage with resident shells,
sparkling beasts,
sensual feast.
Great ancestor Neptune’s
flowing tears
paint heaven’s landscape in oceanic hues.
Cold spines as stars spin; vision reassigns constellations.
Transformed, animated, uplifted,
I am flying.
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Ocean Riffs

Water reflects affluence.
Unimpeded flow
to eventual shower downstream.
Like stone soup
scoops up valuable
bits and pieces,
coalesces into wealth.
Casting nets to engulf future fish.
Panning for witty nuggets.
Leisurely sipping strong libations
to the song of siren waves.
Osmotic veins ooze naked unto vast
ocean floor at midnight,
drink cool salty wellspring
into weary blood.
Who you ever were matters not.
A creature of sea-change
swims apart.
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Mist shine

There are places
beyond established space
where we don’t even know
we wander
delicately balanced
between what could be
and what we will allow.
*
Gorgeous epiphanies
smile, sparkle like dew upon a sinuous vine,
draw to mind visionary peace, glorious release.
Soaring symphony emits from dangling clouds.
Echoes transfix adoring crowd below.
Ascent from sparring to “I know!
And ain’t it a pleasure so fine.  See it shine.”
It’s not that thrill of awe shifts percipience,
serves to unfurl love’s star lit shrine.
Mortal life is a world revealing,
call of mystery our charming guide.
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Thought Screen

It’s just a an ornate screen,
a salve to rationalize our being,
a dialog along
another dreaded day.
It’s just a gala play
to carry on.
Why should well edited scripts
be any better judged
than randomized salad of words?
Why expect
attention or respect, or to be heard?
Why should touching love notes,
or gifts, or thoughtful actions
result in any sway?
Has this been proclaimed my Nobel stage?
What can I say?
There’s valid point in
all this farce?
That the fool on the precipice
dances beautifully?
No matter
what the cost
there’s a prize worth the price
of steadfast duty?
There is bountiful advice
in the stars?
There’s a lucky star;
and it’s ours?
There is magick,
to believe in?
Requited hope, ecstatic grace?
There is more than we imagine?
There is gold in inner space?
There is danger; there are dragons?
There are knights and righteous cause?
There are chaos taming tactics  —
There are underlying laws
that we obey?
(Why would you listen, anyway?)
 *
It’s just a veiled screen,
computer coded themes
based on
what we’ve previously seen.
It’s just our time-lined place
stored data for analysis,
packaged in paradigmatic memes.
Accepted ways of being,
interface of real-time streaming
shifting in and out of order
on either side of mind.
So the target that I track
is what I find.
But I haven’t got a clue
how to reconcile with you
with language 
self-reflectively
designed.
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Game On

Each a self-named entity,
may freely arrange
as we like,
designate private space, express
distinctive style,
so long as no notable harm
emanates, that actions I choose
don’t prevent any you
from pursuits to enrich your
own chosen game.
 *
Simple rules for simple folk.
Too angry to laugh at the joke.
Caught in cages facing outward.
Who decides this we?
Which you and I agreed?  Not me.
That aghast they in merry mockery,
selling meanness dressed as decency
rock large on percentage pay.
At least feed us red meat and
football nights.  Provide our cells with 
innovative gadgets, to watch
imaginary battlers put on heroic fights.
Maybe nothing’s good;
but we’re all right.
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What World Is This?

Not preordained, not programmed.
Ties that bound cut to slivers,
what will emerge?
No millennial beast slouches here.
Only speed of light delimits.
Earth’s bowl sky holds only air,
not certain destiny.
Perhaps, if we allow release from
baseless blindness
a state of grace may find us.
Independent of holy demons
or royal decree,
fate can be self-reliant.
Beyond grasp of power arrogated
to God or mortal master,
each well-examined self
is a force of nature.
From shadows shy wood nymph watches warily,
ready to bolt rather than chance being seen.
She knows her universe straddles change, craves balance.
Hubris claimed humans cry for trial by combat
sacred?  profane?   narrations between?
 *
What world is this
in swaddling clothes
at the break of days?
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Juxtaposition

There is no end or beginning.
Circular multiverse enables
all manner of being.
Still, tethered in habit, that same old
song recirculates, enamors again and again.
Pushed, pulled, generation to transform energy.
The question becomes
could tunes entirely new,
uniquely beautiful, insinuate yearning,
reach appreciation,
access deserved renown?
Look deeply into the eyes of
a nonhuman species.
Do you feel diminished,
empowered,
recognized,
alone?
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