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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