Friday, April 19, 2019

Our Alpha and Omega Love Song

The stars are just dust,
light reflected,
from some distant past,
that didn't last.
The used-to-be.
I want more
for you and me.

Alpha and Omega.
Let's break-in
to break up
the beginning
of no end.

Light a match,
set a glow,
warm in hand,
draw our lines,
in the sand,
keep this stand.

Alpha and Omega.
Hope won't
blow us away
because we're
built-in sway.

The stars are just dust,
dead shiny daggers,
of what once.
I want more us,
wild swaggers.

Fuck legendary.
Long live the Queen,
right in this scene.
Forget fate's permission.
We're all forgiveness,
alpha, omega, alpha-bravo!

If this life is
endless labor,
we are the
perpetual birth,
Before Common Error,
anno domini,
us ad hominem,
alive.

Because the stars are just
someone else's
Alpha and Omega
love song.

Thursday, January 17, 2019

Fate Loves a Riddle

Survival favors the fittest,
and yet,
Nature abhors a vacuum.

There is only one thing,
I know of,
that will tell of the same thing,
over and over,
over again.
Only a timepiece,
repeats information
without wit.
Only this device,
invented by humanity,
will tell us the measure
of our own construct
continuously.

The world doesn't love anything or one equally,
and yet,
Love is blind,
like Faith and Justice.

There is no Answer,
and yet,
the Question is not Everything either.

Maybe Fate isn't fickle,
maybe,
It just loves a riddle?

Survival favors the fittest,
and yet,
maybe,
survival isn't the boon...

Maybe the desperate and disabled
have the most room
to see the real treasure,
a moment to breathe,
a lifetime to grasp.
While the fit,
fight to last.

Wouldn't that be
the worst fate?
A good joke.

I hear
Fate loves a riddle.
For Mary Oliver, who so loved nature she embraced the riddles like the bloody eye of the moon.

Thursday, October 25, 2018

The Magical Fruit

*NOTE: sung roughly in the tune of the children's chant, "Beans, beans, the musical fruit"

Words, Words, the magical fruit
The more you imbibe, the more you can describe
The more you spill, the better you feel
So we have words in every spiel!

Words, Words, the magical loot
The more acquired, the more ideas squired
The more we squeal, the better we feel
So let's have words with every deal!

Words, words the miracle fruit
The more you repeat, the more you beat
The more you bear, the better you wear
So leave good words with every share!

Words, Words, the musical fruit
The more we churn, the more we learn
The more we learn, the better we earn
So let's burn more air on words together
before we ash our final urns!


#BeMightyWrite with magical implements of any sort!


Monday, September 24, 2018

Hail Mary


Heaven Harsh

The blood waters at sunrise
when the Universe cuts Earth’s cord.
The gory birth of each day
reflects back on the same seas
that mothered all land.
We don't see the difference
between Stone and Bone
after 10,000 years.
Time makes the extreme tones
of heartaches and heart-fulls
equally, equatorially weird.
Heaviness is a harshness
of Heaven by necessity.
All births are messy,
but some are a real Hail Mary.

If you give me a minute,
a tiny strand of time,
I will look for you in it.
The dawn of friendship
is only
a haven of moments
when we,
you and I,
mean something in the flood.
The right wave
is a long pass,
but even if you catch it,
every offensive play,
there is no such thing as a touchdown.
What goes up only comes around
in our harsh Heaven’s heaviness.

If I give you a minute,
a bare fray of rope,
I can only hope
you'll find me in it.
Irrespective of tides,
we could rise and pearl,
flash,
then curl,
a crashing wave,
feeling the heavy birthing pull
of Heaven’s sweetest harshness,
light, and inevitable,
as a baby's breath.
All births are messy,
but love is the real Hail Mary.
Blood waters when the Universe cuts Earth's cord, reflected on the seas that mothered all land. 


Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Whom Am I in Your Head?


Who Am I in Your Head?  
A voice of reason? A seed of doubt? A season passing on route?  All reflections are a fun-house mirror of sorts. Grains of truth and sands of surprises wrapped up in the warped adobe abode we build of our lives. Our own reflection the most distorted of all. Seeing ourselves for ourselves only through others' memories of our images. Squinting gilded or glided eyes,
thus interpreted and rationalized, often obscured in the heady haze of emotions and the beady blaze of the varied beliefs that protect our individual primordial mists. But nonetheless, our real reflection remains always unknowable. Seen only through others’ eyes, back translations, we see our assorted distortions multiplied and miniaturized, compounded in spider eyes. This one that trait, that characteristic, those behaviors, in the past, this time, tomorrow and again, each difference stacked and piled. Green, ripe, putrid all at once like a boat of bananas. Out of season but returning flash frozen, on sale, in stores nearby, at random. Who Am I in Your Head? Always complex, but only an illusion of complete. Ever evolving, never resolving to one clear sliver of light. Unknown in the spider-eyed myriad mirrors of our reflections upon reflections on reflections rationalized. Ultimately unknowable in any life time, but hopefully, not forgotten. 

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