the perpetual lucid a waking dream as we walk in between these worlds dimensions to parallel the past into a future line that never was, perhaps how many continuums have I lead and tread on down if only I could choose my lottery, for when I have found or had, you, my love to sound the sound almost imperceptible, lips meet where breath is born and retreats until that last breath and beyond might I pass into that thought the last electron to cross this mind the last echo of a beat from this chest(will be you)
and yeah, I still think about her. I can’t shake her to this day, I do not know what to do, maybe I am just crazy, we both deserved better… but were meant to be together, and like young fools do, we fucked it all up… I just hope she is ok these days, I really do.
no, seriously. try this exercise… look into the mirror. look into your own eyes. with intent, take a breath, pay attention, look yourself in the eye, literally, and then speak yourself… admit something you did wrong to someone, admit a regret. look yourself in the eye and speak the truth.. really lock in and be honest… hear your voice admitting the truth as you look.
well, it is almost 3am here… I must say, I really enjoy walking outside this time of night… the ultra late are asleep (or not), the early risers are not quite awake jogging by, usually, almost always, there is a din, a background sound, sometimes birds, sometimes traffic, often both… but now? at this hour, the silence is wonderful, it allows you to concentrate the sense of eyes, to see things… like … who else is awake judged by a light on in a window on the second story across the street… or to imagine what life was like that when the sun went down, the darkness that engulfed from there… most of us grew up not knowing this, even if we are not that far from it, we all have our own experience, we can not judge ourselves for this… every person is dropped into their own circumstance, you have very little control over that, there is no reason to have guilt over that. Birth is a lottery, oddly enough, myself, I was going to be one of the first legal abortions probably… I was adopted only due to the intervention of my mom’s OBGYN at the time who knew a young couple who was “in trouble” and made… well , me… it was pretty out of the bounds at the time, and Roe was new law just months later, I can not say what would have happened for sure but I was lucky to be born, but born I was, and into a family that wanted me (the tech about fertility was not nearly the same back then at all)… so here I stroll, at 3am, wondering about it all, listening to the silence, using my eyes to see anything living, but even among the tamed land… I see hope, in this calm.
flute is breath a voice perhaps then, personality for many instruments sing but none so much as powered by wind
something about something… how personal certain instruments are, and perhaps extensions of ourselves… just something I jotted down at work when I was on a conference call and listening to the above vid trying to keep my center.
upon golden sunshine might I lay my hands or walk across to the dreaming lands
to know the score of infinity humming along with as I walk the path laid out by god before me
in all encompassing light as I merge with the peace on the other side
notes: I had a visual in my head… like a literal vision… not like a religious experience but definitely a clear vision of walking on a road of light, so I wrote this, in the moment, as a response, is it perfect as to what I see in my head… maybe not, but I can’t grant you total access to that… so… I do the best as my limited human form can command…
I would like to believe that the birds sing- (for me) to pause, to stop (dead tracks) from running to my daily flock to hear their voice and stop for surely they announce (and I can feel) spring is here spring is about even if the clouds doubt or the temp flounders down as grey as this day may be the serenade- tells me (all I need to know)
cliche, but sometimes there is a reason for such things, I swear some birds are singing just for me, maybe it is all the bribes of rye bread crust, or leftover tortillas, or actual bird seed in the feeder, I would like to think they make mind of me, of course not, but why not dream it anyway, maybe I will wake up one day as a bird… I’ll try to remember and reward good stewards, but … I will be a bird so…
(and sometimes I am remiss to admit or post that this endeavor is truly just a corner where I post little notes, these are unedited one offs, and if not… I will tell you, not that it matters, I could tell you I worked on them like tilling soil for a week, same difference, but that is just not me, this, whatever this is, is just my thoughts in the forms they come to me, any questions or comments are of course appreciated, thanks for taking the time)
I just walked outside, 3am local my time, how many times, more of this, do I have, and it hit me, the unique scene pasted over this same scene, how different every day is, and the same, but sometimes, like tonight, we are thrown a curve, a swerve, nothing so different that we panic, but yet so different we take immediate notice, so tonight was that, just now, a fog descended, a fog I say which is a rare thing in these parts, it makes lights resemble spotlights to handle the on stage talent, but nothing is there, just perfect lines, angles demarked, perfect cones strobing down from the street lights, closer lights are just as bright but do not have boundaries like those down the street, holstering their own fiefdoms, it is amazing to witness, and this is usually among us, by moonlight or streetlight, take a pause, for the miracles among us, like the universal cartographer is asking us to pay attention.
{set scene: a solitary ivory candle wide enough to be cradled by two full hands, on an unseen table in a room with no window, a cup raised in the hand of a shadow arm cast out upon the wall, flickering, larger than life blazed through a grainy projector}
“to the known end of” the known how to tinker with creation while feeding pigeons bellies full of stones
I am a deadman for I truly am. whether I roll snake eyes or nines or pull a royal flush or wind up face down in the dust, I am dead man truly am so what to do wait for that line to pass or pass the line until my last (breath)
under the basking moon the cool tide shifts for sweat hides swiftly now leaves tremble and turn squirrels bury their treasures the mother is tucking the edges now the silks of spiders grows vacant
things change, even in a small lifetime, I can only imagine the ripples of time over long periods, like eons, not here, in this urban town, the burbs, the typical jersey suburb, parcels of land measured out, a lawn, a driveway, the american dream, it seems, with gusto and plows, concrete and asphalt, light poles strung like christmas decorations lining the parade route of the daily back and forth, I heard this was once farmland or even a chicken coop, but that was a different lifetime, before mine, but in my short observation, I have seen a shift in some and none, most of the birds remain the same, cardinals, jays, robins and the like, the rabbits of jack in spades have been a main stay, nervous little critters, then there are those canadians who really love to stay here year round these days, you would think they might explore the further south, and move to florida in waves, but perhaps compared to nova scotia this is like miami down, maybe they were there when I was younger, but I did not much notice the curious minions of northern parkway dogs like I do now, little watch towers looking about but oddly they seem smart enough (unlike a chicken) to cross the road as I can safely say I have not seen a flattened one, and least I forget the slyest of them all, the slinky foxes that skate along the hedge rows and meander in the shadows, to think all this life swirling about in just this tamed space, all it would take is a blink, and nature would roll into place.
Shades of My Garden 