Friday, February 24, 2017


my hope is that in the mechanics of writing there could be some irrefutable truth about the soul and its journey through the maze of the mind to the heart's expanding center of attraction and aliveness to the dissolute and disappearing self that can barely arise and show up for the day. what passes as the same is completely changed and travels equally towards and away from desire and need. holding a golden apple at arms length, i contemplate starvation as greed and satisfaction as suicide, nothing remains of the self that emerged decades before, yet here it is stretched beyond imagination into a muse of the divine, not living but dying again and again. some trouble that cannot be contained envelopes us all and enters into our systems as poison and from this indefensible state we contract into the molecules of the being that cannot sing cannot laugh cannot be the truth of what i am. leave this city, this country this continent leave even time and space yet what exists continues, this hard shell of the self in this world unchanged, underlying truth has no effect on the lies that ride atop it. nor does the fact of existence change the radically recent nature of birth death and the cycle of denial. infinity is racially divided, between that which is and that which is not, reproduction carries the first dna forward and into each life it exacts its brutal need.not for happiness but the dread fear of loss of the one thing claimed, life itself has only the flesh to embrace to adore to linger with. after all else fades the spirit within clamors as the ink erases and the confines collapse releasing the seeking virus through the well fed and dying heart of man hunting now not for meat but passions end. without striving the soul unwinds the spine and delivers a new sense of appreciation for undying brilliance that shines from the crown of the being borne inside and seeking its eternal and infinite source. where is the meaning of the world, the senses, the separation, everyone the same, each one uniquely the same, yet focusing only on the differences imagined. where lies the individual amongst the billions unseen but felt in the darkness as infinite anxiety, that none are different none are spared, in the end what is done to one is done to all and what is felt by one is felt by all, except for the infinite nature of denial.

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