Poetry/Prose

Great Glass Walls

Image credit: Mine, Beijing 2010

Image credit: Mine, Beijing 2010

Dear Anonymous,

I tried to write a note to you today but when I was about to send it, I thought of all the synapses that would fire in your brain and cause you to respond in the way that you would, because you think the things that you naturally do.

And I wondered in that moment, how many people I have loved had wanted to write to me but couldn’t because they knew the same …

… that some strange volition within me would take the purity of their words and feed an ego that just couldn’t know better at that time.

How many?

I wanted to tell you so many details. Things that would get lost on the way to your deeper wisdom. I have tried this before. I know. They will.

So now I will send you nothing at all–something more pure than the ego can touch. Something so subtle it overwhelms the world. Something that will never be said but somehow be known until the moment before we die or almost do–what is real, what is true.

There is no me. And there is no you.

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Poetry/Prose

Fists are for Fighting

hand-tattoo-tnKeep your hands open!

It comes

That thing you want so bad

And all you want to do is curl your fist around it

But then it changes

Gets crushed

Resents the journey it took

To reach you

And all it wants

All anything wants

Is to be free

When it escapes

It has memorized that terror

It will not return

So keep your hands open

Through everything

Keep them open

When it comes

Whatever it is

Whoever it is

Whenever it is

Keep ‘em open

Observe

Don’t shoot it

Don’t trap it

Don’t catch it

Become one with it

Appreciate it

Support it

Wish it well

When it goes

Keep OPEN

Because that’s the only way

Anything good

Will ever get in

And anything past its use

For your living soul

Will escape

The end

Is the beginning

Make it end good

Like Seinfeld

Most of all remember:

The fist begins in the mind

Train the mind

When the bird of love lands

To keep open

Smile so deeply inside

Without disturbing the winged one’s nature

As you support it

In your open wide hand

One day, the bird will land that wants to call your hand home

Before you realize it

Your open hand will be covered in straw

Baby birds warming themselves atop it, chirping

And on that day, you will feel

You never had to make a fist

You never had to do anything

To enjoy the natural splendor

Of love’s most natural flight

And necessary landing

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Art, Music/Book Reviews, Poetry/Prose

Start Again

Whatever it is. Whatever it was. It’s gone.

No pact or promise can hold it in place.

Not because you don’t deserve it, but because it’s always changing.

Appreciate it and let it go.

It will surely fly back to you if it wants to do–or into the sky, carrying a part of you to timeless heaven.

Eternally impressed–its memory will shift around your actions and change their meaning every day.

The minds-eye mirrorball–shifting light of reason as the hours, days, years, lifetimes pass.

We live in so many dimensions.

Let go and see it.

Let go and live into your next one.

Every day.

Look in the mirror first.

Say it to yourself first.

Start again.

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Poetry/Prose

Now I Finally Remembered–I Am Free

get-out-of-jail-free-card

Today I see

I risked my life

To save it

A lifelong quest

For what’s been

Between my lips

Candy for obsession

The last bar on the cell

Gleaming

Pole dancing spectacle

The past few years

People found it wild

The way my life slid

Round and round and round

Gain and loss

Trial and failure

They looked on

From the outside

(However!)

Inside’s different

Seeded garden

Watered with a love

Of daring fears

And I slowly grew

As anyone would

Who dares their devils

Cleans their attic

Stands in the dark

Of their silent basement

As fear’s wave wained

To acceptance’s light

Shining

The last bar in the cell

Holding to it

Slipping around and around

For the love of life

I began to look closer

At a reflection

Shining back

That light on metal

Movements

Automatic volition

And today

When I awoke

To meet my metal master

I would only hear

A hollow echo

As that last bar

Toppled to the floor

I stepped right out

Stretched my arms

Yawned

As if never trapped

By all the bars

Once held me back

All the figments

Divinely constructed

To demonstrate

Freedom’s means

Oh thank you

My willingness

To be a bad example

And a good person

To myself

To teach myself

With every willing desire

Every inevitable loss

All comes and goes

Except what remains

I only see that now

In everything

I am free

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Art, Poetry/Prose

Expats

Screen Shot 2015-02-15 at 6.31.56 AM
You can’t be homesick

Without a home

In unison

The guy hiding

All his funny feelings

Behind those shades

Dropped the beat

In the mouths

Of our silent screams

To the winking sunset

Bowing its head

As the sky shook hands

Over and over and over

With the rolling sea

We are not orphans

Except to the outsider

And we are not outsiders

Anymore

In fact we relish

(Not the kind on a hotdog)

Being adrift

(Not the kind that’s worried)

Never quite comfortable

To call a place home

Somewhere

Is everywhere

And you just can’t be homesick

Without a home

Nobody says goodbye

To everywhere

Unless it’s somewhere

And then we ask:

Who needs it?!

You can’t be homesick

Without a home

Really

Who needs it

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Poetry/Prose

I Don’t Want Anymore

Image credit: Panoramio "a moment of perfect contentment"

Image credit: Panoramio “a moment of perfect contentment”

It’s just that …

What I always thought I wanted

Still wants me to want it

And I don’t

I just don’t anymore

 

One day

Sometime after I was born

I caught a glimpse of it

Started following it around

 

It took me to many places

Showed me stuff

What I was studying

Was something that never ends

 

But not in a poetic way

More like a dull, repeating way

Not even like waves

Because waves are interesting

 

No

Wanting is more like a factory line

Like a big hamster wheel

Based on past constructions

That strangle the future

Time’s ticking hand, stuck

 

It’s the fragmented offshoot

Of desire

A bug in a program

A cranky robot baby

 

Wanting

 

In that space

Where want was

I grip the moments

And they feel me up

 

Penetrate

So I know where I am

Not where I was

Not where I’m going

 

Where I am

Time moves

It’s a river

 

At nights, after nights

I do drive home alone

But I don’t flinch at the cars

Even the big ones

No matter what they do

Even when they nip my mirror

In this silly town

Anymore

 

Free from all this want

Free from all the weight

Of that silly, silly want

That still wants me to want it

 

You may ask:

What to do if not to want?

 

Pardon me if I offend your wants, but how about let’s just live to the max and see what happens?!

 

Because

I don’t want

I just don’t want anymore

 

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A spontaneous mostly non-verbal thought

A spontaneous mostly non-verbal thought–October 1, 2014

Art

Here’s an Idea (and I willingly am part of its audience!)

Image
Poetry/Prose

Assignments

Image and editing credit: mine

Image and editing credit: mine

Rolling over

He found her face

Asked without a word:

Did you want me to change you darling?

Because I’m afraid I will

When we say a thing

When we do a thing

We set it free

Why does it matter what it means, to you, to me?

Isn’t it such a pleasure, to know there is so much more, to anything, than what we say it means?

After kindergarten

We got all these assignments

Until we learned

To make everything

An assignment

Tell me

Love

Tell me

When do we graduate?

From yesterday’s meaning

Tomorrow’s fantasy

Listen here

What does any of it mean?

What did it mean, when it was not me?

When it was not you?

When everyone thought it was so damn good?

When people scorned and whispered that it wasn’t right

Just get under it

Immerse yourself in it

It’s everything

So why does it have to mean something?

To you, to me, to anyone

If it is

It is alive

Self evident

Waiting shamelessly

To overrule our little minds

Do you wrap the sacred in words?

In thoughts that struggle to be words?

In feelings that want to find patterns?

Do you wrap it in a pretty present?

Throw it in the garbage?

What do you do with it?

What CAN you really do with it?

Do you see now?

Nothing

And that’s what it means

Because it is

And we are, too

Beyond, beyond, so beyond

Assignments

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

Mr. Mister

heart5

Photo/art credit–Desicomments.com

When I first became an expat I said:

Everything has changed, but I am the same

Days passed into months, months into years

Conversations into contentment into disillusionment into strategy into deeper surrender

Again and again, a drum, guaranteed

Same blood through the same heart, beating

Keeping time when I forget my watch, or throw it in the toilet

Different faces, different cultures, different priorities, luring me through a looking glass

To be born into a world

Where the masks all drop and love is always mine

Hands in pockets, eyes to the moon, now reflecting

Will I see you again?

Like I did the first time, when you were someone different?

More than anyone else?

Detachment–hundreds of feet in the sky, where your can see, so many things

Round and round, that race … like gnats in a jar

Looking at each other–seeing themselves

Was I doing that?

I wonder what scorpions eat …

Everything is the same

But I have changed

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

See

DSC_0797

There is a sadness in true love. A sadness I have come to depend on, inspired by separation. The closer we get, the more we realize we are somehow apart, and yet we strive all our lives to overcome this.

The meantimes, the space, fills with sadness and longing. Why are these feelings like bastard children? To me, they are at the table, feasting on my adoration and, in turn, feeding my dreams, my art, my imagination with all of their truths. Sadness reminds me we are born into duality. Longing reminds me have the capacity to see beyond this–into spirit–through the eyes of the soul.

Our unity.

We grasp for each other. But there aren’t enough kisses. There aren’t enough words. There aren’t enough tender touches. Silent moments. Shared breaths. There aren’t enough poems or paintings; songs, plays or films. There never will be. There never should be.

Look into my eyes. Stay. See. Now. Only now. There is enough of everything.

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