musings & scribbles

have you ever just sat there and thought, “what the hell is that? what’s keeping me here? what’s anchoring me right now and making me be where i am? what keeps me on the ground? what keeps me where i am? should i leave? but what would make me leave, then, if not what is keeping me here? i’m here. blah.”

what keeps you ever-here?

what is removed is as important as what is kept, and you’ll love what you remove far quicker than what you keep, because you only love what isn’t there, for what is there is far stronger than love, it’s experiencing, and you can’t beat that with just a thought, no matter what, unless you can.

i practiced wordings, words,
similarities, symmetry, worldly
clues to the way i’ve come to
understand things, with
the roar of thunder and
the twing of a chime in wind, but
all of that is meaningless
without you to read, so,
i thank you, and
you mean everything to me;
for, without you, i would, surely,
envy everyone else
who may live so free
as without boundary
or
occasion to be trained
for you, who read, who
see knowledge in these words
i know not the meaning of.

thank you,
thank you,
thank all,
thank you.

given life,
he chose walk
and
, wandering,
he fell, and
lest he rest
, he put foot forward,
wishing ground
lay there,
to be
stalked in drunken twist
of hips and ankles,
thighs,
to bend and ‘stend of knee
in dance, in worship
of the land’s many niches
yet to be filled.

what world is this
when life, lived,
told, is given a reason
and this reason, known,
holds but a clue
as to what this reason, known,
may be, but– to guess– to guess–
to guess is to give in, and to
forget, to lose the reason,
to long for what
may be
is what may be’s
only way of being.

may you hoop around these
and dribble your thoughts
to know they are but all laughter.

Same old same sorry. And a hummingbird cries to be let out, and rides a broom to the opening of the garage before flying to the tallest tree at a distance they can travel while under such stress.. and that funny string of dust/of cobwebs from their tail.

within hands of sedimentary, he
rises oiled own, to know the
spatial widths of claspings, dormant
but in settled raise and movement
swayed but by shakings, rakings
of the plasma, floor beneath such
dwellers, ceiling-crawlers, brought
to kindled flame, not molten, sought
to be but tamed and holden.

say the words before the beat
ing of your heart s-t-arts y’
mind and you leave words
to caution and not a pas
sion of the jester’s soul.

where the panting fan
breathes, cool, on skin
as though friend, canine,
were as large as entirety

How her eyes, the deepest olive, marbled, and pitted-black, became ripened over the days, making for nothing more than holes, pumped full of fluids I’ve yet to taste, rotting, breaking from that beautiful green to hardened brown, and, oh, how her ‘lids, once purposed, now hang, as though caught between falling and waking. How I loved her, for a day, and I still do not know if the Moon’s come to signal the end.

when the silence of the mouth
leads to shoutings of a mind
so lost in thought to be
forgotten on the wings
of they who fly
of they who show
a way many know
a way many know
but walk through
without giving a second
to stop and see
they are the series
they are the circle
brought for to be used
; likened to the sea,
we are but ducks,
stuck on surface, dipping
in for food and sustenance
but falling ‘neath the waves
when we’ve had our fill
and want too much;
until we learn to trust
in the god of abraham
and give up what we got
we will not see
the rapids ahead
and the shallows beneath
until we’re too deep to be
any type of free
from the ‘tow of so many muddy bottoms.