- thanks God

Light and salt- the wisdom of our mind, sprint, soul, and the salt of the Earth. How many fatty, crystalline arguments must we gather to prove justice, birth, God’s will?

In pursuit of an honest rebellion, a performance of our divine insight for choice, love works against all reason. Against all celestial impressions, do we create Hell? If our wraths cannot be exorcized/exercised for wingless foot and less than righteous occupation, do we damn ourselves in our own water?

Man was given a face, a sound, a name, an effect to be made. Must we not too impress the stars? When will the gods seek our approval? The Earth’s light does not bow to heliocentrism- rather does not stand under the mechanism itself which made the sun rise. We still fall to the sun itself. 

We’ll build a pinecone palace, simultaneously threatening to crumble, dried… OR, to unfold the fabric of an active imagination. I’ll climb the seven stairs of the castle; why do you tell me to wait at the eighth?

And, justified as creative ambivalence, we’ve killed all the gods! But left the assumption we may keep Eros. But with a corrupt Psyche, Eros cannot fulfill his journey through the valley - only rides on a defiled ground of lost sacred spaces. The tarnished monuments we constructed specifically for peace, are now for war just the same. Now cool and plastic, this revolution will have no contents.

We participate, even if all we ever thought we’d be is honest. Casting light, carving our rituals with warmth, practicing eternity. The dance we’ll have forever with the sun’s reflection on the moon.

Haunt

I come to this place day after day where your scent lingers. The lightening of spirit has stained with its glassy, sanded refrain. My translucent, heavy eyelids won’t veil their desperate gaze- twitched in tune in a pulsing pursuit which seems to tick out the outline, perimeter of a being. Its boundary a watery, dark space where vessels float with no flags, tables arranged for no sanction. I pull out the chair for my old ghost. He sits and says, “what may?”. A lyrical impatience births a sacred script; owned by Sorrow. The ghost closes its eyes softly in dismay, in disappointed states, for its job was not to provide passage or navigation.

Super, Natural

At the intersection between gold and pearls, the most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. To whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed. The insight into the mystery of life, coupled though it be with fear, has also given rise to religion. To know what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms-this knowledge, this feeling is at the center of true religiousness.

Evil Urges

Is the battle for justice another facet of our imperfection? Same as hunger, desire, the need for rebirth and regeneration? Our consciousness builds battles of insurmountable proportion. Things not meant to be carried. Things not ought. The greying of our eyes, the withering of our hands intimately illustrates our paradox and duality. What better remedy for this strife than except an action, a release, a plunge into darkness to remember where we came from. A wrought catabolizing, our crying melodies turn internal chaos into little salty structures of relief. Starry rocks are born out of the cosmic fluidity of astral assemblage. Our broken forms derive information for projection only from the chiasmic churning of the oceans of milk. Divine justice is outside of time. It’s judges and angels only whisper in hours, holding God’s light in mud and reed and ore. This sanctuary of truth cannot be without evil.

Is the proper discernment of what is ill derived, just? Or is the revolution merely casting spells? This revolution arrived by way of materials, the invention of shelters, perverted with disconnection. Denial of the sacred is the spiritual establishment of nonconformity and esoteric mysticism. Are the convenience machines of heuristics not the greatest form of propaganda? Are our tithes inverted? Was it truly intended to declare 9/10th of our liberty to the State?

Eroticism

The scaffolding of an existence which laughs at itself is structurally organized by and derived in chaos, an accidental paradise of sorts, since that same chaos creates information. Are we determined to disprove the connectedness of all things as a sort of declaration of ambivalence to the divine? Do we shy away from that paradise that proclaims the nonduality of good and evil to declare an affinity for piety?

Wisdom and truth remain altruistic in nature and cannot, shall not be contained by limitation such as material boundaries and gravitational bounds. If the mind only can inform the matter, matter remains literally and physical empty without spirit. But if the matter is the mother is the material is based on particles (the evolution of Adam through atom), how is the solar masculine inspirited? Inspired? Is it not the feminine who goes into the woods, the moon which only controls the veil of mystery?

Einstein even said, “the contemplation of the cosmos beckons like a liberation”. This swing between ridicule and sublimation illustrates our eternal search for validation of how special and unique our existence is. We don’t have to disprove God. He’s already within the question dancing, inside the tremendous and terrifying mystery, an ineffable, silent knowing.

Heirlooms

The enormity of singularity of a person is too devastating a concept to grasp. If you get lost there’s not just another one to be found. And while the inverse may be true of some, I do not enjoy those fleeting replaceable people. (For the only ones for me are the mad ones.) So timelessness and irreplaceability abounds. A true masterpiece that eludes any worldly condition.

Unfortunately, the fear of theft seeps in. So I build a fence. Although, the fence is “small”, border and bounds around something untamed is palpable and constrictive.

And to guard a heart is to isolate a devotion, an extraction of a bit of vitality. And lest we forget the importance of semantics, of defining “the other” vs “another”. Another implies the opposite of that divine individuality described. Another equals detachment and impartialness regarding cause and effect varieties of commitment. But commitment is not a contract but a declaration of truth, to bind in exchange for a tiny death in ourselves. This symphonic wisdom exists only on a weird plane of the existential that the same time warrants and evades definition. Commitment is different than the fence.

There’s a certain level of care in the permanence of the visual vs the implicit illustrative conceptualization we must infer from the auditory. Post tragedy, I’ll run back to the gate with butter stuck to my mouth and dripping from my hands.