Moment in conscious time

To you

Purple. Blue.

Tethered.

Reaching unknowingly into the mother

My roots dug deep.

Flexible,

I move across her surface and see the smiling golden faces of

trees.

grass.

Sky above

My shelter.

Without touching,

sound organized over time,

feelings sent through space,

Both have listened and heard and felt.

Deeply infinite within and without.

Self situated somewhere,

but not alone

NOT ALONE.

Good morning earth

Good morning self

Good morning each other.

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Circular

Snake scares me every time I ride by.

I know, he’s dead.

Caught up with an old friend.

Thought of the past.

Riding bikes then.

Around the driveway.

Existential discussion with my brother  as we pedal about.

Is it possible to be “here” or “there”?

Nine years old.

Circling the driveway.

Plagued by mystery.

Twenty.

Circling driveways.

Plagued by mystery

So much anxiety in the constant constant.  

So of course the snake frightens.

So terrible to see everything.

Everyday. Same.

Monotony is not broken by old memories.

No.

It is deepened.

The past has its own circles.

No escape I’m afraid.

Only to die the ghost snake.

Think

I wrote this poem in January of 2012, but only posted it in my Facebook notes (which no one reads). I like it enough to repost it here and share with whoever reads this garbage I pass off as creativity. Enjoy.

THINK:

Forget everything you know.
Think,
There was nothing
Expansive nothing.
Enter time.
There is something
Infinite something.
All has been created,
Carved,
Formed.
All has been affected by
It.
It is not comprehensible
It cannot be controlled
It is beauty
It is perfection
It is.

Creation is.
This is undeniable.
This is all we know.
Think and you will see,
All there is
All there has been
All there will be
Has been formed by it.
Why now must we name it?
Try to personify it?
Try to understand it in human terms?
When we know it is far superior.
Pure religion should be mystified by it and drawn to morality because of it’s magnificent awe-inspiring beauty.
Science should seek to understand how it has come to be and where it is going in order to use its gifts to heal and inspire.

Just that all there is has come to be is a beautiful enough explanation for me.

Working always and thinking of Pollock, Kerouac, Dylan, and others

Spend all day making order out of chaos
Call it a job and they pay us
Call it school and we pay up
Call it chores and think I’m gonna throw up

Even leisure is a futile attempt at making sense
of the disorder and confusion. Hence,
Crossword puzzles
and overly structured sports
our are favorite ways to depart

The unexamined life not worth living,
the examined one a treacherous reality
where all is not as we want it to be
and try as we might the universe will never concede

Take space to instead give in
create something that acknowledges my place within
and without
I am in all things
The chaos as well.