It’s a delicate
balance to make
snow. It happens
spontaneously; it finds
itself.

Metaphor: noun
2. something used, or regarded as being used, to represent something else; emblem; symbol.

Poetry: noun
1. the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts.

To ponder: our waves of senses of sight, smell, taste, touch and hearing allow us simply to experience reality, as it were, through metaphor and poetry. Not as it is. “We” cannot become something else, someone else, nor even our past or future selves. The paradox of identity is that in order to experience who we really are (the universe, eternal, etc) we must learn that our senses are by nature figurative and intoxicating. It has nothing to do with the amount or frequency in which we indulge.

The tragedy exists even at rest; at rest is the opportunity to become sober, to be free of inertia and let balance be, rather than waiting, bracing for balance to balance you or trying to balance yourself.

I surrender.

Being in the dark,
yet claiming,
believing the light is all around them,
that they blaze with light.
That they are on the right side.

Are you tiptoeing through darkness?
Are you thankful for every footstep?
Are you kicking, not knowing
who else you end up hitting in the dark?
How do you know what you hit is an enemy?
It is dark!

It is easy to navigate in light.

The door is locked and yet
we are ready to try to kick it down,
kick it in, rather than wait for a key
to be handed to us, or for someone
on the other side to open it–even if
we injure or destroy what is on the other side
What a strange behavior!
Take your time.

It sometimes takes a lifetime
to realize that the door itself
is the gift and the understanding.

If you try to break it,
you lose an opportunity to grow,
to lay down a burden,
to stop being on duty.

What ever else is beyond that door is immaterial.
We’re already,
ALREADY
on both sides of it.

We just had no idea.

Like water unto itself,
all is allowed to enter in.
Quiet and alone in the cosmos.
Deafening silence.
The womb of existence.

Green does not see itself as green,
nor is it reminded of lush forest.
Yellow is no more cheerful and sunny
when it sees itself. Red, itself,
is not passionate nor angry.
Royal blue does not consider itself
of regal blood.

Darkness is not opposite to light,
but rather its companion. If we remove
the identities that couple themselves
physically, emotionally, to witnessing
this inevitable marriage, we may break
away from gravitational pull by melting
the gold we collect in our lifetimes,
letting it seep through our fingers
into the ground,
and back to our planet’s core,
far away and immeasurable.

Quiet.

A secret,

unprovable

radiance
in which we simply trust.

Gold-covered gold,
all divisions lost,
and a present of which to be faintly
aware but to never unwrap, as we float
endlessly, timelessly
out into the ever-unknown
in all we feel, think, say, and do.

Ice shines
in the sunlight
at night.

Moonlit surf
from the hotel
window.

Even
the sunlight
flickers.

Those of you who talk to me often know
that I’m awaiting a rebirth of some sort
teeth will be torn out of my head and with it
some sort of right of passage/vision quest/
tearing of hooks from the back
as adolescents try to pull heavy boulders in vain

If you see me, please stop me.
60 days.
I hope to be reborn.

This
sun
is
glorious!

We walked narrow streets, painted
the image of lost loves into our eyelids
and burnt our voices together. Hallelujahs
were chanted and belted, we rented rooms
at Hotel California, Hurt ourselves today,
Wonderwalled in an awesome chorus.
Our Hearts of Gold shined forth.
There were Storms and Natural Beauty
and a Bridge Over everything at all times.
One of us also tried to woo and steal away
La Mano of a newlywed bride…
we sang about our situation!