words fail so much of the time
i think, why speak?
when you can be
think i can leave a mark upon the world
what is the name of the one
who painted the hieroglyphs onto the pyramids?
who was his mother?
i walked a thousand and one miles
through swamp, valley and fields of gold
i crawled over mountains
to find a thing i somehow always knew i was
there is something real to this life
Cosby never knew until it was too late
his children learned it better
just be human with me
drop all the clever, snarky wit
leave off overcoats of pretense and PR masks
it’s so last century to think you’re living
when you’re really only hurtling towards death
in the drag of a composite
persona programma
freedom is just through the other side of that false wall
fear not!
you go not alone
we’re all here with you

The point of a flower is not to pick it
and arrange it like so.
The point of a flower
is only to witness it grow
and then die
and grown once again to Be U Ti Ful

Show me the meaning of encounter.
Each person one meets
tries to retell one’s story.
People want to make life their own;
chip it down to a fable or verse.
I sat across the table from ego
trying to convince me I wasn’t real;
to persuade me that I didn’t only just emerge
from the ether of nothing’s existence,
a glossing over in the eyes of the mask
at each utterance of Truth passing these lips.
What is this?
A piece which loathes the reality
of claiming one’s own inheritance.
Sick, psychotic fantasy.
Will you go to an insane person
who holds a degree in the study of the senseless
to help you decide what you are?
You are bound to find trouble.

The mind collects moments
bad ones and weepy ones
moments to spark fires
and ignite engines
moments to roast the heart upon a spit
to watch the ****** sizzling juices of love
drip down and burn off into smoke
the mind is a storehouse
though vast isn’t spacious
its compartments crammed
full to popping
under the strain
of all the moments in time it collects
to make the body recall
and you gawk at the wreckage
in wondrous amazement

moments in bubbles
floating past on repeat
mind digs in the toy chest
throwing up dreams
more moments of nothing
to hold you away from me
two nations at war for my soul
and all three are me
what mind fudgery
and horrific intent
the whole point is you
just you, nothing else
think what that reality means
whatever you like
life isn’t a playbook of rules
some other person can write
real life is lived
and what can that mean?
other than whatever life looks like
when you’re living through me

each time you can’t see the forest in the leaves
the moments you seem to pull back out of me
are only a specter of what isn’t true
only a reminder to remember your Truth
and turn once again to the Self that is real
and is one with the whole of all life that is living
can you gain joy from rehearsing old stories?
of worries and woes and doubtful discoveries
of fake images and faulty dreamscapes
then go on, by all means, let mind keep collecting
and storing away
for some other fake day
you can’t really be living
if you keep letting mind
give you moments to see
instead of real life
living in your True Self
and you truly seeing

God speaks to us in the language of our ancestors
We find truth in the lineage of our hearts,
and a new God is revealed,
from a unique truth
that is God’s expression through you.
Do you think the living God
would play the trickster god
to kneel before humanity’s god of fear?
Say you look like this,
but I look like that?
How could living be
but what you are
and you are always changing.
Living is forever
and forever
is never
the same.
Ever.
Think you know?
Then think two more times.
We know what we have passed aside.
Make way for your redeemer.
A newer version
of the completion
of the promise you made
when you promised
to seek the truth
no matter the cost
or pain.

And when you gaze upon the face,
the one you always knew was there
peering back at you,
Heaven’s gates spring wide
and hell’s fury feasts
on milk and honey saints.
Come now
and reason with me;
for fortunes,
and endings
and the whole **** web.

If you sit in silence
the God of your ancestors
will come to you -
if you want to see.
The living God is there to see
like trains passing on tracks
of inbound & outbound dreams.

I cried out in despair
from the depths
of my human heart
Mother! Mother!
Don’t leave me alone!
Father!
Why have you left me
to rot in the dust?
and then I saw
they were dust
I reached out my hand
to take hold of theirs
and they no longer shrank back in fear
now they only disintegrated into ash
and blew away with the slight breeze
kissing my cheek
I looked and saw
I was not dust
I am not ash