im back :0

-


oh, considerate
counselors~

i fear the scars of your instruction
will never erode, even after i
melt down your mental
tarbabies
with a solution
that i hope will make
them chemically dissolve away,

leaving nothing but your staples.

what was it really ?
hyperactivity, autism,
anomalies of perception,
social detachment,
maybe—

a Gift ?

well, i guess it would not have
made a difference, everybody
knew of this but
                                  me-

patching up my gray matter mistakes
with remedies permanently cemented
between impressionable foldings

i feel this cure like masonry damming
where free-flowing thoughts that ride
upon streams into oceans were supposed
to have discharged naturally,

stopping me from causing my
summers to mix with everybody
else's winters (or vise versa).

you see, my natural configuration
would have sated for me what
would —in turn— infuriate others,

thus the picket around me was built
sufficiently lofty so i would never
grow tall enough to oversee it.

these days i often mistaken this perimeter
for bricks that line the inside of a well,
complete with a leaky bucket
swinging overhead,
beyond my
reach—

of all things an adult child could ever
want for Christmas, the removal of
what now prohibits true potential

these things they instilled into me
so i could not violate the principals
of conventional wisdom in their day—

but this is
My Day
now !

and dead counselors need
not protect their world
from Me anymore !

and this Gift ?

it continues drifting
conspicuously aloft
in my gray ocean—

a Divine Gratuity that remains
—to this day— unsuitable
for redemption...


s jones
© 2020


.

Mourning

Mourning is an eerie thing,
Not always tied to death.
It may celebrate or sing,
May widen eyes or lighten breath,
May bring unexpected things.

Sometimes it is a wayward thief,
That steals among the tombs;
It can alter feelings, and twist beliefs,
Searching for less bitter rooms,
Yet it brings a strange relief.

The heart may not know it,
Nor the mind accept it,
But it may be for the best.
As it guides the sorrowful away from grief,
To a long and healing rest.

The universe of numbers
The pi into members
The function of it's description
The life of its subscriptions
Humans into description
Mathematics of its prescriptions
The  Fibonacci sequences
The Life of synchronistic events
Consciousness like numbers
The frequencies of wonders
The magnetism of things
The birds that flows that sings
The school of fishes
The prizes of unlimited wishes
The pendulum that swings
Manifestation from the seedlings
Morphogenesis like wings
The labels that defines all things
The focus that springs
The landscape of the kings
The chess pieces thats wins
The spaces that goes within
The melody that rings
The slides of reality
The holograms of spirituality
The things of causality
Permutation into reality
Numbers of immortality
The dimensionality
The cosmic cloud of strings
The one with spelling and blessings
The numbers of offsprings
The creation of all workings
The grate awakening
The followings
The magick of
the encodings

Positive affirmations of words shared with each other
Mathematics and ideas built together
Compassion of hope and love of thoughts merge like a compresser on a hot weather
Tears of joy flow like a river
The inspiration of wellness of a bird with a white feather
The honey that spins with all of this that becomes a treasurer
The tree that protects and holds everything together
The red bird sightings altogether
The two pillars to be remember
The squared manifestation that is measured

today I want
to be micro

I want my world
to be a drop

on your skin

sweat
rain
shower
tear

and when
my world

disappears
I dissolve

into you
create a

new compound

Huddled in a corner
Knees pulled up to his chest
Head bowed upon his knees
He crys

Night after night
Day after day
His parents fight
No one is physically hurt
But all the yelling
Drives him mad

As his parents yell at each other
In another room
Tears roll down his face

He wants to run away
He wants to hide
Leave all fighting behind
.

There are good days
Teese help him hold on
But few and far between they come

He'll sob
He'll cry
As his parents fight
Day after day
Night after night

Open fields
just look out on the open fields
What else do you need

The swirling butterflies
in autumn begin to disappear
but they will come again
with the whirl of spring

Look out calmly upon open fields
each direction speaks of endlessness
takes the tongue of spirit and soothes


opportunity is here , healing is here
in this open field you meet yourself