knock, knock, knock*

I open my door
and am immediately
greeted by
three 19 year old elders.

They want to talk to me
about Jesus and
their version of
a sacred text and I want
to talk to them about: God,
Philosophy, Religion,
Art, Music, etc.

but I just put a greasy
pan on med-high
heat to cook some
bacon and it's
filling my apartment
with smoke.

Yet, my curiosity of
these creatures at
my door temporarily
supersedes kitchen
safety protocols,
so I start to oblige
them and even
entertain some light
discourse in the
hallway.

I begin to explain my
perspective when
my attention skips back
to the pan
and the hot metal
smell tickling my nose.

-protocols back in place-
I decline their invitation
to visit their temple, now
or any time in the
future, then shake
their hands.

I accept a pamphlet
from the last one,
"The Plan of Salvation",
after he scribbles a
phone number on
the back.

I wish them luck
and close my door
without locking it,
stride over to the skillet
and take it off
the burner.

Good thing I removed
the batteries from
all the smoke
detectors.

It doesn't matter anymore
It doesn't pull at him
It doesn't flatten him
It doesn't even warm his skin just below the surface

He remembers betting the farm
again and
losing
again

He remembers conjuring her image
with another inside her

intense passion
blind lust
temporary bliss
braided into
one
          juxtaposed
by his familiar
personal hell furnished
with a front row
seat to her
exploration of hedonism

ironically, he is busy
exploring asceticism - although
it is with vague
volition, as in
he does not set
an intention thus,
but finds that
his being naturally
collects there
sometimes

Love as an
intoxicant
Love as
ignorance
Love as
withdrawal

In the wake
of attachment
his ribcage breaks
open like grand
french doors into
which the entire
sea pours

The weight of all
that water
on his heart
showing him
the way

I remember you.

Head down, trudging onward.
What nobility is there
if you never stop the momentum?
Blindly following dogma.
Hold it up to the light.
Weigh it against your heart.
Can it carry you to paradise?
Does it need your protection?
Has it atrophied your voice?
Tonight,
scale the walls of your city.
Look to the forest.
Follow the red wolf into the night.
Many eyes will you see in that darkness,
many voices will you hear - it
matters not, you must do this.
Reach the broken bell,
shatter your reflections.
Smelt the ore you find there;
refine it.

In the stillness of the forge
every spark is a star.
I wish for you to find this place.
You will need it for every new
form you take.

I remember you.

She steps outside of what
I could fathom.  A soft
recollection of nothingwoman, a
spectre splitting me like firewood.

In time all my memories
will burn me out leaving
behind what I always was without the fuel
-some sort of holding pattern
for whatever courses through
the circuit; molting matter
in continuous expression of itself.

I am immanence incarnate.

What came forth
     but this,
successful in a
     solitude not
yet understood.  In
     a way he
lays, afraid of
     too many ways
to lay waste
     to his wasteland.

-such a cryptic oversight.

Now, at night
when the pennies
drop his pockets
fill.

"what a terrible thing to waste!", they say

"all in good time."

"one foot in front of the other."

"if it's meant to be, it's meant to be."

Oblivion comes with a smile
and a promise.

There's nothing more
true than letting
go.  Ironically, there's
nothing to hold
onto anyway.

Flowers blooming in
a wide field
following the Sun's
arc - there is no
zenith, only what
they're after.  Still,
they move with
the wind whether
it's gentle or
violent.  And when
they are uprooted
and torn apart
they do not blame
the wind for they
have done what
they could and still
are.  Even in pieces,
with ripped petals and
broken stems, they
know how to give.

Now hanging on to
something almost
completely fabricated
in my mind

I'm over you
     -I'm not over you
I don't miss you
     -I miss you

I have to
laugh at myself
or I will
rot from the inside

That ship has sailed
yet
I know there's
still a place
in me for you

Maybe it will
always be there
and
     in the years to come, it will flourish with flora and verdure
     until
          your absent form no longer stands out

          ...in your emptiness
          there is growth,
          wild growth