After living a life in praise of sessioning
I'm left with an amalgamation of memories,
A blur of nights had and days that merge into
one; and I wonder whether I cradle that memory
too deeply, isn't it what I am‽
I remember thinking its infinity
so long ago, tripping into eternity,
Feeling a moment engulf the universe
in knowing I am free to remember this
anytime, anywhere. I worry about
whether a life spent sessioning
is for me, if these memories
aren't beyond me, and if
this questioning only
makes the present
burn as slowly.
Can anybody see the past within me‽
Cyan is the new white, and this prison
is finally comfortable. At last, I smell that stone ichor
as the rain brings it home; left memory, right alone.

A month ago I put down the keyboard
and after a week I picked up the pen. I had to write

to spite my worries that

knowledge had become cheap; wisdom, scarce; and
truth, a fool's errand. Cynical words
from a man trying to let go
that sardonicism and
embrace his vulnerabilities.
Will the courage to let the verse
flow from the human, onto the page
where it may be subject to another human's saccades.

That summer glow is on the horizon
and in the humid night air
I'm here trying
to learn to speak, not to spit
verses
but to utter truths. Trying to
find my voice without losing myself.
So here's what went down between me and
myself as we looked upon the town.

I spoke into the glimmer of its lights
and told it my deepest fears
and most tenuous hopes
and I let my feelings
flow forth as my voice
made quiet my mind.
I uttered a few words as
if they might make a man
realise who I am, and I had a moment
or two before I asked myself what'd become of my time.
I saw myself sitting in a room, all day
for many months, years,
A lifetime,

And thought to myself what a waste
and wished my voice was clear, confident, lucid
and longed for the authenticity and courage I'd stifled
and wanted my mind to be together, smooth, whole
and begged for the strength to make it through the months
and remembered those aimless summers past, lethargy
and apathy with a sentiment that almost bordered on fondness
and wondered at that trick: how wrong it is
to be wistful when memory is so selective.
Better to look to the future
with sincere notions of adventure
and convictions on how to regain one's
soul;

The knot in my stomach
tightens, this awareness
will fade if I do not take
care of myself. I can't live
like this, mind seeks to cut
itself off from my body and

its emotion.
We are two; mind
and body, man and woman,
Darkness and light. I am one; a human
on her journey, trying hard to remember his old

life. Forgotten hopes of learning
meditation, yoga, and tantra
as a means to better my health.
What wishful dreaming, a notion
of adventure, looking back it seems
like momentary longing was satisfied
in its instance of being.
I remember

the existential amazement of a child
and the loss of that is haunting me.
I also remember a willingness to
play the villain and I wonder
whether a carefree attitude
is the thing I'm missing.

I think often about the
Inheritance Of Loss
and of innocence.

I thought I was ready
to find someone and relate
to them, that I was ready to rejoin

What things I've written
over the years, I wonder
what will they remember,
What image will be left for
those I leave behind? A few
weeks ago I had an intense
realisation. What would I do
if I were terminal?
I'm still wasting time trying to
come to terms with my question
and to find some strength from it.
I remembered to breathe today
(so often I forget). I had a couple tokes
and got a little ****** but I don't miss it
as much as I thought (though I miss the times
and the humility of tripping). I avoid work like
an expert, lapping up the sun while it shines and
buying synthesizers; I did just finish
8 months of therapy.

Another realisation, or rather
the application of knowledge
I already possessed, a cause is
merely something we construct.
Supposing how and deriving why
are a useful set of fictions to abide by
yet they cease to serve when I assume
it's my fault and I should be able to make
a change or difference.
I persecute and victimise, recuse myself from
my own life, wondering whatever could rescue
the person I was
as a child.

A long summer's dusk
yawned
as if this side of the earth
were tired
of day and wished to usher
in the quiet of night. I found
myself sitting on a stone bench
overlooking the river, cathedral
and town as magnanimous indigo
stretched so spritely to ripple across
the sky and corral the light so that the
stars could guide me home.
Something shone
so I asked, where have all my people gone?

I feel like a sheep in wolves' clothing.
Afraid, angry, hungry, but more than
anything
I am lonely.