Chaos is an empty room
with everything having a sneaking semblance of shape
you could reduce it all to a notion
that begs everything to form
I wish we had gotten god right
people want to agree on goodness
so much they become less than ideal
I am less
and less
real
every time I speak
because it's impossible for you to know what inspired
my meaning
in goodness that can be agreed upon
only when made whole
in form
and substance
like dreams
where the doing is also the goal
Heaven and Hell have only
made appearances in our neck of the cosmic wood
still, we invent axes to keep ourselves warm
and hold to both paradise and perdition
existing elsewhere

When there is nothing else to get behind
you can always shadow yourself
people tend to do the opposite
getting ahead
or was it letting go
the genuine wild bewilderment
of not being sure of which it is
to some tired existentialist
who says life is subjective
but wont tell you his reasons to live
that he lost in the pocket of a moment
that's got this hole in it
see, this is the way
he's lost so much change
scraping memories away
like quarters for ***** laundry
like toenail clippings after walking up and down Pirsig's mountain
who made right now
sustain the future like some ever-present purpose
amidst a world where going the against the grain
means your going in reverse
in this narrow street
that we've made of reality
by putting all your weight
behind one of two directions

At root,
isn't the aesthetic of symmetry
reason enough to come clean with beauty
who's righteousness is in her allure
The one thing hedons like me
can agree
exists
Of that I am guilty
beyond doubt
beyond reason, where there is seldom just one
beyond justice, where I can do beauty none
at the center
without any edges
where you may hear it calling
right now

The fluid ease of which one becomes
Always is
Never eternal
It will transform
The moment after
What you are
Becomes what you do
Temporal guests
Moving through
A house of falling leaves
Uniform in fate
Stillness in doing
Feelings there aren't words for
Directions there isn't space for
Syntax in the procession of time
and the world speaks of complexity
in countless ways
articulating every syllable
with the acute sharpness
of an atomic clock
right on the beat
for a song
of

Tempting wishes piling under
a steaming white bath towel
hot wet pure
smothering a body
that's stretched into
an Escher tessellation
melting the ground you walk upon
to wax
and you sink
into deep breaths
demons dissolved
in the exhalation

Full power
                                                           ­    straight ahead        
                           flicker wild

                                                           ­                                    like fire
                                                      churn mass
                                                            ­                                                                 ­ like water.
                                                          ­               An infinite upstroke
                         at the speed

    of joy                                           hush                 hush          no time

                      for talk.

When wearing moments like clothes,

which Pavlov’s ***** would suggest is a moment’s cost,

it’s hard to imagine what it means to be naked

if all you can do is remember.

In the rare occasions that I forgot,

I find myself bare bodied with a thought;

if all is fair in love and war

then all is fair and why talk?

There are some differences in the shades

between what one calls reality

and another calls god.

Both wrapped in the tattered garments of their lives

stitched together with words defined by their cause.

Hedons liken to sound.
The hungry cadences wielding that satisfying resolution.
The resolution we seek in between memories
and the spirit of the staircase.
Are we intricate bodies
or are we intricate worlds,
full of all you have ever known.
What is that sound?
I may be defined by my actions
but my actions are defined entanglement.
Some soft note
huddled under a hard and heavy chord.
Then victory comes in the 42nd measure
and is defeated in the next.

All of us can make noise
but nobody can be heard.

Even the altruist is selfish to an ideal,
I want then only to make music.