The strips of meat sizzle on the pan
as I carve the bread for this meal today. Look
at the eggs: how perfectly cooked they are:
a golden yolk, as if the sun, burning
back the once ash day. Then there’s midnight

that hides under the bed: invited by the sweet
aroma of the coffee swirling in the cup. There’s always
that tease, playing with your nostrils for you
to get up to say “Good morning.” It’s never likely

about the day per se. But about that selfish
act in which gluttony lures you to your silver
plate, your eyes, focused

on whatever it is that is glowing, like the sun
asked it to glow. I am smiling for

even this warmed my heart. I stared
blankly that I forgot about

the bacon, cooked once to perfection,
but now a black strip to mimic
the electrical tape. It’s bacon. My stomach
will fix it, anyway.

But then the leftovers told me

that this is more than a selfish act. More than
tiresome beginnings to commit the same,
more than feeling the heat of asphalt
on your bear feet. This is about

finding someone, smiling next
to you on the dining table, then

laughing about the midnight
that crawled back to the darkness
beneath the bed. This is for

sharing spaces.

I am the puzzle
that is always missing a piece
People try and attempt to solve me
If I'm lucky, I get someone for the real deal
but here's the thing,
as they're about to finish the puzzle
get a look of the actual picture

...another piece goes missing.

Yesterday I was born
and Today I assume I know all.
With Tomorrow will never come my downfall,
for Today is perpetual.

Of course, I am facetious;
under-exaggerating and over-exaggerating,
but I do so for a reason.
Call it satire for the Ego:

I claim not to understand,
I only claim to seek understanding
(futile as it may be)
Sometimes my questions are statements,
but more often it's the opposite.

I do not seek to ask of you these questions,
I seek that you ask them of yourself
and to realize that no answer is more true
than the ones created by you.
(subject to a few things, of course.)
(if only it were that simple)

Anyone who says that the mystery is known
is ignorant of their own ignorance
and is probably a being of Ego
disconnected from Ethos.

This life of mystery is beautiful and temporary.
Cling not to it, nor any thing within it
for it all shall be torn apart
by a force much greater than you.

Simply enjoy the show
while you're still in it.

Dwell within the cosmic energies
and dance within your self
and seek to better get to know
who you truly are.

You cannot know everything
in fact I doubt very much
if one can truly know anything,
or if knowledge is relative
to the relative flash of one's life.

There are, however, intelligible patterns
but they too may be in transit
in such a slow way that we cannot perceive it
in the few seconds we are alive.

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

I heard a cry in the night,
A thousand miles it came,
Sharp as a flash of light,
My name, my name!

It was your voice I heard,
You waked and loved me so—
I send you back this word,
I know, I know!

SOMETIMES a child's voice crying on the street
Comes winging like an arrow through the wind
To pierce my breast with you, my baby, and
My pen is weak, and all my thinking dreams
Are mist of yearning for the touch of you.