the flesh of words heavy since
we no longer speak the same language
yes is no no is maybe maybe is later
later is tomorrow tomorrow is never
one can only run away from pain only
towards more pain
only the words are sad my heart no longer
a wounded totem
my fingertips have always had their dreamy way
in truth love touches you daily with the most prosaic sway

I can see this only with my imaginary eyes
I can feel it in the vibrant empty spaces inside
how everything is woven together
so that I belong to her to him to them and to you
I belong to my skin I belong to the bones of my hands
I belong to my nails, of course to my heart
what if we are first imaginary beings with concrete joints?
have we forgotten that we belong to the story of the air
water fire, to the story of the earth?

the closer I get to who I am, to the earth of the soul,
to the real depth of blood, the more I cease
for a moment to twist the faces of wind in my mind
so that the world doesn't get hurt
I belong to a window, to this edge
between outside and inside

I belong to the world, oh
how wonderful that
the world belongs to itself

oh, how the world really functions
the most unbearable aliveness, pain
so good to have tears to offer to
the god of patience and enduring
I pray for a gentle pain,
a gentle sway of caring
the courage of dawn

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

By Jalaluddin Rumi

it must have been the sun the wind
the elation of the singing birds
that I fell into a sweet slumber
in no time I was dreaming
the storms in our eyes had met &
the stones got deeper

"Science and art are like arms and heart. So many accidents of meaning, art is in heart, and so is hear, ear, art as a form of heart hearing."
Michael Eigen

I didn't want to open that door
nevertheless life did it for me
residues of this old combustion
pits of rage you're carring
for their perfumed names
humiliation at every corner of the street
suspicion of the sunrise

I remember or maybe I dreamt it
two sons looking for their father
he chose other walls full of zest
holy days were a laughter
indiference for the son rise

how chalenging to be a man hiding vulnerability
there was no one to show you how to
keep the balance of seeing and feeling and forgetting
there was no one to show me my edges
for good Gods to dwell and feast on life unhindered

I am deep into the dark forests of the soul
where everything is hyperreal
me is not me you is not only you
too much is together and the mind just a narrow stream
I am listening to the old cries as if souls are passing through me,
as if I need to understand what the birds are saying to each other

the route to understanding is through this dense unknown
and when I might find it I leave it guarded by the certainty of clouds passing by
so hard to see inside your mind inside your kind inside your bones
aliveness is a killer, the mind has its own temperature
the body already knows everything I have to find the vitally wise language
I feel the natural dance of the opposites, the flight and the fall, I need some other dimensions though to get out the whirlwind
feelings flow like the contour of a distant lighthouse distant fire distant aurora,
the silence of the light a true companion for conversations in the dark