history invents the art of crying
writing its darkness manifesto
when the tear is hidden
the path follows a forced destiny.
what is there, to be found inside ourselves
something is looking at us
tribulations of mirage, the hazard of necessity
the word, the gun, the bone -
the threads of the revelation of time
sometimes history flows backwards
and my skull hurts like a broken umbrella
we taste the past, an obsessive memory
future, this Terra incognita, casts a muddy light
what is there to be found in the history of bones?

There, in the
tide pool, dappled by
the sun is birth and death,
and the spark that continues.
It leaves mankind in the wake of regret.
What have I to do with the albatross
Or sea lion?
I can but write, while they fly and roar.
I gaze upon the Pacific from this rock,
all its mysteries and grandeur.
I am inferior, while it forever reigns with
every wave and break of light.

We usually say
"step into the light"
when there's
nothing but night
But do we say
"step into the night"
when the light
is so bright
that it not only blinds
but burns out our eyes?

When extremist's
play their games
to blind our
sensitive eyes
it doesn't matter
if they're using
darkness or light

It's all the same
if you're snowblind
or just left alone
in the dark
Whether it's
viral or bacterial
it's still an infection

Feeling our way
in the heavy black air
too thick to breathe
Fumbling around
in the light gray air
too thin to breathe

Caught in the loop of
groping the walls of our
minds in twilight
Struggling to refocus
in moonlight
Then so exhausted
by daybreak
that we sleep it all off
until dusk

Too much darkness
Too much light
Too much cold
Too much heat
Too much pleasure
Too much pain
Too much sunshine
Too much rain
You can have too little
or too much of anything.