beauty is born torn and tired tirelessly turning into itself she unfurls her long and shapely legs like a chain of tibetan prayer-flags waving to the Sun immediately she begins to stage the play that penetrates the heart with strong arms and a silken mane the color of sea-spray her neck is the foam filled ocean and her ******* are coral reefs that protect the polyps that cluster in her unfathomable depths
modern day education is beyond biased and most definitely broken impermanent knots are haphazardly tied to bind the minds of dancing children short-term memory instigates a fleeting vision some call it autism others prefer anarchy a fear of growth or is it really indecision that when you can no longer respond to life's most pertinent questions with anything other than no thank you eventually every syllable uttered becomes the stuttered sound of overly clichéd ambivalence that frequently masks itself as wisdom
despite our higher self's best wishes such limitless awareness our very own bodhichitta slowly becomes an interminable trickster also known as Ego which incessantly repeats
phrases like i’ve earned these blessings i've learned these lessons aeons ago therefore it is best to meditate and inspect one's thoughts on a daily basis before all these shadows have a chance to grow and become funeral wreaths still the ego says oh what fun it is to look at the shimmering shawls strewn haphazardly like wedding veils upon our watery souls as if you and I were a couple of Jackson ******* paintings
to heat the flame inside the limitless space of your soul you cannot deny your heart the swamps, vines, rocks and peaks it seeks for eternity the ancient trees drink light and breathe out the heaviness of splintered sight into the ephemeral night divine breath is calling you home sounding trumpet flowers daily...
gathering falling branches and transforming sticks of palo santo into star-studded candles which permanently leave their ashen and iridescent marks like tattooed scars upon the painted face of the sky
while angels fly with flaming bundles of hair weaving silent smoke signals rising up from warm coals the spiraling eyes of the spirits are alight with the embers of love which impress their radiant etchings upon the daguerreotype of darkness' burning eyeballs
faceless in the heat grief is asleep and dreaming of justice a curse on those who evade their emptiness in culturally appropriated places harboring...
regret like a fugitive such frustration that i wept for the lack of fruitfulness ******* the chords of love slowly and gently she strums her weeping guitar as if arrows and yarn were woven into her arms like baby blankets and bundles of cotton naked and forlorn her hair worn short still she swore that she could not rest until all had sweat their prayers through hollow caverns and windy staircases her vision forever strengthened by a ceaseless determination
balancing multiple lovers is never an ideal situation hearts broken and freedom falling toppling down from heaven’s peak into these dusty old basements just as we suspected everything is resurrected to time’s smiling amazement both old ones and new ones are reflections of truth juniper sours and blooming flowers of golden waterlilies poppies and sprigs of amaranth jaundiced and porous loquacious are the stages that we must pass through on our way to becoming dew drops and frozen apples
remediating all this concrete nonsense would be to our immediate economic advantage these tragic promissory notes where landed lords of wealth have repeatedly replicated themselves upon trillions of meaningless pieces of paper their stoically printed faces should not be readily trusted nor traded or exchanged for life's necessities they are not only useless but truly dangerous as they often claim that they are only passing through yet as each new day dawns they are forever inclined to once again dine with you anew
bold in flesh and sinuous only a moment before the Sun shall bloom and whisper with sleepy eyes into yarrow flavored water the secret of not knowing the ancient face of grandmother Moon speaks through alabaster teeth so intent on biting through sheets of dawn’s iridescent sky that the sounds of her words are instantly drowned out by her tears yet if you listen really closely like an owl to the chorus of the night you can clearly hear the forest echo