the forming of substance
Stephan W
(stepped out to get some air, and never came back..)


It presses its face
against the inside of the glass-like globe,
It is vaporous, unformed; globule. It can
experience the moment.. but, formless--
it is unable to hold onto the knowledge
of that experience.
It is  k n o wn  by Glory-- referred to as; being
~
There is laughter in the newborn baby's sleep..
dreams- present-moment flashes--
of funnyface smears, left there-
on the outside of the globe by the angels;
Left only to a startled jump, and then tears--
the initial shock.. the aloneness of being born-
into the imperfect world of potentiality,
and into the new and as of yet unfamiliar feeling
of unmet needs.
The glass encased Perfection gives way into
the only true access into love--
found only in the movement towards volition,
as the crystalline-like glass
that once encased the spirit
is now traded for skin.
And so that which once experienced Glory
from within the protection of the glass sphere
now enters into the world of participation--
first, though- as an infant..
wholly dependent on those
who (hopefully) will give
who will nurture.
~ ~
Perfection gives way to incompleteness
made perfect again only through love--
Touch brings love right up to to the skin,
baby takes it in.. unconditionally,
yet, in a way
still pre- volitional-ly--
It is outside the globe, now-
and spirit is participating in its own needs;
the little baby cries.. no longer 'complete'
and protected within the sphere
Now wholly dependent on love and care-
from the outside.. taken in, solely
through the repetition of warmth
and the primal longing for its own gift--
that of volition.

Yes..
a small baby has now become
a little higher than the angels.

M Vogel
(et inpaenitens boheme, infidele)

When your worst horrors have come to pass
     and you did not die
and sleep  is actually a comfort,  
instead of a curse
Because dream-themes are no longer hauntings
but  instead,  flow in and out of consciousness
as random acts of grace
And the death that should be coming

becomes, instead
a replenishment of living cells--
a surprisingly-unexpected regeneration,  
this bracing for a Fall that never comes.

Winter is coming,

and this death, has a warmth
that will carry me through
And though the ground will be frozen soon,
there will be no death this year
above the frost line

But below,  in what is still warm
there will be a death,  that brings life--
encased in fear, yet floating within the midst
of a subterranean stream..  an ocean, of peace

Winter's chill is coming;  
there is a strange feeling in me
that tells me, I am ready.

A funny thing about forever..
--it never, ever ends..

and so   neither will we.

The spirit is free from
all of this-- it will  always
remain lit..

only the flesh goes dark  
as we  leave  its earth-laden husk, behind..

But the core-heart of Love's true ache  will always,
always Remain.

A skyrocket across the horizons,
she is carrying her pain with her
everywhere she goes..

but my beautiful is owning it
and therefore, suffering  into the real..
into true substance, formed.

Within the realms,  
the entities know this--
those hellbent on harm,  they shudder
while those for the good

oh, how they celebrate.

Sweet Jane us truly kickin'
as the Clock of Love, keeps tickin'--
tapping out its sweet message
in quarter tones, so pure.

The swing of this little wild-one
throughout the whole universe
will bear the most meaningful,
of weight..

The beautiful girl, really  c a n  hit--

     oh man,  
     that is for sure.

~M Vogel
asleep  at the wheel

A smoothe sail, set
a body of water, deep
brings about the greatest need
for trust

And who are you to me
as we float?
And I, to myself  whether under full sail
or land-locked,
the waves.. as they roll, will not scuttle
whether  within a depth, beyond fathom
or a curbside built dam, a child-made puddle

there is nothing that can pull, down
but the weight  of my own, bitter keel
and there's nothing in the ocean, lower
than the way, my own actions
can so often,  make me feel
In this ocean, floating
there is a world of un-doing

                            and re doing

The water, being a conduit
pulling from me, nautical miles
of the, unforgiven--
an ocean of changing emotions
under late-evening skies of sometimes, torrent
pulling me deeper into the need   to contain
the containment,  of the need

The dark skies, are where I go
within  the allowance of the need, to become freed
of all  of these obligatory-vestments.
This ocean, so deep--
the one  inside of me

carrying me away  

to a place called, containment.

One fine, postdiluvian day,
God glanced down on Noah and crew,  midfloat..



((ding)) "NOAH.."

                        
                          ­  "Hmm..? what is that?


((ding)) "NOAH.."



                            "Oh, ****.. its the boss.. everyone, ****** chill"



((ding)) "NOAH.."


                               "yes Lord..?"



Noah, now concerning being fruitful and.. uh..  whatever
you know-- lala,  and stuff.."


                                 "Ya..?"


"Ya yourself, Noah.
Hast thou considered the howler monkey..?
That wild-assed little pair going at it up there in the crowsnest
are tantric AF."



                                 "Dude.. you should bless those cute, hairy
                                   little love-machines with the most *******-sounding
                                   lovehowl on the planet.."




****.. I wish I was the one who thought of that..  
    :(

Aw ****,  another apology
for what it is she hasn't done
there's a coat,  wore
a done, done--

one,  never to be undone

And she'll wear it, yet can't share-it
but with something like this
it can't be helped
but, to share it

It is every where.

They say they care
so why in the ****  are you  pulling
out all your hair.
Maybe they just don't care
about anything
but what it is  you'll wear

so they don't have to.