A little bit of reality and a little bit of chimera,
I'm sitting at the table of silence, lonely in this era.
My eyes are fixed on the ceiling like some projectors
towards sweet memories, listening some lectures.

It's a little bit early and it's a little bit late.
About yesterday or about tomorrow should I say?
Anyway, I'm not anything I seemed to be,
I'm not a brave Cupid of hearts that sets you free.

I feel a little bit cold and I feel a little bit warm,
like after the wine that makes everything have a form
which catches fire quickly both in love and anger,
motivated by infinite agony, searching for an answer.

Is that a little bit important, or is it a little bit trivial?
As a sparkle, a living heart of a strange ritual,
in which it seems for her of love to be unworthy,
then she looked in the mirror and learned about mercy.

My words have a little bit of sun and a little bit of storm.
Even if they're telling the ugly truth that wants to inform
that I want to hear enchanted songs of the waves again
but then I think, is my soul lying to me? It's going to drain?

The soul separates all and puts everything together,
even if it's a healed heart, or light as a feather.
Makes a little bit of damage, then something useful,
if it was sad sometimes, it was always truthful.

Doesn't matter if it's on Mondays or Sundays,
we all are an amalgam of tears and smiles in this maze.
Smiles that are hiding, then show up again and again
sometimes as a rough illusion that drives you insane.

Yes, it's a little bit absurd, but it's a little bit ordinary.
Not everything in this world is a cake with a cherry.
We all have inside a little bit of love, a little bit of hate,
as tough as it is, we accept that this is our fate.

The end of the holiday's are near and it's time for me to get back to work. I've been writing and reading and thinking and meditating for years. Preparing the temple, so to speak. My stories are public and private goods and the presentation and profits of these stories must be landed in a good and truthful way ~ I've spent much time and energy on how to do this in a way where I can maintain certain intensities and integrity. Intensity for distillation of truth and integrity for power and resonance.

Stories are just stories but it is the ***** when someone else co-opts your creation and paves over the nuances and complexities of that which you had overtly placed your personal power, thought, and energy into.

You might be reading this and all you are seeing is: *******, *******, *******, *******.  All ******* for as far as the eye can see. Fair enough, I've been thinking the same for years but just when I thought I was out, the ******* keeps pulling me back in. As far as I can see though, **** is the distillation of truth and I hope that I can spin this yarn into a web that you will see the ******* structure that holds up the ******* truth and maybe we can try and digest that and compost it and churn through it then grow a mushroom on top of it and then eat the mushroom so we can attempt to find the spiritual truth of what our ******* structure lies upon. This particular idea is not just some floaty meandering abstraction, it is a truth I saw on the land: Longview, Alberta. And this truth was emodied in the ghost I slept in, nearby in Indian Graves Campground that night.

The land speaks if we let it; if we have prepared our temples, maybe the land speaks truth.

You feel me. If you don't then that's ok. It isn't your time and maybe never will be for this iteration of instinct that I am presenting. My rhymes aren't meant to resonate with everyone all the time. I'm not writing pablum or soul food. Feed your own soul in your own way. That's between you and Mr. Potter and the Chairman. Our truths are our truths and they are absolute.

The reason that I know I am prepared to write this story now is because I have done the work. I have found my inner compass and tested it time and again. While in process and flow, the landscaping shifted and my truth's fell away and the absolute revealed itself one star at a time and isn't it ironic how in tune our bards are with the ... wait for it ... enigmatic.

So where am I going to land this access point to the White Buffalo medication? I am not. The medicine already flows and always has, I just woke up and took what was prescribed because a dude in shorts once told me: abide!

You're my quark who stride back and forth
to expect some gains from the proton of progress
and,
neutron of ignorance.
Then when you progress towards a great deal of ignorance,
you slowly gather yourself up,
to create a minute a hadron of deep insight,
powered by a glory of gluon!