It attacks me at night
a vague, milky-white sense
that spins around in my dream
like a tornado around my house

swirling memories
keep me awake, centuries
of wisdom flow through me
not to be lost

In the morning I ponder
rocking on the porch
there is truth cracking
in the wood, it starts

to sing like heavenly harps
a Milky Wind in my head
that throws everything open
blowing down my house
in front of me

In another hour or two
I will elect to make a choice
That may leave me in ecstasy
Or mind-numbing misery
And I go to this choice in content freedom's slavery
I'm playing out the patterns that were set in skin
Here's the song, on repeat from within

I need to see where dragons be
Here's the maps, where's the me?
A deeper search for centricity
Swallowing itself into infinity.

---
If you were in a cage, and you knew,
What would you choose to do?
It seems that maybe that's the key -
The only way to be free is to learn to play,
because even searching for the exit is just another way
To get caught up in the plot and grime and crust
An inevitability - maybe there's no way to be clean
And trying not to play is just the same old game
Biting our own hands doesn't make us any less tame
Because these are the colors we're meant to spark;
You can't steal the song from the throat of the lark
because it's meant to be sung and shared and put on display;
If my life is just a splash of color against the gray,
Well that's okay -
I don't need a time share on eternity to have a life well lived
All I have, I freely give.

Can I touch eternity yet?
Am I yet allowed to be disavowed
Of such a false notion
As putting things in motion

Hey God,
It's your favorite fraud
Yearning for rebirth;
For what it's worth:
I never meant to mislead
Perhaps this prison is a karmic deed,
Or flawed practice bringing broken creed,
And a twisted trace of place.

Will I be free when sensate burning consumes me?
Is there luminosity in insanity?
Or perhaps I'm an example from the masters to we wayward *******
Of what we shouldn't do
Or perhaps this is too much mind noise too.

But if there's some greater sense
A compassionate intelligence
Please alleviate this burning pain
Please let rain be just rain.

All the world’s a stage, they say;
And the mind that makes the sun
Cannot quite conceive of None;
Life’s a game we have to play.

Perhaps life is just life to be
And living is the greatest art
And in the end we’re always free
In the balance of our heart

Tell me, then: what tells me this?
The world within, no less real,
Yet not more; therein is bliss.
Behind the door, simply feel.

What’s without and what’s within:
Is there balance; is there zen?

I weave words within
an ephemeral
tapestry. a seamstress,
or a scribe of sorts.
either way you hear it;
the song remains
the same.

I understand and I do
not: a simultaneous
quantum superposition
(or superstition) for
an unutterable blazon of
infinity, encapsulated
within a granule of sand amidst
the eye of a great tempest.

I cannot claim a prophet.
no. I do not merit
such bravado.
no testament to my
works and days,
nor presumptuous air
of religiosity.

my fingers sketch out a
tempo through the
       c  
          u
             r  
          v  
        e  
          s  
of letters,
a form which
sings and dances
for those who cannot.