Who knows how it will end…
Or if we will begin
All over again?
Whether in shattering sound
Or a silence within ---
The soul’s secret whisper,
Or lips close to the skin?

But change will come.
(Changesendandbeginagain!)

Change:
While kneeling, standing or running;
Change while singing, dancing, or loving!  
Whether at the start
Of something shiny new or
To end in a fearful, cataclysmic coup,
We will see it through.

We may be
All poured out,
Reduced and
Dissolved
Into a pristine and naked
Newness.  
We may not recognize the path and
We may fall,
Fetal (not fatal), to the ground.
Tears may flow, hot and wet,
And, as babies will,
We make a sound -- a loud cry
That flies when it hurts
And when we are alone.
Arms outstretched
In perpetual longing;
The space between
Is eternity…
And our cry reaches
Just as far.  

But there will come
A second breath,
Leaping from the depth of being.
Reflexive reaction in shock
Of sheer brightness
In seeing –
Brilliant vision, clear and wide,
A jewel revealed deep inside.
A light shared between us and all,
A blinding fulmination as lightning fall!

From season to season and year to year;
From rugged courage to raging fear.
From small town boy to worldly man --
From joy to sadness and then….

To know why without knowing how.
To advance without knowing where!
To see, unblinking, in a glooming midst,
While light and sound explode around us,
Still….a preternatural daring is expressed.

For one way may suddenly be closed,
Yet another swings open, as if
From binary pre-design.
We need only turn from the wall we see  
To walk through the way we find.

You will enter a new field of experience.  
You will reach beyond any
Hope of control -- to just
Accept and respond.

This is why!
This is how!
This is new
And this is you.
You are…

Change.

physical flesh
of minds electric
exhale purple images
upon galaxy screens  
silky neuron fabric
weaved with dreams
tie memories
to feeling

Aurora, it needs a break.
After years of sailing, it could no longer fake.

Ardour could only go so far,
antithetical to talent and holding
ace.

All encouraged in good grace,
Almost there. They prevaricate, clearly did not
anticipate.

A few had a slice of the honest cake, un-
aware of how they caused an
ache.

'Aye! What absurd thoughts, mate.'
Annoyed by the voice inside create,
as the pirate couldn't tell.
A message from garden or well,
are solid facts or silly doubts?

Aquivering, he supined on deck.
Anxious, desperately he seeks for his
answer. Impatiently he awaits for his
anchor.

To answer your question from earlier with a newfound clarity, we're over. I've been ready to let go, but unable to budge an answer from the woman of such few words. Well, tonight she dropped me, and it's official. She punched my sheet and gave it back for the last time, passing me back into the world without a hurtful word like I'd been her best employee.

What's it going to be like now, as the human slingshot? All the emotions long left to the side return to the hole the skeleton of our dull relationship dug from the dense pulp of my longing body. I'll be a bullet, the smallest pebble, toward a target picked at random.

That's what's called a faulty firing pattern. For all I've tried, the SSRI won't fix my inability to grasp the practice of foresight, so for once I'll have to really think about putting my foot in the door. A road like that leads to nothing but the worst I have to offer, and the worst the world finds it can give in return.

I want to love, but I don't want to date. What is dating? I feel too old, and if you tell me I'm not old by any standard, then I feel like I missed something. I want to love, but I want to do. As I do, I want to meet. And if I never, then that's fine. But I'd rather meet and make the silent hard sell in a moment of the truest definition of fiery, urgent complacency, than pick through peers and lovers like I'm at a thrift store bin.

What I want, is to do what I want, and do what I know I shouldn't do, while sometimes pretending it's this great disaster that I report in writing, type into boxes on screens that lead directly to the people most likely to benefit from hearing about repeated and semi-purposeful crash and burns.

My perpetual hope is that I'll catch lust's throbbing hand so well wrapped around my throat that I'll simply die. That I'll choke and choke until you, whoever you are, break the bones away and choke my lungs with blood. I hope for the spastic gasps that you'll confuse for last breaths, when I'm actually having an ******.

If you don't know how to give love to your child, don't be a mum.

If you don't know how to support your child emotionally, don't be a mum.

If you don't know how to show empathy, don't be a mum.

If you don't know how to point your child in the right direction, don't be a mum.

If you don't know how to be a mum, don't be a mum.

You rearrange the constellations
Of my compass
With the grace of an orchestra
With the majesty of symphony
Yet you keep my central star intact
The spine of the cellular staircase
You shine the way
Two steps at a time
Not leading; keeping company
On a voyage in the dark
Beneath the sails of night

There are circles around my eyes that I trace
in dark streets, trying to find
my way home. A mind of clogged dust
settles on my shoulders, stagnant
and old. My hands are blue and heavy, slow
with ice. Hair hangs, sodden,
thick with burden.
My skin is rotting.
The sun winds around my body,
spinning me, dizzying me,
making me lose my way
as compass needles
stitch their tracks into the earth,
lines of misguidance
taking me absolutely
nowhere.