I lose one sock every other washing.
The wisdom of the washer and dryer
says that God is stockpiling the lost one
to be reunited with the other in heaven.
Does that mean those with perfectly
mated, never separated pairs, are
doomed to the spin dry of eternal hell?
But then, it’s Smart of God, not letting me
hop around on one foot in my nakedness.

Socks are greater than love.  
They remind us that things
lost will eventually be found,
show the foolishness of looking
back to see what’s coming.
They are reminders that
rain is the reason clotheslines
have disappeared.

I’ve got years of feeling empy and
I’ve got friends buried in the ground-
If these feelings last forever,
Can you please not let me down?

They say that scale can break the laws of science
A crime so high in magnitude
Yet they cannot police
This bully that reality turns out to be

We met by means of tunneling improbabilities
The kiss of a miracle
Punishing the God complex
Of the self-righteous
Because the real laws, unknowable,
Dwell in realms higher than dogmatic notion
Whose knowledge is the surface of an ocean

Hence judgement cannot be
Wrought by the swimmers
And their fear of mortality
That guides them through the waves
And so their laws are the transgression

And We
Are the justice of the storm

it'll take some time until
we'll find each other you
know?

i love you already.
want to be there for you and
to fill you with our dreams, baby.

There is the core  of who it is that you are,
inside of you
and  it  will  never,  ever leave you.
When we are hurt real bad..  
and in such unjust ways,
we can sometimes  lose ourselves,
from ourselves..

But that part of us
will never not want to be found.

We become afraid--
even of our own  true selves,  
because the pain from the hurt
has been so bad.
There is a central part of you
that has been protected  from
every single bit of that harm--
that is the core of who it is that you are.

In its utter and magnificent beauty,
it is wholly unable to be  corrupted  
by this less than loving world;

And in it's perfect ability to see,
it will always  let you be the one,
chosen,  to find it.

This is the picture,  painted
of you,  finding you.

looked for you
for 21 years,
wondered
what you were
up to when some
nights felt lonely,
saw you in
every person
I came across
everyday,
thought about
your existence
way too many times,
and many times
more I taught
myself not to,
and here you are,
a call away,
your touch;
a hug away,
your presence;
a heart beat away.

Webs of star dust enwrap the weary and the subdued,
of those that have lost hope or wish they had some to look forward to,
of those stumbling over the earth’s obstacles in vain for want of something inhumanely impossibly to attain that which has long been forgotten to weave by human hands for it has grasped the more stolid and sultry materialism as its ultimate pleasure,
and of the many more devoid of Lady Luck’s bounties upon thee for there are many unfortunates I can ponder of and which I am helpless in fathoming their confusion.

What of them? Despite the comfort of radiance, they forget the meaning of that flickering light in their horizon,
to understand, truly,
what it means to be human, to feel
it has been lost,
even if that fine web may suffocate them,
only the peril of finite existence can truly grapple their soul in totality.

Ardour and bliss of consuming visually Nature’s bounties have long since been reduced to decorous eloquence,
the wondrous night skies with its constellations mapping infinities of destines;
of the earth and her planes stretching endlessly as carpets of green,
powdery gold of the sand shifting in its own mixing bowl
and of the roaring oceans that drown the screams of the lands in its calm,
none whatsoever can save a desolate soul least they may themselves see a part of them in the silent life that beats and screams around them.

They’re a fog of confusion, a conglomeration of unnamed thoughts and ideas that warrant recognition and are hopelessly left unknown,
wandering in their haze of misery and curiosity,
without any thought perhaps it isn’t wandering that might be salvation
but merely stillness for it may truly make their ears hone into the song of the world that sings endlessly to its beloved creatures to renew their vigor for a new dawn on its face,
to have the orbs glimpse the dynamic multitudes of the earth and whatever it encompasses perhaps to have one find themselves in the constitutions that breathe and throb around them,
oh what would they not do to see and hear? But they’re hopeless, downcast and disparaging,
for they’ve been blinded by the whispers of masked crusaders plotting their demise
with the ploy proving victorious by every second
unless they deem themselves capable of strangling the ropes of deceit that bind them in their despair,
Only and only then,
can the life around them aid in salvaging them.

For some God comes in silence
and for others it’s a saxophone solo.

He’s the confession a lonely parish priest
has waited all day to see and hear

after lattice hours of watching
smoke blow down
like Cain’s rejected offering.

Every soul has two Popes,
both living in God
but are not of it.

One preserves the past,
the other walks hope’s path.