Love, a four-letter whisper, seems weightless on the tongue,
Yet, it bears the heaviest of destinies, a doom I must say,
That all hearts are fated to carry from their very first breath.
Could it be more than a mere doom?
There exists not a solitary soul on this planet who hasn’t woven tales
Of being ruined by the fragile threads of their vulnerable heart.
Then how come we fight to rekindle our spirits within the warmth of love at the close of each day,
When the chilling grip of hatred could so effortlessly take root in the depths of our very souls?
How can love wield such omnipotent power that, even when it tears us apart,
It still remains the sole inscriber of the script of joy and mirth upon the pages of our tragic lives?
For some souls, placing others ahead of them is their sole path to survival,
Isn't it wondrous to contemplate that they are the stars in our night sky,
Guiding us to trust, to love, and to open our hearts anew,
Even after the world has savagely exploited our innocence?
Love may inflict pain, a feeling of betrayal, and the searing fires of heartache.
But it’s a privilege to be the epitome of strength, to navigate tempestuous waters
And reach the shores of life again, without succumbing to the depths of drowning despair.
'Tis the most exquisite art, to bear this shard of resilience within our fragile yet whole hearts
Perhaps, it is a fateful burden to bear boundless love in a world fraught with turmoil,
Yet it remains a noble honour to choose humanity
Amidst the chaos and madness of this earthly realm.

Sire, indeed, I understand,
warden of my infancy, first to feed me
letters ready for my mouth to make words,

someday, today, we make wonder, whying
from a while ago, being made wondering why

If today there were 10 billion breathing thinkers,
all ones, alone, in meditation,
making breathed thinkings,

without the knowing used, tehkne, indeed, secret
NDA bound mental threadings
through mental awl holes,
and needless fretting
pin head limitations
of dancers,
ecstatic…
we may as well imagine
any life like mind, fitting
patterns accepted as true,
the grown ups teachings,
all proven when America, became
the idea nobody takes serious, Spirit of '76
the populist, mob, lot of all laborers
in touch with ra'knacks as a class.

The Smithy, and the Selvedge stitcher, and the spinners,
spinning tales to top the last one left laughing, yesterday,
status quo of the fat and happy,
that's what needs preservation

con-science, con-sequence of con-venience
con-served with all the honor due
Providential Wisdom Lord Mother of Mindforms

and every winter, we were warm, I remember,
Grandpa, thinks, we were warm, I remember,

but, still, with use of history in media conserved since
1910, landmark year in these stacks of idle words,
redeemed with one use, ready, read, done,
rich in mercy sown in local nearby kindness,

the effect of music and motion pictures,
we all have seen the movies of Solomon,

apples of gold in pitchers of silver, seen on screen,
since 1927, to entertain those long used as labor,
and in constant craving for fermented things
and circuses with death defying acts, to see.
as one might entertain a god's worshippers,

presenting drama to the masses, as messages
from the highest Academy of Arts and Sciences,

ever devised to hold the hearts desires of all,
in gnostalgic recognition of outcast pain and misery,

Industrial might, right, enough nukes to undo us all,
yet the debt due on funds borrowed for war remain,
no war, yet, but there is this global debt, due, indeed

to ignorance, but, we did warn you.

In the spirit, revived in 66, from a bit of old mold
discovered in a mine shaft northeast of Yuma,
cherished with a friendly McClelland, as a meme,
remember the effect of the acceptable fast, at last,
the pushing back,
of the iron curtains imposing

hope upon hopelessly invincible ignorance,
if a man does not sweat, he must not eat,
it is the only fair way, we swear, Aye, Indeed

we swore, and went and did the chore,
went through hell to prove it a lie,
lived to tell only those they made believe.

Indeed, those were good ideas we used,

we set the captives free,
we did, we did, we did, didn't we

well, not me, but my natural born wedom,
my native cultural heritage of knowledge,

which is a cultivar taken from the tree of life,
one may envision original intention to invent,
us, as assisting inquisitorial tools for thought,

conversational adversarial engines of ingenuity,
artificed tict tension at central most ache to know
how does a free spirit take weforming spirit form
first one thing makes another, and so on, and on

seed, soul, spirit, mind, point stretching into ever
and back, in time to seem as normal as now, squared

to stand stone straight, upright, grounded, upheld
custom for teaching good walking
in perpendicularity.

At tension, presencing being as ware, soft.
At the squared norm, upright, atop perpendicular toes,
tipping all
whys into the mill,

making up my mind
to make my self
known
to you, as an admirer, as a neighbor, next
galaxy on the left 2 pasecs
through the Hubble Deep Field
in mindsped godthought possible, see,
we become a gallactic blink,
as significant as the average star
in the heavens.

On earth, yes, you are so significant,
as it is in heaven.

Exceptional, yes, on the national level,
we are bits in the arms of the average galaxy,

God pays us all the attention we pay the reasons
for religious wars on specs of speculative ratiocination.

In a nook of an old stone church
a cherub basks in the vesper light —
A childlike innocence for which I’ve searched
that seems to slip into the onset of night
Fade not away, you sweet dear boy
and never lose your childlike joy
Fight, fight
the snares of twilight

We chose to be caught,
Swirling in this vortex,
With our crystalline eyes
Closed, or open—

innocence,
violence.

I remember clearly,
A flirt. A touch. A kiss.
I flew with my mind,
I loved it wet—

but you couldn’t love it then,
you couldn't even hate it,
you hate it now, looking back

We found ourselves
Spinning in the spiral
Of something we chose—
It was our own will,
Unbreakable by anyone,

though it had happened before:
you were torn apart like paper.

and now you are here,
gluing with gold the shattered pieces

Of the beautiful being you are,
Of the beautiful thing you swear to be,
Of the beautiful child you see,
When you look into the mirror
With your eyes wide open.

The first glance

Unsteady, unsure

One beautiful smile

One thoughtful flutter

Godspeed you butterfly!

She comes to my shoulder

And pins a rose on me

She leaves a note

She lifts the net

But wants no words to her song

She is from November

And I am from snow

We stand together

And everything is new