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Paul Jones Dec 2017
dance
d                                             e
    a                    c
             n
                   w i t h
                         me
with          me
           be
cause
           no
one
           should
dance
           alone
Yeah, it works.
Interesting.
Journey of Days Mar 2017
vacuum of light
a dark so still it has no sound
profound dark
deep time
breathe
slow now
there is no linear logic to this
deep time
in saecula saeculorum

unregulated yet ordered
power prevailing and insinuating into all
forming intimate unions across boundaries that make our reason
breathe
slow now
there is no physical logic to this
it is
deep time
in saecula saeculorum

draws on the eternal
it has a future
impacts on now
a brain cannot fathom
the past is still to come
breathe
slow now
there is no epochal logic to this
it is
deep time
in saecula saeculorum

energy
it moves through and within
whispering around the edges of the quiet mind
enfolded
in those spaces between thoughts
breathe
slow now
there is divine logic
immerse
in this
deep time
in saecula saeculorum


#thisjourneyofdays
A response to having just finished reading Long History, Deep Time, ISBN (online): 9781925022537. Changing the concept of "time".  Some of it blew my mind.
The archaic Mythologies
Were well depicted ventures of Human
Spirit to verily present acts of the absolute Nutness
An astute of a compelling question Still
Much relevant in today's lmplicit
Deconstruction of  Committing
A moral Excession.

Old Greeks came to a betwixt paradox when compairing
the two ulterior motives:  
~ a completely mad passionate love
~ a sharp cold blooded oportunistic love
Mike Essig May 2015
The word became flesh.

My flesh became a poem
that entered you
and the word grew
within you and a poem
blossomed from your mouth
which I took back into mine.

Flesh, poem, flesh...

perfection of dance,
perfection of union,
intimate perfection,
the  perfect unbroken circle:
enchanted, sacred, whole.

~mce
We are that charmed circle
rook Oct 2014
All I've ever had in my possession were bones.
The framework of a biological nuisance, something empty
on the inside, though full of what any of us may call life.
At the least, the semblance of which we can be convinced:
parading a corpse across the bridge, most talented thespian in space;
and medicine, the hobby you picked up so you could learn to ignore death.

You are too old, now, to foolishly believe you can outrun death,
the inevitable silence that haunts your dreams and soaks through your bones.
You breathe in too quickly, too aware of the emotional cavity, of the space
between your thoughts and your actions. Your words have always been empty,
a reminder of the very symbol of your own faith, though you aren't convinced
that you, yourself, can ever measure up to that vivacity that floods his life.

Repeat that in your mind, over and over; that the anomalies in this life
can be proven as effects of the reckless and the brave, that their death
is ultimately yours to cause or to save. So, of your own importance, you are convinced,
and you know you are the best, always have been -- always, Bones.
So don't waste your energy on the thought that all of his promises are empty
and trust, instead, that this lunatic, this love, will survive all of space.

There's nowhere for you to escape this bitterness; indeed, no space
for you to claim as your own, your sanctuary. No chance of a separate life
when you've had all you can stomach of this insanity, this empty
endless game you've boxed yourself up in, until you surrender yourself to death,
to the simple cessation of your repetitive motions -- but, no, Bones;
he will never stop. His life will continue, his body and soul immortal -- of this, you are convinced.

No, he'll keep on going, as perilously as before; of his invincibility, you are convinced,
but you, yourself are, as ever, determined to follow his failures through space,
to diligently spout your expletives and condemnations and advice; you are now, as then, his bones,
and you never forgot that. Just as he never forgot who takes credit for his life,
his bones, his common sense --- you alone have, time and time again, forced death
to hang its weary head and return and yet, his own promises are empty.

You've learned to scoff at his vows of safety; his idiocy, you could handle. Still, empty, too, were his promises of faith. His loyalty, he proved, but you stay thoroughly convinced
that alone would he remain, had you considered your logic. Somehow still, like death,
the logic was an inevitability, and you learned to detest one trait in all of space.
You can see his faith fading as it goes, as logic proves itself a thief of your life,
and you lament the truest fact of all -- no longer could you be his bones.

And so I've managed to pull my empty shell together, as he never could, for in space
nowhere can I hide from the death of my ethos; yes, in space alone I dedicate my life.
And I am, as he was convinced, an honest man. I end as I begin -- with all I've ever had: Bones.
space. the final frontier.

— The End —