Just as how a little stick-man could not perceive the pencil that drew him
I could have never seen God and didn't see him when he had molded me
from His depths of clay, profound as a rock- that is to say still, solid,
silent, cold, old, disquieting... All fancy words for 'not much.'

Here's the point: there isn't any, but
just as how this little stick-man cannot perceive this pencil that draws him
closer and closer to the last panel of his, this, comic or graphic novel:
beings of smaller dimensions know nothing
of those so much higher, smarter, and more poetic than themselves.

Does this have to do with why you disappeared onto an airplane
like a bird searching for her freedom...?
Am I, in this mess of metaphors, your little stick-man who couldn't
get out of his paper sheet and fly with you...?
Of course, in existing on a dried white flap, I could not, cannot, fold
my own two dimensions of existence into even one crumpled paper plane;
so I could not, cannot, follow you through your freeing air
and ask you, or beg you, to answer my silly questions...

Because I have both length and width, but no depth;
no depths of clay.

Though I figure the answers to these questions are the same.
The truth is that, in this mess of metaphors,
neither of us got to pick what we didn't want to be, bird or stick-man.
In reality we had only one choice: to hold hands when we could.
So we did.

And when we did- everything became dimensionless;
and Everything made sense because Nothing did.
Because the value of the distance between our hands
meant that Nothing was our Everything.
And from that dense Nothing our Universe was born-
Bang. Thus tiny strings of new Everything rippled throughout old Nothing...
making Everything matter, almost literally.
We then made our stars, our galaxies, our planets; our classrooms,
lockers, and lovers: each other. All of this brilliant Creation until
we only had one last choice: to hold hands when we could...
...so we did...

... again and again,
in the distant dreams of a troubled theorist
who chains together pages and birds of poetry,
looking to find you, again and again,
in the mess of metaphors
of our Universe,

and I did.

                    Almost.

A single helical strand twists randomly in the wind
All that steadies the twisting are the aetheric strings
Connected to base pairs...adenine...thymine...
Those strings steady the storms
But where do they lead
Where any path leads of course
And our destination is always our Self
That's how we know when we've arrived
We mirror back to our other Self exactly what We are
Adenine's other self is thymine
We live in duality
Until we're ready to leave that duality and become...
who we are
Non-dual
Citizens
of
Gaia

Heart beats

you breath

what a lovely scene

you peel

my layers

almost like string cheese

I lull the salt
and the rain
with the company of
sour visitors
perpetual silence
stabbing me in
my palms
I strung it together
with thin white exhales
In the morning
I become tangled
apologetic veins
a rib cage and
a buoy, white endless
silence
tangled at the root.

You are a poet, a musician and everything

When you smile it’s sonnet 18

When you frown it’s dark ambient to me.

When you pause and bury your head in the book

I would caress your hair like zither

Sing an ode to your soul

Your pale long fingers, fragile and bossy

Manipulate strings and words and minds easily

Slap me, pop me and shape me please.

Life is
About getting buckets.
How would Kobe live if he couldn't?
That's a mystery mankind will never truly comprehend.
A bucketless Kobe is a fake Kobe.
The sound of that string music is unmatchable.

The Kareem sky hook.
The Curry j.
The Kobe fadeaway.
The PG windmill.
These are all different forms,
They all get buckets.

Cherish these buckets like no other.
One day you will be old and grey.
Like bill Russell.
You won't be able to get buckets anymore except for in your dreams.
When your career is over. You will miss it.
You can't get buckets forever.