Maybe if he'd been asking to meet before work and sit at the edge of the ocean to discuss Mandalas, Kerouac, or St. Anselm I would have said 'yes.'

But the cigarette isn't so simple.

I can't even begin to know where to start about life.
The depth of beauty and intricacy is this great big incredible- an infinite, infinite, infinite incredible. Sitting alone at home on my computer, trying to strike inspiration from one place or another, I always end up with a coffee in one hand contemplating how beautiful the wine glass to the left of my kneecap looks in the hue of light beaming in from the rainy grey bright- or I gaze outside and contemplate my warm protection from the cold and wet outside, wondering what would truly be better- this warmth? or the thrill of living and forced recognition of every step given by the airy forecast of the clouds wisping from my breath, breaching me from the shoe of my pants and the kneck of my shirt to caress the bare-skin of my spine and the calfs of my bony ankles?
and it's as if I have to choose, but I laugh when I realize they're both great big incredibles in themselves- the fluff of a book in my hand and a hot drink at my side as the floating water decides to come back to Earth- the melancholy of still-in-my-pajamas-and-this-is-one-of-only-two-days-off; the poetry of love and the poetry of loss and the poetry of all I desire to do but hold back- all of this brings me a comforting sadness. Life, life, life, life, life... thank you for loving me.

I heard you whispering through the empty door-frame
Seeking sleep from your desired lover, unchanged and the same
the twilight years of life, are they anything like the twilight zone?
Perhaps the alzheimers leads to a quantum close
and
mirrors float like seperated identities, I let the spirit into me
Sentient flow comes with a pill of Gingko biloba
The oval Mandala SWEEPS me up!
Back in the circle of the SANSKIRT gumption
Carved like a pumpkin, that's sumthin if you're thumpin
Loud
Loud
Loud enough.

of dust float endless like yard work
and the ships from pier won't float without buoys
gravity! gravol! gratitude!
under what is under where, if you ask where what is
sloppy joe looks like a rancid saint of morning pancakes
and the syrup on his lips feel like an early morning jog
Platonic on the plate tectonics
the **** he said means solid, hark heavenly.

open pathways to a glaring pathos
the bright light of idealism is why the optimist is stronger than the pessimist
retreating into the no-eye-strain of a dark, frightening cave;
what was beyond the light?

the pessimist says the fear of the known is safer
while the optimist treads a sidewalk-highway-backstreet of light
ouch-
ouch-
ouuuuch, his eyes!

keep
going.

pushing through the grand theological cosmological philosophy zen
the optimist marches past the foot of the rancid infection
what self-inflicted pain for the sake of surrendering all responsibility;
the reason there are governments
countries
orthodoxies
is because of a grand laziness which clasps the wrists of the weary
fearful of their freedom as it is an unknown
grand cosmic
sun-star;
"stare any longer and I'll go blind;
march towards it and I will disintegrate."

"Are you sure?" asks the optimist
"No, but I won't take such a naive risk. I have been around long enough to cease trusting anything,
especially myself."

"Then you are eternally ******;
I seek my own grace."

there is a silence as the pessimist rounds to sigh
and the optimist wheels himself towards the stars.

One of my favourite things to do, of holy proportion to the passionate student painting words onto a blank canvas at the last minute, eyes falling shut like a broken garage door just before the glassy vibration of a mid-winter sunrise, is to sleep little for 2 or 3 nights and sit at a cafe as the clock strikes 9:30 PM with a full cup of coffee glanced in the peripheral to my right and a world shaker book of cosmic sputtering.. philosophies of new and of old.. quivering between my overworked fingers, reading like a raving madman who understands how false it is to understand anything as mundanity.

pants sit half-way down the waste
because pulling myself out of bed is against the laws of gravity
what was it you wanted again?
if anyone could hear over the sound of an exhausted train exhausting clouds with exhaust
they would understand exhaustion, because Gaia speaks in sign-language

and the second you told me to wait a moment
I spent forever waiting
until you were ready yet

ready, set, sundown..
sleep talks to? only if I talk to sleep, conversation over.
dissonance, cognizance, congruence, ****

thank you 5th grade teacher
for teaching me how to never shut up
thank you verbs
for teaching me how to never shut up
thank you
really
thank you
no sarcasm
thank you

it is holy
holy
holy
wow.