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 May 2014 Vassana M
Connor Smith
He wrote sigils of the world with air.

Pursued upon every street and grove,
attempts to writhe free are unwarranted;
Though in what way could escape mean separation?

Cast over rifts like a falling mist,
paradigms lay sedimentary
mediating sight as a membranous
pseudo preface to the essential.

This alluvium breathes, drawing inward
consecrating the dreaming idol;

We had found a stitch in space
where mortals wield no bodies.
Now subtle coagula are vessels enough
So temporal wills decay.

Join the aether;
Through the high cascade
some remember first knowing Self
akin to parting breaths in absentia.

This is our amniotic solvent;

The cycle stops repeating;  
A ceaseless inception
compressed upon Eternity.  

Our beginning remembers the end.
We found the gold in October.
 Sep 2013 Vassana M
zigzagtuesday
i think about the stains on the ceiling, shaped like angels falling
about wooden walls like abstract art, you see an owl, then i see your subconscious
eyes are not windows to the soul, as some say
they hold the wear and tear of the day to day
and i could only venture to guess
that you're staring at your own reflection
when you comment on the hazel in mine.
 Sep 2013 Vassana M
zigzagtuesday
if light bulbs got anxious and burned out any time someone caught them shining
The Universe
is a manifestation
of the Music of the Godself,
and I am a personification of that Universe.

Music is not my Medium; I am that of Music.

The Universe at any given time
is the "All-Chord" of that moment;
The Harmony of all that is,
implying a motion
forward in time
perhaps towards resolution?

Not if Entropy has anything to say about it,
which, by now, it certainly seems to.

What a queer Symphony is this Existence,
that implores Entropy to be Maestro!

A Babushka Doll Set of Paradoxes,

*Perfect!
Our hands act like Newton's Cradle;
bumping into each other like there's no before or no after;
just a constant force of just wanting to hold your hand
until I find the courage to let the friction just be,
and the heat just dissipates throughout our fingertips.
We let the tension of our feelings fall and the oscillation is no more.
It'll just be us; wrapping that constant energy within our fists;
preserving awkward unplanned first kisses.

Nervousness filled to the brim of my smile,
to my fingertips painting on the canvas of your cheek.
Just you and I, and streetlight spotlights
tracing our figures on a pitch navy night;
just waiting for the perfect moment to arrive.
And like devastating car wrecks;
it seems to come so slowly, yet so suddenly.
As the moments of uneasy tension begin to sandcastle its way to glory;
the waves begin to greet them in its wake.
And the kinetic energy of my lips greeting yours is lost
in the awkward, sweet silence that fills the street.
And the heat from the butterflies fluttering against the insides of our stomachs
allow us to exchange nervous laughs and mysterious smiles.
And we begin to taste the sweet, soft shock of each other’s lips.
You blame not
when I am not with you.
You welcome
when I come back to you.
You nourish
when I am open to you.
You flourish
when I am your conduit.

There is no mention
of the time we're separate.
There is no pressure
to be a certain way.
There is no guilt
in being distracted by life.
There is no shame
in being wrong about things,
even yourself.

You are compassionate.

Though,
When I chase, you elude-
(because you are already there in me.)
When I stay, you egg me on
(because you are pure energy.)
When I capture, you escape
(because you are ethereal)
When I accommodate, you amaze
(because you are all-creative)
When I name, you become anomalous
(because you defy labels)
When I control, you boycott
(because to control is to disrespect).
When I let go, you comply
(because by letting go, you let it stay).

You are nothing as you are everything;
the things we perceive are your reflections.
Though you are no singular thing,
that is what allows you to be everything.

You are each person,
but very few people are you.
You are infinite wisdom,
thus can no one define you.
You are a pattern, a fractal of Philosophy
that can be reflected and lived
but not that can be told or taught (other than perhaps by example);
for it is subjectively based on One's existence and mindset.
Based upon One's path:

It is simultaneously the greatest gift and curse
for One to have One's own path:


No one can dictate for anyone else their path
because no one has the path of anyone else,
nor can they know of the path of another.
It's neigh impossible for one to know one's own path;
you must always be seeking to discover it; to let it unfold.

One can and must learn to be more sensitive to One's own path;
That itself takes great mental cultivation,
which in turn takes a willingness for One to learn things about Oneself that One might not like,
not to mention Practice, Self-Discipline, and Patience.
None of which can anyone do for You
but You.
::
It is up to you and you alone how worthwhile your life ends up being;
physical reality is a holographic maximum-security prison for your Chi
but the holographic prison is merciful by the grace of it being holographic.
Sweet flower, all the meadows creatures
Are dancing, giddy in their bustle ways
And even the wild cherry has petals laid.
How do they all know that we are in love?
I'll take you up on a cup, for I'm thirsty
but our conversation's bound to get wordy
and I'd talk with my hands but they're *****
so I'll wave them around, they're not sturdy

I remember you said when we last spoke
like the comfort of home or an old joke
that a mind such as this tends to invoke
heavy winds in your head, render cloud smoke

and the smoldering flame that you exhale
makes a martyr the words of your tall tale
yet the story unfolds, every detail
fills the lungs in my chest when I inhale
Do you ever feel like you're floating?
 Feb 2013 Vassana M
Connor Smith
On the night I flushed my head
Herbs offered in moonlight's grace  
- Surrendered self now posed like lead -
I felt you kiss my silent face
And hold my eyelids fast
To save your eternal child
So I could be a watchman
Once more.
 Feb 2013 Vassana M
Connor Smith
Somewhere sequestered in the Baphomet brain
Hemispheres destroy logic while creative bliss reigns
And waning in expression the intellectorus knot forms
Above the neck and below the skull
Choked once more in doubt’s unwelcome swarm
I hitch the rope to Sun’s post and
leap
before
the end
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