Spelling Lost its Spells

What to say

to begin the show?

What to play

to get in the know?

Big things have small starts.

It is true,

I will have you know.

But what do I know

anyway?

I talk 

and I talk,

and sometimes

I talk some more.

I learn too

though.

Reels of my past

spin on some hidden projector -

sometimes I get to watch.

How it is

that I can be

such a stranger to myself,

is the mystery.

What is not a mystery?

If we are honest,

it is all a mystery!

We have our words

and our explanations,

indeed.

However,

descriptions are like

the clothes we wear.

They have nothing

to do with what they cover.

Boxes are convenient

and things stack neatly

within.

If words are the blocks

that make sentences,

have we not 

already blockchained

our existence?

Simple Truth

A simple truth:
Whatever you
truly believe,
for you is,
and will be. 

11/04/14 - 3:33 MST

Awakenings

When your skin lifts up in prickly peaks,
and your fine hairs shiver straight
like antennas receiving
some anonymous transmission,
that's when you know.

When you see something inexplicable
out of the corner of your eye,
and you turn twice just to verify its origins,
that's when you...

When you experience a knowing
that goes against your logic
and the screaming siren inside you bleats:
PAY ATTENTION,
that's when...

When the word coincidence
is a glass with no bottom,
and fails to contain the water of experience,
that's...

When patterns emerge like intricate ice crystals
from the random downpour of reality's rain,
...

When all things in life seem like vertices
on some extravagant spider web,
separate yet connected by silver strands,
that's when...

When hidden meanings leap
from the dry text of life...
when you hear not what was said
by what was meant...
when the impossible becomes possible
and straight lines become spirals,
that's when you...

When the totality of these mere moments
becomes a weight reality can no longer shoulder,
that's when you change.

Chant

3 by 3 by 3
it is done,
bury your dead,
bring me a gun,
hand me your teeth,
full of decay,
spread out a sheet
for us to play. 

Atalaya: the watchtower

I leave my glasses behind so that I might see. The trail is a maze of ice winding through Pinon, Mesquite, and Juniper. Climbing I send out grappling hooks of energy. Invisible tow lines drag me up.

The summit is mine. Alone. Wind freezes scarf to lips.

My place of predilection isn't the jagged rocks that afford a sweeping view of the desert below. My place faces southeast, the backside of the mountain. Overlooked. A dark blemish below the protective hands of a towering tree. Here I give proper thanks.

Coming down the mountain, the ice maze a toboggan run. Heel to toe, my energy spread wide, gluing me to the glassy rut. All my awareness resides in my feet. Power paces me as I dance with my death. It plies my attention with the setting sun. One glance and I'm on the ground, sliding. I'm quick enough to avoid injury, not enough to stay standing.

Twilight brings out the shapes; flashes fleeting through doorways at the corners of my eyes. We play and I smile.

Incognito

Power hides in unexpected places,
disguised as a pile of laundry
on my kitchen floor,
or a fan sitting on a desk
in front of a sun-drenched window.
It grabs my attention,
pulls my eyes,
begs a double-take.
Oh it was just
a pile of laundry.
Oh it was just
a fan.
But for one magic moment,
before it became a captive of words...

Magic in the Mundane

Light fixtures with fingerprints
like moth dust on mirrored glass,
high above head.

Chair fabric tattooed in diagonal lines
by the pressure of a waiting room occupant.

Changing room door laminate
scored in a parabolic curve,
a dangling plastic tail
swinging on the end of a freshly inserted key...
...pay attention they scream!

Pay attention...