...

Sometimes pursuing your dreams

means encountering your nightmares.

Simple Truth

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

11/04/14 - 3:33 MST

Illusory Muse

You pierced my forehead
with a crystalline thread
and drizzled
your golden honey down,
glistening and sparkling
in the light
of a spectrum unknown.

Weaving with mine
and spiraling quickly into
a complex warp and weave -
that long lost
something,
that thing we know
we share,
but cannot
talk about.

Coughed an eyelash
in my eye,
turned once more
towards the sky. 

I was the muse
all along.

The Dance

The cosmic winds, they gust
shifting and shaping our granular existence
into sand mosaics,
mandalas of hope
spirals of fear,
eddies of potential,
always reformulating -
carrying us through rain-streaked arches,
quenching us upon the river banks,
and back again to the parched desert.

Within these gusts, we gather,
attaching and separating,
spinning upon high,
only to settle once again 
in hostile environs,
feeling our significance
and insignificance 
as one...
and so we dance,
and so it goes... 

Grey Night

The night is
painted grey.
Amorphous shapes -
the prehistoric bodies
of the foothills,
trapped in the murky waters
of the lunar wash.

I see them
in my peripheries,
movements and flashes,
brief glimpses
of those that rise,
like me,
to bask in the light
of this grey night. 

Pure Expression

How to describe with words, 
a place beyond words? 
Recently I traveled 
through immense cylindrical cords 
of pure nrg, 
liquid metal turnstiles 
stretching infinitely 
above and below me. 
They ushered me through, 
bending and twisting 
to allow passage, 
yet also moving 
within themselves, 
rotating inward and outward 
simultaneously. 
Beings of pure expression 
that shone gold, platinum, 
copper and silver, 
yet none of those colors.
There are no thoughts,
there is only information
throbbing through me,
slippery things 
that can't be spoke.   

Nearby my friend is lit from above,
the top of his head gone,
a cascade of buzzing nrg
throbbing through.
This is it, 
he is being downloaded. 
A horizon
stretches infinitely,
from the line
where his skullcap
is gone.
His mind is empty
of thoughts,
completely clear,
and yet he can speak
and he is soberer
than he has ever been.
He can see.

Beyond the mind
play-dough,
and the oddities
that guard the gate,
there is something 
that can only be felt. 
And we must translate
with rudimentary tools,
and bear the burden 
of its heavy load,
this thing 
that we can only
talk around.