i fed the fish swimming through
the blurriness of the morning viewed
through a window obscured by
the rain you bring in this room always
half-chokes my hearing
to a muffled vacuum
where do you go?
i forgot how the shore’s breath
tastes like, how
the sweetness of music pounding, swaying
the milks of my heart
when i lean my face against the glass
i see the back of your silhouette walking
a murky path to
only you can know where—
did you just shrug?
i tap your shoulder
only the glass squeaks
where is your hand
when i dance through sakura trees, piano keys
tickling the falling petals, daffodils
floating around me
i’ve never seen spring bloom in
our room after all, so i
learned to love the rain
have you ever smelled
what they’ve all smelled?—
the vase of roses
i always wear
you must be made of dream material
i am just pink-painted porcelain—
the feet of you and your fellow giants
playing chess, or
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I have some poetry in there.
I combed the sleek locks of a prince’s
hair–fine grains of gold
slipped through my fingers–
had I dug my hand into cupid’s money?
I felt only the cold wind, crawling
the floor of this empty room.
I thrive only in a world lit by sunrise; old lurks within a tunnelled cave where I have to sleep. In my nightmares, the familiar knocks insistently on my room too forcefully to remind me of nothing, until the tunnel collapses on itself, and the taut darkness suffocates me. Oh, how I dread raging only for the sake of raging. Rage only cries in the darkness, which makes me afraid of where I sleep. I detest this cave—I know it too well. I am much too familiar with the man who has lived his life in regret and lives the rest of it in stupid compensation. Who stains his life with anger, and insists it on mine. But smiles too quick when either chance or deceit lets him see a twinkle of love in the dark. I’ve hated looking at the woman who lives her life unaware that her suffering comes from choosing the road most travelled. Who lives, as if she were still that woman the time she chose which road. They know nothing of the skies, the trees, the river, or the road lit by my sunrise. And so in their darkness, I can never will myself to smile. I rage, only for the sake of raging—it’s what I’ve known best to do in the face of darkness.
The Universe is timeless. It never was, or will be. Nor is it even what it is, as it is, right at this very moment. The Universe is constituted of the literal and absolute All, without regard for time, as it is immortal. And immortality possesses no conception of time. Thus, it constitutes every moment that has existed, does exist, and will exist. So, because the universe is timeless, it just is, for “was” and “will be” are concepts of time, while “is” is a state of being and not a direct indication of time. That is, to claim that something “is,” can refer to a characteristic in perpetual, absolute existence. Everything that we perceived to have existed, that we currently perceive to exist, and everything that will happen in the future are all simultaneously occurring Now. It all simply is, with all moments, and possesses itself in its entirety, as it exists Now, all at once. Only that we are mortal and we cannot even catch a glimpse of the “consciousness” of the the Universe to comprehend the all-encompassing Now-ness of everything.
Note that when I say consciousness, I merely mean possession. I do not mean consciousness with opinions or beliefs, but a consciousness that simply “knows” in that it is itself.
you’re a filthy son of a bitch
but if you prepared me a tub of your filth
i’d bathe in it
your hair can grow in such unpleasant areas
but i would much rather tape my eyes open for it
than look where you’re not present
peanut butter makes me want to puke
but i would eat it from your mouth
if it means i get to kiss you
i’ve once lingered on a god for his surfer-like golden skin
but i would lotion myself in your oily sweat
as long as you’d let me embrace you.
I’ve noticed increasingly that when people speak of certain aspects of the Truth—especially with matters involving right and wrong—a lot of times we are in fact speaking the truth, only that we have different ways of pointing to it, having different skins to do so as well.
Oftentimes, if not all the time, this applies to religion too. Whether it involves those who are of different religious backgrounds, or those who do not possess a religious background whatsoever. Both the religious and the scientific of various upbringings.
It is as if we are all pointing to a figure, resting at our center. I may say that this figure is a simple physical static object, incapable of emotion; while another might see an animate figure, capable of emotions, and power (such fundamental polarity lies at the root of much conflict in interpretation of the Truth). The other can call this figure, “It,” while I call it a block. We are both essentially pointing to the same exact thing, only that both of us see it differently. Why can’t we agree that it is a figure, that it’s something to love and appreciate, and that it’s something overwhelmingly amazing and beyond us? Regardless of what we see, this figure causes the world to work in such and such ways—why can’t we just discuss the workings of this world rather than waste time disagreeing who or what makes this world work?
By discussing those things, there is truly much more to agree on than there is to disagree on. We only seem to be blinded from any conclusive agreements because we see too much the surface matters we cannot agree on. But wipe out, for a moment, how the cover of our books appear, and read the deeper contents. We then find that there are several parallels between our world-views and beliefs.
We die incomplete, for completion
is a too grand concept
never fully understood
transcending the mortality of
the Universe, making death
another impossible concept, as everything
is part of eternity.
I guzzle from the trophy cup of all happy-reached
men at the music festival of Life—
Of and For All Those That Truly Lived,
revel in the glassy, minty sting of waters hushing,
whispering as they undulate
under my sunset-glossed shoulders,
fly alongside whirling winds under the cotton
gradients of pink clouds and hazy
blue sunlight at the dawn of rain,
dry myself of earth’s fresh mud with flower petal
towels, amidst the sweet howling silence
of the dewy-green sea,
and munch gushing watermelons
under arid orange skies to thank the great
All—the all that lives now and simply is.
Though I too, mourn with those who seek in greed
to the All of only loving goodness, with saluted
arms in desperate flight from mortality,
wipe my tears for those that have walked
the rich and generous race of life
and for those that had rushed it blindfolded too,
rage with those whom the truly powerless All
has wronged—for those who have been robbed of the riches
of happiness and ultimate virtue,
lust with the simple dogs the material pleasures
of nonsense love in gilded disguise
as such ugly emptiness glimmers with divinity too,
and even cry out at the rock concerts of the devils
in collective ravenous celebration of Death—
Of and For Those Too Afraid to Have Lived.
I am the conscious god who binges
to the music radio of the All; and here
I’ve found you—a great artist to listen to.