Symbols of Magnificence

Hello, I am Boy.
Manhood in a Rubber Suit.
A long silent Scream

from my Liver
enters my Heart

and says, have you Eaten Love
for Breakfast; have you drunk
from the Formless Cup of Color?

And I remembered that
the Driver of this Car,
This Vehicle I love,
must be massaged

Before the Exhausting
Typhoon of the

Art by Dennis Lakusta, Master of the Mandalas of Infinity...

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Bird of the Moon

There is a feast going on
that we are invited to …

A wondrous forest birthed
from a single tree

bird feather

A bird singing at the Center of Things;
A bird with a million feathers
of a million colors,
and a million fragrant songs
each sung in the wordless Language of the Heart.

There is no Waiting for this River:
It has been flowing all your days.
There is no Jumping into this river,
you were born and will leave in this
Lovers Arms.

A single Tree and a Silent Sunset
remain embedded in a place where
they Grow Forever Undaunted

A single prayer emerges from
the Lips of Now …

“Fulfill me, because my life is passing by …
“Take me Home, because there is no other
Place to Go …”

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The True Star

Lions and Lambs of Spring

The Heart of Spring is something to be known in the Winter of  life.

We gather jewels and playthings along the way; we hold rusting angels close to our hearts; we confess love for the children of our earthly womb – the ones who come and go, the silent souls who disappear into the night.

What we are left with is us.   Dim, hollow, shallow, empty.  “Concerned“.


We seek the stars within.

But not by looking into the Twilight, the Immeasurable Abyss.   There is only one place where abides the True Star.  The Harbinger of Deep Peace.  The Bird-Songs of the End of Time.

Winter’s fading light invites us to hibernate, to return, to gather strength, initiave, resource from Inside.  We walk these City Streets, the Lost Avenues of Lost Souls, the dank, dark, decayed.  Light on the planet is tentative.  Seasonally Adjusted.  Afraid of the anger of men and the Finality of God.  This Day-Light our skin longs for is a crap-shoot, and can be purchased from the vendors of Tanning Beds.

The Skin craves its Vitamins: D.  Touch.  Warmth.  The wind from the Plains.  The Hand-Holding of fellow Humans.  We wander these deserted Alleyways – like nocturnal cats – seeking the light we love, the warmth we taste, the sleepy hollows of another human form to comfort our own.  Our hungry skin.  Our aching heart.

relaxing in the Arms of Tomorrow

Adults learn to behave as adults.  Never heard.  Never lonely.  Never cry.  Never in pain.  Always happy.  Always busy.  Always planning, scheming, escaping, dancing in ever-increasing circles away from the Sweet Vortex of the Moment of Now.

Masquerades.  Charades.  Naked Emperor Parades.

It’s coming.  One Day.  The Atonement.  Someone promised us this, didn’t they?  It was written somewhere, wasn’t it?  The Angels of Mercy will show up, and they will hold us in their arms, and it will be alright, won’t it …?  This redemption.  This salvation.  This Heaven that is Just Out of Reach.

How Convenient.

My arms are the Naked Arms of Now; this human.  The want is a Hunger that won’t go away with Imagined Food.  With Promised Luxury.  With the Rain Check on Love.  This Now, this Eternal Child, this Lost Voice buried deep inside … is not hiding any more.  It’s not shutting up, going away, toning down, Behaving.

It’s a wreck and a Ruin and a Wild Thing.  It’s demanding the Big Cigar, the Full Meal Deal, the Deluxe Package.

Heaven is NOW.  While we’re on Earth.  While we’ve got breath to sing, bones to rest, moments to sip.  The Treasure.  The Great Mystery.  The Unfathomable Deep.

Dive in.

Sink or Swim, it matters not.  The air is getting thin.

The Pool is filled to the Brim.

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Lost Colors, Dying Leaves

Color Your LeavingsThe color of changing leaves
is a sign of the symphony we hear.
We arrange the colors of life carefully,
folded underwear in new-fallen snow,
patterns, networks, dominoes,

The color of changing leaves
is the voice that we hear;
that enters our nostril and leaves by our ear:
informs us of sanity between birth and death,
a place were we rest, celebrate, sip

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As I sit & write.

The fine lines of snow collected on the cloud.

Steam of coffee vapor pours from my cup.

Life is Alright because I made it so.

Life tastes good because I followed the innate Recipe.

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