Within our langue, we find us, aura of place.
This while life's trapped meanings, words,
paroled, evoked thus, gesture one
through one, and no other.

While without, betwixt words, languid lessons,
failing to be learned, detail broad-strokes
of reality's brush painting us, the canvas,
the world, framelessly framed.

Yet, languorless, from a bird's eye,
this insight, inner flight to soul's
fathomless essence, unweaves
self's tapestry, to begin anew,

a word, path of study, walked it's way.
A time redefined by what's sublime, communal
solutioning concentrating, sans frontieres.
Shimmering stream to babbling brook's nook.

the spaciousness of iceblue daylight
you're praying under a frozen olive tree
doubts overpower you: are you good enough?
proving, you scarify your skin with a shard

bourdeaux-red blood mirrors moon fields
the cold drink was frothing like sea spray
you're licking your lips, the sanatorium
snowwhite building, melting windows

if you should go there after prayer
not a question, you're walking right and left
the cold drinks were frothing, you remember?
you forgot it and you remember everything

the silver olive tree includes words
all whispered sticks to it, like dust
if you listen to that tree, you'll hear
hidden is its place among black rocks

When people
Talk about love
It always seems shallow.
But really,
How can creatures as simple as I
Be expected to use such a limited medium as language
To express a feeling, an emotion, a pull so deep
A process so quick yet so intricate
As the wide, beautiful waters of love
The raging, welcoming oceans of love;
The ever-confusing, always painful waves of love.
Its never shallow depths that drag me down.
And in the same way love is water,
                                Love is fire
Scorching heat, licking flames, crackling tinder, flying embers.
Love is as complex as fire and water, earth and air, infatuation and attraction.
It hurts beautifully and pleases terribly.
But we look for it in everything.
So if my love poems sound shallow,
if my songs are superficial,
my art simplistic,
Forgive the language’s
lack of expression.
For if the world meant ‘I love you’
Then I’d give you the universe.

How many times does the word ‘I’ pass these lips?

To believe thoughts about my own inferiority
is akin to denouncing God.
I turn away from my divine birthright
to accept a weakened sense of myself.
It is like Hanuman
upon being told he is Shiva.
But child, if you really knew!
Not in the head,
but here and now,
in this heart.
Can’t you see all the nightmare vanish?
Do you need fancy words?
Can’t we speak plainly?
The purpose of a common tongue.
You asked once, long ago,
to show you the meaning of life.
I have seen.
And I know the only way it can be held
is if I am not holding it.
For it indeed destroys everything.
And yet, in its annihilation is a perfect rebirth.
We speak of ancient things
in plain talk now.
This is what the consciousness has done -
what it has given us.
And we have given ourselves.

So. There are not more questions.
If you like, I can act out
finding a therapist - a psychologist.
Talk to that one
About my speaking with God.
Talk about God speaking through this mouth.
Same like God fills this chest with air -
the breath.
Does it speak to you too?

and you make up the rest

I have something to show you
A piece of perspective
You, otherwise, would never know
See, through my eyes it went but
From yours it goes and
Words can only get us so far so
We just make more up as we go
I've never felt quite like this before
How would you put it? Um
When understanding looks like a chasm so vast that
Alexandria could be cast down to the firey pits of Mankinds worst shortcomings...
The sad fact is that
We can imagine anything except what it's like to walk in the skin of another.

black lives matter so
black lies matter so
dive in deep waters to
die in deep waters to
be seven as the samurai
be seen as the samurai
your mind curved
your mind cured
starve and
stare and
carving your name in history make
caring your name in history make
the world: invert
the world: inert
an ideology to believe
an ideology to belie

Every poet is a fake
eyewitness, peddler of make-believe hearsay,
A conveyor of love he never knew
in a city he never saw in a way to make you
feel the passion as if it were true,
He is an air-brusher of reality,
Thus a proselytizer of the Absurd:
That you can paint pictures with words;
That you can travel by verbs;
That you can conjure nouns by saying them;
That you can lead several lives within your only one.

Every poet is a fake
taxidermist, seller of second-hand stuffings
of souls that were never alive

Every poet is a fake
imperialist, would be explorer-***-colonizer
of the terra incognita of your mind

Every poet is a fake
poet