Ammunition For You Warriors Of The Heart

For me that ammunition is my broken prose. Here's the collection so far:

We're Not Talking poetry here

shit talks as money
walks a broad
stash of smash.
Buying charges, going
all in to sell
us out of bounds
or bonds that bind
people with the touch
that could have a hand in
holding on or embracing
any help for humanity.
No words can be
spoken as articulation
isn't taught as machines
weave it all from gold
spun from the crap
shoot shot from tongues
that have no voice,
any more to say
that invisible hands can grasp
anything human and meaningful.
We are
the walk we wake,
the talk we lock,
what we ware,
and what we've worn
out of all abundance or
miracles shat for the demanding
gratifications that are fictions
we try to realize.
It is
the artless as art
formed grotesque and foul.
It moves
us as bowels are moved.
And so we go
flushed with the rush of
going down on the roll
with leavers pulled,
letting massive tumblers loose,
leaving no leverage
in the sink that slippery makes of
what is left to discharge.

The Spirit Of You

You didn't know this was true
That there really really is
a spirit of you.
The potential of what
you can be
and do is played,
the multi-versed chorus,
out across the infinites between
the variations of nothing,
to anything.
And every instance,
copied at the start,
grows to be played,
or playing, stays
echoed through the never
ending now.
And how you play
or were played, lingers,
helping or hindering,
depending on how true
most of you were
to you.
Will you listen
to what the true
you yearns to
play through?
Be a part
of your grand band
of players,
or just lose faith
with the greater
of you that could
have been banded to.

A Category Five Reality

Whirling shards
roiling around the core;
the hurricanes of idea
tornados twisting
so many fragments,
and fragmenters flashing
thoughts that hope
to echo feelings,
as much as descriptives
 torn from any continuity.
My mind
and the maddening
matrix that made it.
Shit and shinola
fact and fiction
smoke, sweat, and bloody
mosaic mirrors,
always shifting;
the angles and dangles
every juxtaposition
cutting and colliding endlessly.
All of it roaring,
at the tearing away
and crashing into
thin membranes of cognition.
And still
can it be
that connections are made?
The miracle all
the more maddening
by the flights
of floundering,
meanings chasing words,
to articulate
a small thread of understanding
out of all of the chaos,
which itself flutters
away in the torrent.
Can it ever be
by another mind
to stitch together
a common weave
to hold
something shared?
A way to meaning
what we mean
to agree to?
Take the turn
of what we toil
to boil
in what we think
we know, accelerating
off the electric burner.
To find the calm
within the eye
that sees a better vision
of how to find
the making
our way?

The Strumpet Trumpet

On strumpet feet,
astride of resonant amazement
across all logic,
the Trumpeter
tunes us
to blow his horn,
filling him so much
with what he gets
us to swallow.

And we put out
for his privilege
to spout
all of his coming

And there's no telling
what he's selling
for his package
is the product,
chuck full
of no doubt
and no need
for questions
that you might be
for a truth
he has no need
for you to find.

He gives you simple
for simple folks
to make you come
back for more
And so you're hooked
to keep on buying
his sweetly creamed
balm, guaranteed
to wrap yourself
away in,
holding back
the fevered dreams
that someone might be
sleeping us away
from ever wanting
any more
to really know.

And now that you dance
to his numbing trance
there is one truth
where there is no doubt
who will be made
to pay the piper.

The Medium and the Message
I am
the focus and the lens.
I am
the medium and the message
We are
apart as opposed
only as the feeling
that can't be measured
that isn't rational living
irrational in its absence.
It is
as the language block chipped
away from the thought 
already there.
The feeling that made us
come together
to what meaning
we can only hold
to each other for more
loving thoughts living
heart felt structure
to keep the sculpting and
the feeling flowing.
We become
being the light 
and the lighted and
we are more
than before.

The Persona of Celebrity

Oh, I know
it's so attractive
to be as the front most,
but have a care
before you leap
into this most deep
of ends.

For sinking
is as one
with the swimming
for every stroke
is a transformation,
making your face
and the body
of your characterizations
just a staging
of fronts
and backdrops
and the facades
in between.
Where the reflection
considers the being
making the person
just an illusion.

Your brand then
bares the name
and wears the actions
of what churns
in the progression
of what becomes you,
and the meaning
of it all
feeding back
on itself,
is always more
than any message
that might be scripted.

Being the most
to be dug
by the biggest
group of diggers
simply leaves a hole
that others fill
in disconnected minds
of consideration
expanding only
as the ether
of adoration.

It's a buzz
thrill of feeling
in its course
of trajectory
but in that arc
is anything actually
as the span
of any real
thinking, loving person?
Just remember
wisdom is seldom
realized from its reflection

Search Too Intently into Penetration and You May Find Yourself Thoroughly Penetrated.
With the holes in your thinking you didn't even know you had.

A guess
is as good as a Goose
in an imaginary pot
when you have so little
left to go on
save your own dark
and the abyss
it surrounds

And yet
still do you hunger
for answers
cooked up
or not

What you question
in what you assume
you stew in
is the better meal
for a mindful patience
of the slow
simmered soul
who waits for the right
to know
correct ingredients
when they find him:
a crack at the crock
of potting curiosity
to sustain itself
within a whirling
world of
stirring wonder.

When that probe
perhaps then
will you appreciate
the creative joy
of being impregnated.

Vicious Thought Revolves

Too much,
ass addled,
sense angle
a dangle
of yourself,
you start a mind
context conundrum,
spiral locking
steps too emotionally
to be denied.
to cut away from
where you once stood.
Conceptualized placement
of little understanding
from which you plant
a new face of place
to throw yourself
away anew.

Emotions kicked
by the sharp points
of fevered thought
will ride you
down because
you saddled yourself
in fear based visions
and explanations devoid
of independent voice
to talk the walk
back to another way
to face an understanding.

Hold it back
to make it
stop, that
dagger dialogue
you keep stabbing
away with
to make your hated
parts so termed
and framed distasteful
even as you swallow
your pride
as fiction whole.
This voice
and the claws it forms
in the hands of letters
dipped in imaginative
bile, scrapes ever more
furrows of fertile
irritation; from which
only more destructive
digging will grow.

Do not think.
Do not filter
with this sullied sieve.
Just feel. Just
be the heart
of the beat
inside you.
Hear the air
on you skin and
what is raised
in every breath.
Taste the sound
as the leaves
in trees would have
you hear.
Picture the rivers
mighty even
in tiny tunnels
as millions of tributes
and tributaries
flowing well rooted
from the grounding
of trunks thick
with being
so slowly alive
you must be patient
as love itself
to embrace.

There is exchange and
there is power
growing all around
you, so unaware.
There is light
and there is dark
and there is movement.
Meanings far too large and
way too small for words

Questions become answers and
answers become questions
in infinite recursion.
You have heart.
You have mind.
You have choice.
Let go
reintegrate and reform
with the patience of trees.
Be the flow
and the channel.
Be the hand
that helps in reaching,
and the tactile
at the heart of touch.
You will feel.
You will know.
You will grow.
Pain and joy,
confusion and understanding,
will come
and go
each in their turn.
This is being and becoming,
never surrendering choice.
That is all there is.

The With's, and Withouts, of Life

Knowledge without
is power without
thoughtful loving purpose.

Creation without
pause and reflection
is destruction without
the time to embrace
any meanings.

Worship without
the questioning light
of uncertainty
is purpose without
the contrast to understand
your own darkness.

Reason without
a tender aspect
towards holding
makes facts without
any wonder
or magic made
from the miracle of choice.

Please continue
to wonder about
what you are with
what you are without.

The Infinite of Potential and the Potential of the Infinite; as well as the need for faith in the process itself.

I love
the process that possesses
no limit
and knows
but expresses
to surrender to
or separate from.

The container
not contained
with no width
or height or
depth or
space for duration.

It is
endless formulation,
the dark that makes
the light and
the light that makes
the dark.

It does
across boundaries
without limit,
as it forms
singularly referenced
lines of assembly
to make meaning
have space
to have time
for more meaning.

It loves
to make mind
so that mind
can know love
and speak of it
through endless making
to grasp
and act upon
the miracle of choice.

I talk to it
that it cannot hear
what I express
of knowing
but that it feels
the connection
that is made
of all my meanings.

We are
the circle that goes
around to come
around to continue
again and again
the very process
that makes us
possible at all;
to draw upon that
which makes the canvas
and the pencil.

Please I beg of you
Talk to love
and love to talk
to it
and to each other
so we can
all feel
the connections
to keep the love
and the knowing
making more
meanings and connections.

On the Question of Questioning

Where am I?
How did I get Here?
Where am I going?
What motivates my progression?
And What really constitutes progression?

Have I ever fully appreciated
the miracle of here?
Have I ever fully appreciated
the wonder of having at all?
Do I ever contemplate
the depths of what
I might not have?

Do I question questioning
to the point of abandonment?
Can I accept that the question
is the inhale
and the answer is the exhale
and its OK to take
a few moments
in between each
and just enjoy
the process of breathing?

Willfully Wanting What We Will

Will you
will what
you want
want what
you will.
The work
of what work
will want
of what
want will work.

What will be
gauged as gain
gain be gauged
as will.
How do we teach
the gratification
of will
as well as
the gratification
of want.

How do we delay
what we want
to teach
what we will,
our children the want
of a stronger will?

Here's where will
will be the rub
of our tread
meeting the road
less traveled,
and how we wield
the wheel of will
and how to want
real metal
to the pedal
of go.

In a sea of absurdity the satirist is insane

Where is the fool
when everything is foolish.
What contrast
can he make
a gap about,
as he was,
once upon a hill,
and all the vales
in between,
to suggest
a space
where others would want
no more than to make
connections across.
Meanings that might
change the stage
of play
and the acts
that we have paid
to have hold of us now.

The lines we draw
now, between and upon,
what once kept us
from breaking
bonds that could
be shared
even as other
meanings could not,
have made the part
that cooperation
once played,
in keeping
the actors on
the page where
the subtext isn't
a farce, and
long past
the last stage
for thoughtful,
loving life
to play any part upon.

We are now
the Relative States
of America.
Can meanings vary
and still allow for
a common ground
upon which a republic
can still stand?
Not if abstractions
are all we deal in;
where counters
and other people paying
are all we work for.
Thoughtful, loving life
is not made
only of costs
to be avoided
and net gain
to be maximized.
It is effort that should be
shared, so that
individual achievement
can be appreciated
by everyone, and
everyone appreciated
for sharing
in the first place;
the burdens
as well as the joys.

I like going left.
You like going right.
And that is
as will be.
It does not change
the fact
that we all have
to manage ups
at times.
and to navigate downs
at times as well.
Making common cause
out of smoothing
those paths
seems to this fool
to be simple practicality.
Speaking practically, though,
maybe that's the essence
of our new absurdity.

Sitting in the early dark, and the quiet reproach, of cedars

The trees stand
for something
far beyond
what we take
as the measure
of time
and getting some
how or where
in the space
of what boards
or feet
can cover.
They remain
so patient
in their calm
approach to growing.
A stance
for a presence
that just knows.
An easy faith
that what is needed
will happen;
Just watch
as water rises
to their expectations.
And the wind
always comes
to give them their voice.
What the wise will
hear as a hush.
For what you say
is as much
about how
you hold forth
on what you can feel.
For you should
have such limbs
to hold up in
the sky
and so much
life to climb upon.
As well as
the reach
to touch
and taste
the understanding
of every molecule
that abounds you.
And when
you make the cuts
to stay the burn
of what you waste
around you,
Just know
that it is your own
legs you chop
away from any
ground with the roots
to make a stand on.

My Blade Runner, Replicant-Roy Moment

Life as
an explosion
of moments;
beyond the counting,
like the stars
brilliant, piercing,
burning and
so much bigger
seeming, even as they point
out the experience
of your expansion
into an abyss
of mind,
missed meanings
and the recoil
of distant times
and the traces
left of places.

The gravities,
the raging passions
and impacts
that formed
the where,
and who,
that now
breaths in
the incomprehensible
of the whole,
as much
as to still be
breathing at all.

so hot
so cold.
so massive
and dark
on the soul,
can what they illuminated,
and fused
to harder parts,
still reach you.
And still
that here
you are.

You remember
certain mind posts
alone the way.
Quiet spaces
alone with
your one candle
to keep the dark
at bay;
so many uncertainties,
so many fears,
for meaning
or value or
the possibility of progression,
to any point of understanding.
And wondering
who will I become
20 years from now.
And how
will he hate
or love
me despite
what I missed
or squandered
or took advantage of.
All of the mistakes
and the pain
of not always
owning the shame.

And here
at an arbitrary
page of age,
do you still
yearn for another volume?
Do you quake
to quit
or yearn
to burn
on another
go around?
Flame out
or flame on
or just flip a coin?
If you have to ask
you already know
the answer.

What occupies you is the revolution

Don't occupy
yourself with abstractions
only, the fiction
of ones and zeros
in switches thrown
and addressed
for the state
their programs require.

Occupy your own
lives, and spaces
to make what you will
of what you love
and what is
loved in you.

It is not a street
on which their power moves,
and from seizing
can you dam them
up, to make them
pay you attention.

Occupy yourself
with what your are
where you are.
Don't go
to any work where
you don't fully own
the circumstances
of occupation.

Go to your neighbors
instead, seeking
cooperation in redefining
just what ownership is;
sharing the responsibility
as well as the benefits.
Take away what counts
for them
by not counting
on counters any more.

Take charge
of the charging
motivating yourselves
The new exchange
will be the revolution
and what they count on
won't count at all

In silence we shake
our ignorance to break
loose of the fear that knows
we feel in stubborn avoidance
It fails all around us
being so frail of hope or will 
to make the job worth working for 
truth held in the fright of madness
We fiddle away instead with taunting
strings that puppets jerk of their own
puppets jangling down ever darker
layers of resenting control
We think we can count on
the piles we make of gross and glitter
with no bottom line of empty
filled as we are with flash and burn
The hot of our rot
comes insatiable born for more
mindless envy that sweetly makes
every bite a painful cry for more
And so we share to the world
with toxic froth and caustic foam 
our way of selling out need to feed 
the greed and leave the rest to bleed
There is crying in the air
as the poison we scream out
takes our nature drowned in shame
with miracles to choke in tears

A Proper Definition of Intelligence
Smart enough to not
always get into trouble
Dumb enough to not
always do the smart thing
Smart enough to see
what are the limits of your limitations
Dumb enough to allow
none of your limitations should get in your way
Smart enough to credit that
ideas are not yours to have full credit on
Dumb enough to charge upon
so many things you shouldn't take credit for
Smart enough to feel
there are no words for many right choices
Dumb enough to choose
so many wrong words for what you feel
Smart enough to trust
love is worth all of the pain
Dumb enough to assume
love will always keep you sane.
Smart enough not to ask
why have you arrived at this present meaning
Dumb enough to keep asking
what should you do next

The sharp edges, and many ways to slice, in looking deeper

drawn across
grander scales
of good chords
and discords
and harm-monics,
feeling what moves
the movement
of inflate, history-onics
in the biggest
frames of
grate, flickering,
all objects quaking,
you come
to know
every version
of what can be
in the extreme.
The highest crests.
The lowest troughs.
All in
the infinite variations
of what anyone
or anywhere
ever wears, tears
or is worn
out of it all.

You tune
to these mind
too frequent-cies,
more or less,
to any
or them
that could be
and what could happen
in the master
of mix,
is a roller you
can't coaster on;
rushing to fall
and rushing to rise.
So much sublime,
as well as the slime,
of every kind
of lofty dream
or deepest scream.
This is
what it means
to bear witness
to the dream
of that bigger
picture screened
in the highest
resolve you make
of resolution.

The possibilities
are so large
and you are
so small.
Can you stay
as you are
even as you change?
Keep the balance
in the mean
of perspective,
and so to have
any hope
for focus
on a purpose.
Are there meanings
you can make
to ease the take
of those who follow
in your wake?
You must find
a faith to take
it so.

To be, to act, or act upon, and in what portions? That is the question

The pains
of reflection;
so many facets
as sharp shards
of our own
page of stage.
Seeking the set
where others reflect from.

How do we look
upon what we might imagine
we want to be
seen as?

How perverse the need
for other windows
upon which to grind
the meat
of what we feed
back on.

You ask,
in the echos chambered
in the mind revolver
you cannot aim,
where's the edge
to cleave between
too little and
too much of being
an actor presenting
creative facts
of destruction.
Tearing down to buld
fragile shells
legoing as both the wall
and the thing
to humpty dumpty from.

We've cast
our minds as parts
of toys we make
to believe in,
even as we watch
what they show
us of what we've made
of play.
And thus becomes
a drug
for the power
in recognition and
the final zero sum
competition of being
made of more
than the other guy.

Keeping your own narrative as a context for survival

How do you hold
such a voice
to speak,
with whatever script,
for the you to grasp
beyond your reach;
reflecting within the various
stages of immensity.
Trying to resolve
upon the shifting
particulars of so much
that dwarfs the point
from which you reference,
and deconstructs
into ever smaller
meanings, massing
machinations falling
into everything.

Talking back
to keep defining
moments staged appropriately
so you can
characterize a sense
of who remains
to do the talking.

Where do you start
after a stopping, and
where do you stop
after a starting?

Or the company
of fellow facters
that keep the play
of words
toying with each other.
Fiddling around
with such instruments
of pain and joy,
conjugation and

And for guidance
you dream
of the perfect carrier
wave to ride
through the curves
of spirit
to see that faith
is the father
and the mother
of this process.
And you are the son
of a twitch or
the daughter
of a dis-dress,
impossibly conceived,
for you've always been
a thought of a voice and
the voice of a thought;
the handle making
the handler.

There is only to keep
on with the talking,
to walk the talk,
and make the taking;
along with the listening,
to follow the feeling
for the right tone
to stay in tune
with all that we make
and break and
fall apart from
to be together.

This embrace
is elementary and
absolutely necessary.

They have a hard hadron for penetrating nature, not to 
mention size issues, and they're ready to turn themselves 
on yet again

Who are the masters
of this ship
of fools making
for the course
we take
in what we do
and how we do it.
Setting canvas
stitched with anger
to catch what flows
from violence.

They mark
their canvas
as an art
to chart
more penetrating
probes of knowing.
Such instruments of power,
and engineered arrogance,
even as we struggle
to keep from drowning
in a see
to the depths of
greed and exploitation.

The monster they make
of their own darkness
cleaves away
essential limbs
in the growth
of being, making
them angrier still.
What effrontery
to challenge our mastery,
making us understand
only the fear
inherent in doubt.

We have the script
and absolute measures
to name this beast
and thus to handle
as we please.
And we will
get what we want,
and know
what we will.
Whether what we will
changes everything
in what we measure.
And what want
makes us something
we don't want to know.

They need
to be reminded:
Things can also be known
in the reverent embrace
and gentle displacement
of see,
and making
meanings to continue
holding closely,
always ready
to let go.
Where mastery
is not the point
to start from
or seek
to grasp at all.
Rather that
knowing and being
are are an infinite
dance of change
in the nature of see
and the nurture of moral seers

The Point and Metaphor of Lines

What is
a line,
of itself,
or as metaphor,
to that which draws
or pushes
us to link
the little bit
of no meaning
in on or off,
as may be,
on whatever plane
or pager
that might
contrast enough
space to channel
a resolution?

How arbitrary
the point
of pointing
or not, for
there's the rub
of that which
never really touches
in the space
that duration imagines
between the potential
of nothing
or something,
and the sequence
of such improbabilities.

Does the nothing
or its demarcation
create the place
for further
potentials too,
as make the point
that points are
real on the form
of meanings
given dimensions,
in the page and the pager,
for each to make of the other.

As always though
the questioned
answer begs
the next,
as to ponder:
if we can point
out with
bounded bits
and gaps
can't all meanings
be measured?
Where Even tone
or no tone
have measures
we can page upon.

But what line
can you draw
with whatever
might point it with,
to connect
the meaning felt
beyond the bounds
of bounding
as can be made
with tones
so changed
by frequency
in type
as well as sequence.

Where's the tongue
or plain to serve
as sounding
board to speak
of bounded definitions
to hold such resonant
Or the eye
to know
their true dimensions.

Neither more
to say
of what I am
told of what
I hold when I
keep my love
By hug
or my hand
in tender mercies
of voice and deed
and the need
of same.
Again of such
resonate meanings
no line can point
about to bind
in bits of measured

So let us understand
one final bit of marking:
Meaning comes
both from the mind,
and the practical
point of measure,
but also
does it form
of the faith
that there is
more than mind
for which meaning
comes to terms
with what gives
and receives
us as spirit
and what that spirit
gives and receives
as heart.

Keep with
your practical measures
but never stop
to that harmony
that keeps
light in the embrace
of all the stuff
of stars.

Monkey see, monkey do. What do you see in what you 
do, and what should you say about it?

I am
a monkey typing,
having a hand
in handle and
leveraging hammers
as the keys
for thinking
on, or assuming,

What do I
Succeed or fail upon
as I stumble
over the chances
of meaning?
What credit
is creditable?
Where does the messenger
stand in the genius
of what makes

Is it simply
the will to keep
with ego enough
to direct a continuing
faith in the gamble
that what I feel,
is real
in the casts of stone
staged in the eternal play
of questions well
beyond our grasp,
even as we reach
for the ownership
of answers?

I own
only what I realize
in the choices
I swing from.
But what
do I hope for?
Someone else
to catch on?
of what is obvious
even as it hides
in plain site?
As part
and parcel
of all the other
swingers in the nous
choking on validation.

Everybody wants
a dig me, but
nobody wants
to come down
and be grounded,
time grinding
out in the munch
of mulch that living
makes of blood and bone
for the only creativity
that matters
or gives gravity
to any risk
of letting go.

So many precious
pretensions to cling to
as in assuming
any mantle of messenger
or mandate for message,
in the first place;
more than monkeys
throwing shit around
and wishing
it could leverage anything.

Maybe we can
earn the hope
in living
well grounded
with grit enough
to keep coming
back to make
and break
and be broken again,
holding passionately
to our grief
as we let go
of what we love,
risking the fallout
of grasping
that and every other
branch that passion finds
a risk for.
Always listening
with every fiber
for a message
that requires no audience
and had to be
expressed because
we owned the choices,
accepted the pain
creating the will
to have faith
in what was realized.

To Know the Light You have to Know the Dark. 
Too much of either makes for some very bad ideas

when the medication
wears thin
or the metaphors
to self
medicate margins,
which won't rub
too much of you
off, crumble
against your own immunity
to make magic
you have to believe in,
you think only
with cornered thoughts.

Find the paint
and the way
to stroke it
to make a door
you can see
your way through.
It's a choice
of course
that you start
by putting one foot
in front of another
in any direction
with faith in the assumption
that a better place
to see from
will find you.
Even if you can't
see it now.

We can never
be wise but
we can aspire
to wisdom.
We may never
create lasting meaning
but the meaning
we create now
can still have magic,
making the journey
and what is
journeyed through
something worth loving.
Meaning is
what we make of it
that choosing
and making
are what rub
belief every which way
we can imagine.
And thus doubt
is the only certainty
and certainty
the only thing
worth the trouble
of doubting.

The bigger picture
will always have
a lot of dark spots
but its in
the shadows
that we find
the contrasts.
Keep faith
in that bigger picture
whatever the Fuck
it “really” is
because there is
magic in there
if we choose to see it.

Certainly uncertain about certainty

Observed observer observing
can you be?

Observed observer observing
can you know?

Observed observer observing
can you act?

Observed observer observing
can you choose?

Observed observer observing
you stay the same?

Observed observer observing
you recognize the change?

Observed observer observing
you become the recognition?

Observed observer observing
the recognized become the reflection?

Observed observer observing
are you here?

Observed observer observing
aren't you there?

Observed observer observing
would a new knowing place you?

Observed observer observing
want a new you to know?

Observed observer observing
points out the old pointer?

Observed observer observing
draws the old you to the pointing?

Observed observer observing
do conclusions conclude at all?

Observed observer observing
are you now?

Who will stop the reign

What reigns
in the heat
of so much
fall out?

We feel
the pressure
of so much
inter-faction but
everyone grows colder
in the transfer
of energized blame
and the game of advantage.

And that's the thing
as friction input
of ever more light
upon all of our reflections
casts a fever
of sickened passions
that can't escape.

These passions condense
in the transfer
of light to dark
in greater groups
of drops
in caring,
or loving,
or wanting to understand.
And so become
vast twisting churns
of misery
widening the flows
of fluid hate.

We become the face
of what face
in each other,
nothing to bridge
the vast gaps
in the way
everyone sees
anything, especially
as the point of
your light is to start
its rise from the dark
of another.

Where will this madness,
systematized, vent,
other than into itself,
feeding back
on ever smaller
bodies of understanding.

I would say that
there is space
and time
to ease the impact
of every contrast
we can't abide.
But you would laugh
on the edge
of that madness
not thinking
that any such raging
distinctions could ever be
But we must make
temporary space
to give time
to build a common bridge
to a place where
we will begin
to step back
from our differences even
as we step up
to reach for the stars.

We must first
give up
on the on place where
everything is a cost
we can't afford.
The deal
where we sell everything
out from under each other
and profit from the scarcity
of what we hoard.

We cannot radiate
shimmer or shine
when the bold is
to hold everything
so close, taking
than we ever want
to be responsible for
giving anything back.

If our reach
is ever to exceed
our grasp
than we must make peace
with letting go
and taking faith
that we will find a better
way to grip
a new handle from which
to pull ourselves from.
Always ready
to let go again.

A life lived fully is anything but safe

Why do you fear
the ending, more
than the dull
litany of so many
folds of not
fully engaged,
the progression
telling no story
at all worth
the life worn
so shabby
for a miracle,
and out
of any good use,
across its dreary

you will
to say,
and still,
trembling, you
are not.
For there's always
a place, whether
climatic or without
event, where
even the dullest
plodding will stop.

And what reach
will your spirit
ever succeed
in grasping without
the risk at hand
and holding it
close to your heart?
To come
to know
that fear is so small
a price to work
a purchase
around which
you can live
a story worth adventuring
through whatever end.

Can there be
a growth beyond
what spans any
one lifetime?
An expansion
of spirit and
heart to take
larger aims
at the life
that greater needs
have called out
to those who make
the grander choices
possible by
what they've grown
to feel is their's,
and a chance
that is what they
live more for?

Those are
the hearts and souls
who trade
shorter journeys
for greater stories
that might
encourage others
to make that leap.
Knowing fear's embrace
will always hold
whether you jump
the folds or
the folds jump
on top of you.
Better a bold
short story
than a boring
durge without end

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