Speak to me those words of beauty,
Whisper them carefully,
Cached in mystique of inference,
Heady breath swollen with meaning.
Touch who you think I am,
As you preach of what you know.
Carry me please,
Carry me from these burdens,
To a place without question,
Without doubt or worry,
Take what is left,
Collective wound of life –
Take this wreck to a place that is all beauty,
Dream without waking.
Cast me as a net
That I might harvest completion,
That I might dissolve into being.
Sing your soul,
Sung without meaning
And let that intent guide my steps,
Undieing after death,
Deathless outside time.
Oh let me become!
Let me walk away from potential,
Let me step beyond desire,
Let me become.
Tag Archives: desire
Speak to me those words of beauty,
The inverse side, the inside song.
Your words, the words run like smoke.
I held on and once again, burned, I cry to no one.
She held out her hand,
not knowing why,
and I took it,
not knowing why.
A cold wind,
gray and sad,
blows me down and those hands are there,
laughing that I fell.
She looks into their eyes and I see a mockery
of all that I have.
I have no more room for sadness.
So, look at these eyes
and understand my goodbye
Joah crested another hill, his feet crunching the fallen leaves – dried husks of burgundy and gold. There was a scent to the air here, Joah felt more than smelled it – a thick patch of must. He paused atop the hill, panting to allow his old lungs to catch their breath.
To his left, at the bottom of a small gully, Joah saw a massive slab of rock. The boulder was moist, caked with fresh brown soil. Up the slope to the rear of the gully was cut a fresh track of destruction from the wake of the stone’s tumultuous descent to the valley floor. The source of the trail was lost to a curve in the hills.
Joah made his way carefully down the slope to the monolith. He tested each step with his staff. The tempestuous summer had left many loose stones uncovered from tremor or flood. Joah had no intention of adding his name to the list of those who had fallen to their death from misplaced trust in old paths.
As he approached, Joah found that the stone was far larger than it had appeared. The oblong behemoth was roughly three times Joah’s height, and half as thick. During the fall, one end of the massive white stone had cracked off, revealing a deep blue-black slate beneath. The severed portion had landed flat side up just beyond the stone itself. A ray of sunlight decorated the rough surface, immaculate as the altar of any village chapel. The fractured blacked surface was like a rough sea, frozen mid-storm.
As if compelled by the rays of sun, Joah turned his gaze to trace the path of the stone’s descent. He was blinded by the early morning sun as it leapt from behind low clouds, bath the stone in a blaze of fire. He fell to his knees in rapture at the base of the stone. Surely this was a sign from God, this was the place to be prepared.
For a long time Joah remained kneeling reverently at the altar, lost in prayers of thanksgiving. Finally, as he started to rise, his ancient knees failed him. Joah shot out his hand reflexively to steady his fall. His palm slid across the edge of the altar. The flesh was shorn nearly to the bone on the razor edge of the flint. Joah clutched the wounded hand to his chest, watching as the blood seeped into the white shell of the altar. The blood that spilled onto the black face of the altar was lost, its deep color a perfect match for the dark luster of the cloven stone. This was not a frozen sea, but rather a churning roil of frozen blood.
Joah pressed a broad plantain leaf to his wound and bound it clumsily with a rage from his pack. Swooning, he turned back to the source of the ravine. The sun had been masked again with cloud, and no longer dazzled the eye. Now he could see that the rim of the surrounding hill had fallen. A shear crown as tall as a man wound around the rim of the gully. At the head of the scree pile gaped a deep blackness – a dark portal beneath the hills.
As carefully as he could, Joah picked his way through the loose dirt and small stone up to the cave entrance. The long walk from the village, the spiritual discovery, and the loss of blood had taken a toll. A wave of nausea overtook him, just shy of the cavern’s mouth. The world spun in his eyes, and Joah collapsed, his wounded hand reaching out to the darkness.
I stare at that light,
that light at the end of the tunnel,
and I wonder,
“Why are there no colors?”
Then I devour the light.
I watch it twist and dance –
it is not only at the end of the tunnel,
but it runs along the sides,
I long to drink it.
The uselessness of these words!
ow many times
do I say the exact thing,
Every time these same,
What are they?
An expression of my desire?
I write them,
think them to the light,
hoping it will hear,
(for written language is nothing
to the light).
I beg again for that light,
and I touch it with my finger,
snapping the dream.
I fall again into the useless reality.
The light will not let me in,
But no one else can see it,
and I quake with frustrated rage.
But in that light,
reality and that narrow tunnel between
are less than a dream.
There I know myself,
as I melt into my guide
and the light penetrates
purging it of shadow,
fusing it to another soul,
But where is my guide,
and for how long must I search?
I grow weary of games,
of testing through words,
these same words.
Step into the light with me,
hold my hand and we will explore that world.
We can explore the light.
I say ‘we’,
but who is that other?
Where can I find that soul
One that wants to taste that light
if only you could see that light
as I do!
If you had put your hand into it
and felt that jolt
that stops the heart.
There I have seen the world melt
as time stood still.
There you can go beyond tasting the world,
drinking her colors.
come with me –
it is so much easier than you think.
and come with me.
I cannot understand your fear,
and I hope that you do not see the light
through my words only,
for they are nothing.
I hope that you have been touched by the light.
But your fear speaks otherwise.
Let me take you to the light.
So it looks like all I’ve got now is what’s in this pocket.
Memories don’t fit,
so I slip them to the wind.
Run away again,
do you think this is something I need?
Do you think I like to be bitten?
I see these walls surrounding your faces,
stories of lifetimes I no longer care to know.
I have been lost,
and you all have lost me too,
I look inside,
then in this little pocket to see what I’ve got –
a wad of cash and a few pieces of paper,
some soviet smokes and the keys to my cell.
This is not my world.
as I had once hoped,
but now I see this is a foreign place to me,
I am alien.
I look in this pocket,
what I’ve been given to finish
whatever it is I must do here.
I look and see my work,
words of welcome,
expressions of friendship,
but none of you knows what I keep in my pocket,
and you never will.
I am a liar,
and a mocker,
and I suffer from emptiness.
what did you expect?
Why did you call me friend?
Have we given each other something,
Do you know me?
Is you life different without me?
That is why I look to this pocket –
to see what’s left
and to know what is mine.
do not call me friend,
for such we are not.
I am an island here,
in this world,
in your world.
I am alien,
nakedly clutching the meager contents of my pocket.
A wad of cash,
and some soviet smokes.
That is all I have to fight the emptiness?
But what do you know of emptiness?
Or for that matter,
Who are you to judge what you cannot fully see?
Can you speak of my love,
of what I have tasted and helped to shape?
Who are you to believe I am as simple as what the surface belies?
I have no room in my heart
for your sadness,
and your biting words are nothing –
it’s sad with only this pocket,
and this handful of life.
But I have loved like none can imagine.
I have loved purely and deeply and solemnly.
Fly away blindness!
And send your biting words to the wind.
They will not fit in this pocket.
And by the shores of the Birra,
on the very banks,
The river blonde,
for in spring’s thaw,
the water flows white,
the color of the hair of Birra’s mother,
who into the falls dove
to rescue her child
and now searches eternally,
raging in the spring
for the loss of her daughter.
And on this river lived Arbin,
and by this river
oft on here very banks
and Arbin grew crafty,
for the love of knowledge flowed in Arbin’s heart,
through his solitude,
was the only love
his heart knew.
And long he studied,
and long he grew old
even as he learned of death
and of dying
Arbin drank of the cup of mortality
as only Arbin could study,
and learned of shadow-lore
and darkness magic
and of the very changing of natures.
And Arbin first learned of the name Arrueil,
the false giver.
Oft I long for greatness,
To taste of the cup that few do,
Tho I know it is rich with solitude
Alas, but to be great,
To bear that soul bursting forth,
Soaring to heights incomprehensible!
But I understand the cost,
And I swallow potential
As part if the dutiful repast,
Seasoned with bitter mediocrity,
Shall the flavor lean to regret?
“How do you spell emptiness?”
I asked and she held out her hand,
withdrew her heart,
and breathed my name.
“How do you draw alone
and tore the colors from the sky.
I danced that night the dance of the trees,
drawing of magic from the Earth
as I cried for the changes in my heart.
“No one dances together,”
again breathing my name,
again tasting my name in the wind.
“no one dances together,
and together is not…
“Look at me!”
dull words that came back to me on that wind,
that most terrible wind.
“look at me and see me,
for my insanity is not of the surface.”
I glanced at my skin,
The dance for that day,
again the dance of the trees
was meaningless in her eyes,
and she knew nothing,
only I knew.
The stars loved me that night,
and the moon touched the world
with her cold light –
there were no more colors to steal from the sky.
Afraid and alone melted in my knowledge
and she diminished to a shadow.
Here at the edge we are all the same,
and she diminished.
“you know nothing,
and have no wish to learn.
You know only of my emptiness,”
as the cure was lost with the colors
as the night awoke and scattered the day.
She knew nothing of nothing,
and still I believed her,
her honeyed voice of milk,
sliding the blade into my world –
I would not be that again.
The past is a story, a legend.
for thoughts of yesterday make you die.
“Do not wilt,”
I told her,
for already I had dreamt of fire
and of paradise falling.
“Do not think of the legend,
of what was or who I hoped to be,”
I grew enraged with futility
as her mind closed on false thought.
Drown this story,
forget these colors -the moon and the stars,
for fantasy shines form within,
and it is to the inside we must flee.
The inside is safe,
I go to the inside when I think of your name.
I go to watch the tragedy melt.
I go for the rivers.
I fell into the river that night
as she sang the similarities
between my name
I pulled her down into the river to stop the song
and to find those colors.
I danced in the water,
again the dance of the trees,
and forgot of empty
and of words –
I forgot the difference.
I am there now,
sinking in the river,
forgetting yesterday and her stories.
I sink into peace.
It is with such sadness,
that I look into those eyes to see
reflected pain tinting all that is observed,
coloring this world
foul mood fey and twisted with wroth.
I long for your consumption,
to be the burning, grinding, flaming end
to what little hope you have held,
what false projections
of justice and hope with which you color your visions.
breath of cruelty takes me,
smiling blackness over my shoulders peers,
whispering voices churning thought,
come to me so that I may eat you up.
I long to twist.