I like to look at the sky without a voice in my ear. A simple thing, fingers on wood, a thing in a word, while an eye watches a few others. It’s nothing that needs to be remembered, other than the memory itself, and the one who took hold of creation. Isn’t it nice when you sit on a step, alone, at night, and see whatever is given without judgement.
I originally wrote this on 2/27/20 and find it rather fitting to post it again. Somehow the words are more true, for me, than one year ago. I published this just before my book signing last year, which was an incredibly fun time. And then, our country was shut down. It’s time for another book signing.
Have fun today,
‘You can force calm in the eyes of hatred, if you’ve been there before.’ He stomped through the mud, listening to the moist sounds, his boots covered in layers of love. “And what’s the about?” asked the tree with the misshaped mouth. ‘Nothing.’ “And why were you there?” ‘I don’t know, but I’m ready for when I am again,’ and the stomping continued and the mud said nothing.
On the Sevens I look. Often, they look back. Sometimes when I’m driving I’ll catch a few of them waiting to be seen. And when they are, they are seen forever as a reminder; much like the reminder in the wind. Sometimes silent, the spirit is like that. So we watch the wind and how the movement of leaves push thought into a tangible something. It could even be a footprint. The one closest to the leaf that just landed and the traveling to the leaf brought a self to a new moment; when the clearing of the mind was set free. Pick up the leaf.
Who’s there? Is it seen? Tomorrow woke early. we all sang a song. Blew a bit of a whistle heard ’round. Isn’t a fun think, thing to look through? Window pushed wide, been here a while, watching, now it’s yours again. Tag. You’re it.
When you have a mind that makes you different it feels un-different. Until faces talk at you and you bend to pick up their fluttering spectrum of voices while matching them to truth. At that point you realize you have a mind that is different again.
It’s hard keeping memories. They don’t always like us and sometimes
they are alive and know they are and when we don’t let them be they
then decide they’ll not let us be, so we twist and turn them around trying
to make them be what we needed them to be from the very beginning.
Drag muddied thoughts below where boots belong. Have you seen the eyes below. Stable happens after explosive actions, or, before them; just before we thought we knew enough to say so, but then again we didn’t. So, there was a boot, and the footprint is dying.
Grey area is a funny thing and we do funny things within it
while thinking of nothing more than what we do know while
trying to fit the things we do not know into what we do know
and there we have circle thinking in the middle of the night.
We can’t sleep because we’re spinning quickly with our grey
and black and what about if we try it this way while the way
to try it backed down a spinning hole so let’s chase it upon
itself until it can finally never not know about how it was created
in the first place- which of course was when we thought of
something we didn’t fully understand while climbing into a
hard cupboard with piercing nails trying to fit into a smaller space
with aggression, so let’s learn how to best fit into a one-piece word.
Let me be what I am. Bad faith. Good faith. It’s an I thing, not an Us thing. Kind of like when you sit on a porch, listening to people preaching about your life without asking about your life. Sit, sip the air, understanding the air may just sing a song with a bird in front of their faces with color and charm to correct their direction of speech and eye.
I just wrote a short story.
It was complete shit so I destroyed it.
I kept thinking about how we drive
down the highway at 95 MPH
and somehow, our fucking brains are able
to process every damn blade of grass,
every car slower than us, every grumpy face
we look at as we pass, and never do we
take time to think about how we’re able
to understand when to apply the brakes
while observing two lines side by side, which
aren’t that, but the number eleven instead.