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Some people are passionate about aisles, others about window seats.

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That's How Disconnected 'Some' People Are

The best way to keep a happiness achieved,
Is to remember...
How it was obtained.
Since many who envy it,
Believe what one has...
Can be purchased at a flea market.
Or received by way of a fling at a bar!
And they are upset,
A bargain was uncovered...
Before they got the opportunity to flaunt it themselves.
That's how disconnected from reality,
'Some' people are!
The others automatically assume it's fresh dicreeted sex.

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Some People Are Wrong

Some people are wrong
I think Christina is hot
She is so gorgeous
Full figured women are great
More cushion for the pushin

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Some People Are Just Lucky

What, if anything, in a tomorrow wished,
Is guaranteed?
If the ability to experience the 'now' today,
Is an activity done that can be achieved.
Besides procrastination?
And many daily do that AND succeed.

Too often it is heard by some,
What they can not do...
Because there is no time to find.
Or funds to wine and dine themselves!
As if in a 'tomorrow'...
A lottery win will come to change their minds.

However,
Explain this to me...
What, if anything, in a tomorrow wished,
Is guaranteed?
If the ability to experience the 'now' today,
Is an activity done that can be achieved.
Besides procrastination?
And many daily do that AND succeed.

And why do those who seem to be in sacrificial mode,
Are always considered the ones who are lucky...
When working hard all their lives,
Creating their own opportunities.

'I never see those folks out socializing anywhere.
And they always look tired and haggard! '

~I wonder why? ~

'Maybe they stay home laying on the couch.
Watching too much TV? '

~That's what I do.
I don't look like that.
In fact, the doctor told me I was getting fat.
And I know I keep active.~

'Yeah,
Some people are just lucky.'

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Some People Are Blind

Some people have eyes
But can not see
While those who are blind
Can guide those
Who are lost like me
For true sight is a gift
From God
That shines from within
With his guideing love
That has no end
So these eyes
That can not see
See clearer than those
Who can see

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Inspiration, motivation, satisfaction

Your wants and needs are not the same.
You needs you cannot do without.
Your wants are quite a different game.
Things that you choose to dream about.
Long cherished dreams can motivate
you to make that extra effort
and when you win appreciate.
It was much easier than you thought.
Some people are content to dream
others will make their dreams come true.
All part and parcel of life’s scheme.
Dreamers just dream and doers do..
Though some of us combine the two
We dream at first and then we do.

Saturday,21 August 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

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French Kissing Life

And any minute she's gonna blow
I need a shave and I need some rest
I know some people are worried about me
But I'm french kissing life square in the mouth
Sailing out on the sea
Went through customs and immigration
Still this feels like home
I'm floating 'round through Gorda Sound
With a cooler and a bong
Maybe I could've been a pirate
Maybe in my next life that's what I'll be
French kissing life square in the mouth
Sailing out on the sea
Tonight I don't need to feel famous
Out here all I feel is free
French kissing life square in the mouth
Sailing out on the sea
Maybe I could've been a pirate
Maybe in my next life that's what I'll be
French kissing life square in the mouth

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Some people are more terrorist than others.

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Facts are, insurance ratings are really dependent on the notion that some people are higher risk than others.

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Some people are your relatives but others are your ancestors, and you choose the ones you want to have as ancestors. You create yourself out of those values.

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Patrick White

Waiting For A Thunderstorm

Waiting for a thunderstorm
just me and the moon
and these deserted streets with their heritage lamps
and tungsten suns
swarming with frenzied insects
like the brain of the occasional crackhead
who's made a hoody of the night
and pulls it down tighter as he passes
wondering whether he should have asked me for a cigarette.
Lines from sad songs like lingering smoke
from distant fires
curl through my head
like the ghosts of roads I once walked
then break off like old shoelaces.
O and the faces
like blossoms from a tree
hidden deep in the night
suddenly crossing the moon
like birds with messages and destinations
not meant for me anymore.
Kids wives lovers friends.
Imperatives of tenderness
like the first sight of her
shy and naked
and the first angry word
from his mouth
that ever passed between us
as we both stood in silence
knowing the weld
would be stronger than the original bond.
The first scar to ever write alif on my daughter's skin
like a tiny sabre of Kufic script
you could touch
only if you were very very careful
it was so sacred
she revered it like a holy book.
The first time I ever realized
making my son breakfast in the morning
as he usurped my chair like a throne
and shrieked with laughter
daring me to uproot him
like a baby tooth
that he was fathering me
as much as I was fathering him.
And we could both feel the new ones growing in.
Evanescence of time
releasing the flavours and fragrances
of wounded flowers like cultish elixirs
into the humid night air.
Auroral phantoms of past raptures
gather and disperse
and gather again
like radiance and rain
like carnal intensities
red-shifting into the spiritual immensities
of an ageing star.
A squad car slows down to check me out
and I expect any moment
to be talking to a cop
like a fast food attendant
at a drive-through window
but he decides I'm not a threat to the food chain
and cruises off.
And what could I have said to him
if he had asked me
what I'm doing out so late and alone
if I'd been in the mood to be accurate.
I'm watching water lilies
banked along the star streams
bloom and perish like Cepheid variables.
I'm remembering all the women
I've ever loved
teach the green phoenix
how to burn in the autumn like sumac.
And then eat my own ashes
like honey from an urn
without getting them all over my heart.
The uncontained contents
of an intimate stranger
passing the closed gates
of a more habitable solitude than mine
listening to the picture-music of his past lives
brighten the wind with fireflies
with the spearheads of weeping candles
guarding the entrance to Eden
as if there were no return address
on the uncensored love letters
that expressed the innocence
of our tragic insight
into the mutability of love.
A furtive young man bobs up
like an apple in a dumpster
in the grocery store parking lot
and stares at me
as if the whole world had root rot.
I make myself as inconsequential as I can
and pass on
wishing I had enough
to take him to Mac's Milk
and buy him some pizza pockets
that four and twenty blackbirds
don't fly out of
like a nursery rhyme
that's as real to him
as the seagulls and crows
he shoos away from his garbage-can
like fierce competitors
for a place in the ark
of his peerless lifeboat.
Humans live to eat to be hungry.
Life eats life to live.
It's incestuously symbiotic.
It's cannibalistically psychotic.
It's a perpetual agony machine.
The big fish eat the little fish
and the little fish have to be smart.
This one swallows like a silo.
This one steals food
from the begging bowls of children's mouths.
And that one
makes you think
he's as sweet as St. Francis of Assisi in poverty
as he brushes the flies off a butter tart
and smiles like grace
over something he found half-eaten
and cast away as he is.
Sweet mother of God
have your breasts withered
like the collapsed parachutes of emergency airlifts?
No more manna?
No more locusts and honey in the wilderness?
No more milk of human kindness?
No more galaxies at the spigots of your tits?
Just this ferocious squall of hot toxic vipers
falling like acid rain
down a dry wishing well
that ran out of holy water
like a gnostic mirage
in a hermetic desert of stars?
Are you past the age of child-bearing.
Are you laughing with Sarah
at the very idea of giving birth again.
Have you come to the end of your rope
like the bloodlines of great nations
in the loins of hapless prophets
sacrificing their sons to you
even though you asked for goat
in a holy war of sibling chromosomes?
Are you finished for good
with morning sickness and messiahs?
Have you had enough of immaculate miscarriages
that rise from the tomb
like a man not born of a woman?
No more loaves and fishes?
There's a genie.
There's a lamp.
But no more wishes?
There's a prayer mat.
There's an oilwell.
But no more flying carpets?
There's a fortune cookie.
There's a message in a bottle.
But only this afterlife of lottery tickets
and instant wins
that rip the wings off the heels
of mercurial chance
and alchemical hopes
of turning base metal into gold
with instant defeats
that are as quick on their feet
as turtles and hares on steroids?
The fruitless anomalies of a complex man
bewildered by his own helplessness
not knowing whether he should
insist on the birthright of food with a fist
or open his heart and his hand
and give everything he's got to give
though there's as little protein
in the names of his mythic ideals
as there is among the hungry ghosts of fame.
Estrangement and outrage.
The savaged dignity of the cornered
eating their own hearts for the courage
to face their sacrificial lives again another day
like the strategic retreat of an ice age
trying not to do any damage
as they gouge their eyes out in their dreams
and silence the birds with their screams.
Sometimes I think the radiance
I see in the stars and people's eyes
whatever they're looking at inside themselves
isn't so much a function of light
as the shriek of murdered mirrors.
But way leads on to way
and by the time I get down
to the willows on the bank of the Tay
I'm alone again in my own agony
and the willows sway
and the river flows
and the eternal sky
does not inhibit the flight of the white clouds
everything in passage
a water snake riding
the wavelengths of the moon
like a mirage of dead seas in a desert.
And the deep unsayable sadness returns
to pervade and saturate the mind
with ephemerids of the heart
that resonate in time
like the last flowers of the summer.
Translucent simulacra of past familiars
who once possessed me
like occult seasons of the soul
that scattered like leaves and water birds
but made such an impression
upon the waters of my life
they're indelible reflections
left untouched
by the summons and imperatives
of the long seances of the heart
and quick exorcisms of the mind
cooling the swords and grails of their passions
in star streams exalted beyond thought.
Focused like a drone strike
hunting frogs among the irises
a wild cat disregards me.
A fish jumps at a mosquito.
A flash of long distant lightning.
The shorter circuits of the fireflies.
Headlights slashing through the dark groves
beyond the train tracks
that intersect the road by the cemetery.
Elephantine clouds labour for a mouse of rain.
But every dropp a star globe
and the whole of the moon and the sky
in each little tear of a world.
Beauty in the pain of departure
comes like a consolation
and leaves like an alibi.
The willows have lost their flowers
and soon enough their birds.
Some people are buried deeper than others.
And some are at a loss for words.
And some rely on bells
to temper the severity
of their disciplined farewells.
Each of us reaches out for the other
as if we could touch time itself
and gentle it
like a feather of a breath upon our skin
that for a few unborn moments
that last longer than life
makes light of death
for not knowing where to begin.

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A Asome Poem About PEOPLE

Some people
Care about you, some people
Don’t care,
Make fun of you and walk away,
Some people,
Run past, some people
Hand you presents,
Give you a pat on the back,
Some people
You love, some people
You don’t know
Some people, some people,
You do,
Some people
You notice, some people
Eat cauliflower, some people
Are teenagers,
Some people walk to restaurants,
Sit down at the counter,
Eat there food, through it at
People,
Some people never notice you,
Some people always look, some people
Want to take you away, some people
Will never exist
Some people are other people; some people are you, some people
Die ever second,
Some people are you

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Quatrain #318 - Some people may think and say........

Some people may think and say that ignorance is bliss,
while others refute the idea as nonsense and so dismiss.
They also add that if we don't know about something it probably wont hurt
but if we do know it can make a world of difference and any danger avert.

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Why people are self centered?

Why people are
Self centered?
Think only about
Themselves
They feel
Their desires are most
Important
Let others go to hell
Not concerned
About others feelings
I and mine reign
Supreme
In their mind
They think
Nobody knows their truth
Forgetting
Truth cannot be hidden
For a long time
Time certainly will teach them
A lesson
One day they shall cry
For support from others
Only to find
There is nobody
To help them
In the vicinity around
They become isolated
Treated as an outcast
Only to repent
Throughout their life
For their deeds and behavior
Which nobody liked

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People Are Attempting to Escape from Facts

A comfort in passing judgement on others,
Has its way of returning this activity...
Right back to those detractors.

For a long time it was believed the Earth was flat.
And there were scores of people,
Who would despise others...
Opposing with a difference of opinion.

In fact...
People were expected to keep their mouths closed.
As if to be kept sealed and 'labelled'.
Entrapped to pay for their lack of conformity.

Today...
Something about that has changed.

Today?
People are attempting to escape from facts...
To have others pay to enhance delusions,
That will never become realities.

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Do You Think 'They' Are Conscious Of It?

Why is it that some people are racists?

'For the same reason Zebras are black and white.'

But Zebras were born with their stripes.
Do you think any of them stay aware of it.
To go around making announcements,
As to which animals they dislike?

'Who knows?
Which color do you suppose they prefer? '

That probably depends,
Upon where they go...
With the getting of a needed attention.

'Do you think 'they' are conscious of it?
The others who are also different? '

Which ones?
They are all unique and different.
You mean the Elephants, the Tigers...
Lions, Hippos, Leopards?
Or the Monkeys, Chimpanzees or the Apes?
To me they all look the same.

'What about the Giraffes?
They are different than the Kangeroos.'

No.
They probably look above all of that.
And besides...
Kangeroos are not of African descent.

'Do you think they harbor resentment because of it?
Because they too are different? '

Who?
The Kangeroos?

'No...
The racists.'

Maybe that's a reason why they refer to themselves,
As the 'majority'.

'Of what? '

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Some People Fly

Used to be a time
We held the world.
Wrapped round our finger tips
Laughing at what others missed. someday, yesterday
The magic we felt went away.
Grow up somebody said... tell me where its gone
So I can go find it now. I cant live your way.
Go ahead without me.
Ill find my own way
Some people fly... and some of us worry about touching
The sun with wings. I know if I try Ill get where Im going,
Keeping my eyes on the sky.
The box you live within is strong and its up to you
To see beyond the comfort zone youve grown to love.
Theres more to life than that. the expectations
That you hold will keep you down and make you old
If you cant see what Im trying to say, maybe you just
Need to wear my shoes for awhile. I cant live your way.
Go ahead without me.
Ill find my own way
Some people fly...and some of us worry
Id risk it all to have wings.
I know if I try Ill get where Im going,
Keeping my eyes on the sky.
While you sit there and think about it, theres another
Unfolding their wings. I can tell you what its like, but,
Until you try, youll never see what I mean.
Some people fly...and some of us worry
Ill touch the sky with my wings.
I know if I try Ill get where Im going,
Keeping my eyes on the sky.
Keeping my eyes, keeping my eyes on the sky.

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Tossed About

Some souls are tossed about as waves, listening to how religion saves,
That what Christ did is not enough, along with additional religious stuff,
As many preach a salvation today, ignoring that Christ is the Only Way;
It was not men, but Jesus Christ, Who said I’m The Way, Truth and Life.

We’re warned not to add or subtract, from what the Bible states as fact,
But, that’s what many religions do, misleading people, like me and you;
Being spiritually tossed, to and fro, by the leaders who profess to know,
The Truth of God, but are deceived, as God’s Spirit they never received.

While all who’ve received His Spirit, know spiritual error when they hear it,
So being led by Truth through Grace, we’re to contend for one true Faith,
Forewarned of the teachings of men, that The Lord Himself will condemn,
All errors born out of vain philosophy, which entangles souls in religiosity.

We are to warn them from God’s Truth, so they may avoid strong reproof,
And not just a strong rebuke from us, but the judgment from Christ Jesus,
Who’s coming back to judge all men, all the religious, but, not born again,
Teaching without the Spirit of God; deceiving souls all across earth’s sod.

God’s warning in Revelation is clear, but, many simply choose not to fear,
While they add to and or take from, the very words of God’s Eternal Son,
Who’ll send them the plagues found in, God’s closing book of Revelation,
And their share from The Tree of Life, shall be taken away by Jesus Christ.

(Copyright ©12/2010)

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Patrick White

Some People Like To Take A Water Droplet

Some people like to take a water droplet
and turn it into a haiku.
Some people like to write
like the loose thread
of a quick-witted alpine stream
trying to unravel the mountain all the way down
with dazzle and flash.
But when I shoot my mouth off
about what I don't know about nightingales
it always comes out ice-hot stars
above a rush of northern rivers,
the Mackenzie, the Fraser, the Thompson
and when I want to risk
my cowboy B.C. French in public,
the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
Some people like to weave their mindstreams
into lakes with their third eyes open
to the flight of the white clouds
and the sky that doesn't inhibit them,
but me I like to flow and fall and crush
swell and fork, shift, shape, loop, swerve,
destroy, nourish, and change course
like the Ottawa or the Skeena
in the May spring run off
when the ice floes and weight-lifting waters
are flexing their muscles
in powerfully sculpted anthracite and jade.
A river, yes, blackwater and white alike;
what could be more
quintessentially Canadian than that?
A river as inhospitable and bleak as the Arctic
toward life in its beginnings,
and still as wild and dangerous as Hell's Gate
as it approaches the sea
after many perils and epiphanies.
I am the sorcerer's apprentice
when it comes to rivers
but I like to go with the flow, the power, the depth
the cosmic expansion of their homelessness,
the cataracts and wetlands of their manic mood swings,
the way they uproot and sustain,
carve traffic islands out of granite
and tear down bridges in their path
and then slow down mellifluously
to let a doe come out of the woods to drink
from the reflection of the way the water sees her.
I give the orange spruce root rot in rusty shallows
and strip the bark from defrocked trees
the herons nest in like a brain trust.
Grizzly, moose, cougar, wolf,
elk, deer, beaver, mink and muskrat,
eagle, loon, drake and Canada goose,
what totem of star mud
has not mingled its blood in my flowing,
what stars have not tingled on my skin
like butterflies landing on single sunlit hairs,
what tribes have not sat around their fires
while I flint-knapped the moonlight
into radiant silver spears
as the waves made small music
like a background theme of silence?
I don't need to know where I'm going.
I can be Kelsey, Thompson, or La Verendrye,
and keep a journal of where I've been
and make rough sketches of what I've seen
because flowing freehand isn't a point
it's a destination that's always on the move
shooting the rapids of the life line
in the palm of your hand
as if life were precious enough to risk it all
to see how far you had to go
to flow off the edge of a starmap that doesn't know.
Clash, dash, swirl and recover,
turn, counter-turn, stand
I like to waltz my way out of knots and nooses
like an Horatian ode in the glands of a Romantic poet.
I like to boost the torque of my whirlpools and currents
and open up the throttle
on the straightaways of cobbled river stones
as if I had a big four-stroke between my knees.
Underwhelm the birch groves before the beavers do,
tear the cedars out like molars,
turn whole villages into houseboats
and take my wrath out on the petty roads
that whine like potholes and puddles
if it so much as even rains.
All weak threads of ancillary streams
are gathered up into the strong ropes
of northern rivers with enough spine and backbone
to have all their chakras open
like the lunar and the solar filaments of serpent-fire.
My poems taste of stone and glacier,
unnamed valleys where the red-tailed hawks
have never set eyes on a human
and the sound of a voice
leaves the mountains speechless,
not knowing what language to echo.
Roil, roll, tumble, and spume,
lost in a froth of creative chaos
that brings forth rainbows and stars
and auroral veils of water and light
to mystify the message in the medium
by frustrating the logic of syntax
in the scintillant radiance
of counter-intuitive metaphors
that relate in myriad family ways
like salmon swimming upstream
summoned out of the spontaneity of the past
against the flow of the timely waterclocks
up to the sacred pools of birth and death
to die like old moons in the arms of the new.
I wreck whole forests like the Spanish Armada.
People run to me like a lifeboat
for shelter and sanctuary from the fire.
A northern river is the jugular of a snow dragon
with its wings spread as wide as Canada
breathing fire like two year old red oak
in a Napoleon airtight with a see through window
and a ten inch Selkirk chimney
that looks like it were cast out of moonlight
instead of polished aluminum
on a cold clear winter night in the country.
A poem should not mean or be
but do something to you like Vancouver,
rip off that life raft you've moored yourself to
like a running shoe tied up at a dock
and throwing it down like a gauntlet at your bare feet
see if you can learn to sink or swim for yourself
or, at least, walk on stars,
or pull the thorns of crescent moons
you're bound to step on along the way
out of your heels with your teeth
like a wolf pulls a porcupine quill from its paw
with barely a whimper of regret.
Sometimes you've got to bite the bullet
to get it out.
But a river's like a barbed arrowhead
and it's better to push it all the way through
than it is to let it tear at your flesh
like a bobcat on its way out of the bag.
It's not a good idea when you're in a northern bar
to start arm wrestling
with drunken men who build dams for a living
but you can get away with it
if you're a river and not a highway,
because they of all people
know your potential for destruction
when you're backed up
and there's no other way out
except straight through a brick wall.
El Toro!
And there's a crack
in the cement cape of the matador
that taunted the broad-shouldered bulls of the river
like a cattle prod in their stalls,
and a horn through his gored heart.
Torrent, rage, acquiesce, and chill out,
yes, a northern Canadian river
will do just fine as a similitude
for the way I like to write,
a neural connection to the planet,
a water root of dendritic black matter,
the circuitous blossoming
of wild irises and quaking aspen groves
all along the great water ways of life.
And as for inspiration
who needs more than the coming and going
of the waterbirds
to learn how to master words
as if they were as free to be what they are
as I am?

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Patrick White

Some People Go Looking For Happiness

Some people go looking for happiness.
Some prefer power or beauty wealth and fame.
Some crave intensity.
Some seek peace.
Some search for food and shelter.
Some want to die with a good name.
Everybody takes their lead from the way they came.
And everyone says they're looking for love
though no one knows what it looks like.
They try to fit their thoughts to their words
like skin they can touch
that doesn't scar like the moon
or shed like a petal too delicate for the senses
but most just end up trying
to mummify the mindstream
by laying thousands of years of starmaps
down on troubled waters
like autumn leaves
that don't know where they're going.
Eventually everything's swept away
in the undertow of a dark ocean
that only smells sweet from a distance.
And longing shifts like infra-red into the blackness.
And bones on the moon are the only signs
that life once perished here.
Orphic skulls whose jaws dropped
like gates before their own gaping prophecies.
Time flows like a non-existent future into us
and it fills us with a hunger
for everything we've lost
or feel somehow was always missing.
One of the cardinal features of the emptiness
we are conceived again and again out of
is there's nothing behind its face
you can fix like an identity to space.
For fourteen billion years
the universe has been nothing
but one long beginning without end
making everything up as it goes along
out of nothing
like a man whistling down a long road
far from home
late at night
to let anything that might be listening in the darkness
know he's there
so nothing can take him by surprise.
And every step he takes
he steps across a threshold like a star
just coming into being
whose light goes off in all directions
looking for blind water it can turn into eyes.
Bosons hadrons leptons neutrinos wimps and quarks
the deeper you look into the matter
the more you realize
out to the furthest galaxy and beyond
seeing is being
and being is all fireflies.
And every one of them
is true north of nowhere.
Some people follow their own beginnings
like laws into the future
hoping to become someone else
that doesn't recognize them anymore
for who they were.
The peduncle's lost in the ensuing phylum.
Their future's rich
but their past is always poor.
The planet doesn't spin on its axis for them.
It's hinged like a door
that only opens one way
though it's a two-faced god
that begins them like last year.
But the leaves of autumn
aren't the laundered money of spring
because if our fulfilment
weren't already behind us
we wouldn't be here
trying to true the last to the first
of an unfinished multiverse
like the best to the worst
as if red were the past of blue.
Stop thinking birth is the past of death
or spring is the future of winter
as if they weren't the same breath
and one breath of life weren't enough
to keep the fireflies glowing in your ashes for eternity
and everywhere you look
you will flower like a vine
that divines its way to the wine
by ripening the grapes of gratitude.
You will understand
for all that you have grasped
and brought to fruition
your most exalted aspiration
is a heap of dead branches in the spring
burning like leaves of fire
still reaching out for the sun
and you will hear the mind-mirror whisper to itself
like the wind on far off waters
Narcissus is drowning in his own reflection
like the flashback of a life he left unlived
but everything is immersed in me
like a mind
like a sea in a fish that ran aground
on the uncharted landfalls of its own teaching.
And the wine will flower in your mouth like a grail
that's given up preaching
and finally found its own voice
like a bird returning to a tree at nightfall
to call out in its solitude
to the stars as they appear
we are here we are here we are here
where we belong
at peace with everything we're missing
everything we long for
everything we are and are becoming
that overtakes us like music from within
transforming the silence into song
the water into wine
small beings into a big space
looking into the passing face
of everything's that's mortal about us
with our eyes fixed upon the divine
not to see it in any one place
but with the presence of mind
to be wholly and impurely not that not this
without anywhere a trace of ultimacy
in this world that we take for a sign
we are here we are here we are here
and things are as they are
not as they must be.
Nothing got here legally.
What's the expanding universe
if not a refugee in its own country
somehow exiled from itself for reasons
only it can express?
Citizen Universe
show me your papers
your paintings your poems
show me how you dance on your own
show me how you put your children to sleep
show me how you bar an F chord
show me what you weep for
what you delight in
what you esteem
what you despise
what you ignore
what darkness of yours
feeds that inferno of stars above you
burning its constellations like passports
that aren't going anywhere
show me the black mirror
that says you don't belong here
like some misplaced night of the full moon
not marked on any calendar
show me the law of being human
that says this little piggy has one
and this little piggy has none
show me where it's written
the guest shall turn strangers away
from his host's generosity
like a dog at the door
that bares its teeth at the table
show me the home-made honey
of your wisdom
show me the dead lamps
of the apocalyptic fireflies
that designed your chaotic cosmology
by plagiarizing the light
to prove the stars
don't reserve
a space in the universe
for any insight of yours.
Nothing got here legally.
No one followed a coyote or a law
to cross the border
into this insurgency of being
no one checked the colour of your eyes
or profiled the light
to see if they were fit for seeing.
You don't need a constitution
to verify your liberty.
Well before you were born
you were free and ever shall be
to belong here as we all do
to pursue what makes us
sad mad bad or happy
the way we all got here
the way we all get through
the way we're all alone here together
with one another as we are with you
as we are with her and him and me
as we are with everything
as we are with ourselves
when we don't know who we're becoming
when we don't know the stranger on the bridge
watching the water flow
that's waiting to greet us on the other side
in the only way the unblighted heart of reality
we're all looking for
like blood on a grail-quest for our humanity
accepts the darkness that seeks us out
like a miraculous elixir of insight
so the kingdom won't fail
so the garden doesn't ask us
for a green card to know and grow
in the only way we truly belong here
in the only way we know how to be
so the lifeboat we're all in
like the same boundless mind
is always as full
as it is empty
so no one gets left out at sea
like a wave that couldn't be saved
and no one gets in
who doesn't know how to swim
the way we all got here
and continue to be
all these thresholds of the sea
that steps across us
even as we move like waves
breaking discipline with our own continuum
creatively.
Just to be here.
Just to crawl up on the shore of a new medium
like a refugee planting flowers
we brought from home
hoping we'll still be here
to watch them bloom.

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Calvin Klein

It seems there's always another rumor about my life; some people are simply talked about more than others.

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