Immigration part ii

A sap I was when I saddled my ass like a venus fly trap in search of something greater.

I rode it westward keeping a lookout for three wise men with bearded faces and magic underneath their conical hats.

What I found instead was the sea.

And she nudged her head upon my arrival, as if she’d been tired of waiting for me.

A quiet wave summoned me.

I waived the rules of natural law, and joined her company.

She told me of my thousand lifetimes, and took me to a new world with every lunar cycle that passed

so i washed upon as many shores as there are Arabian nights

This was when I realized we were made of the same salt, the sea and I

The same salt that corrodes the pendulum of uncertainty in this life and the next.

Every secret I had wispered in the beating ear drums of the wind on the nights of the winter solstice for lifetimes, she’d kept them dear, waiting for the right time to take me in.

winter solstice

Tomorrow is the night of our love’s fire.

On such a night that our love burns bold as saracens of old,

how my beacon of love will warm the night with his winter charm

or using castor oil.

On that night,

in the winter solace of the dreamy night

I will let my secret out into the wind and chase it with all the years of my youth’s might.

Ah! to be young again.

To know of neither sun nor storm, but only transcendence unto what really is.

To step over the destiny that was yesterday into the freedom that awaits tomorrow.

maggots for the living, japonicas for the dead

I’ve peeked behind the foggy mask of old death on a lazy sunday and this is what I smelled

fumes of the living

I’ve peeked behind the mask of death from the ravished woods and this is what I saw

charades of mighty maggots dying to eat away remnants of make-believe life

I’ve reached my resurrected hand out from behind the deafening mask of death and this is what I felt

meaty splendor!

I’ve peeked behind the mask of death while sitting on a lotus in front of a lemon grove and this is what  I realized

I’d be dead until I could unveil the stymied mask on life.

I’ve stepped from behind the cavernous mask of death

and finally lived truth.

BLOG HOG!

you know who you are! lol

The Blue Nile

I tiptoed like a serpent into the darkest hues of the blue Nile, and have there made my home.

I cut off my head, so that I could see through the eyelet of my chamber, of which I bear no remorse.

I saddled the other corpses, who couldn’t withstand the truth of the nile and slapped the worms that were eating the thoughts out of their foreheads.

After which, I wrapped the warmongers in the rich silt of the nile, and tyed them to my arms, so that I could fight the nile with these buoys of lost hope.

And now, I wait for the nile to muster enough courage to show me who I am.

Plot of leaves

With decayed fervor, my tired leaves rest their skulls upon the face of buried treasure,

as they tip their fingers in scornful attempt to latch onto the gangrene legs of superficial life.

Oh Wooly hope gift wrapped in weeping willows!

We’ve given our wretched, lonesome beggers.

So feast the maggots as they come to devour my corpse today.

For this buffet of Judas flesh will be minced to pieces, so that my undercurrents may finally see the sun.

what in a leaf.

Lowly serf of the cosmos, quit hiding your guise. I know what it is you do in the machinery of night. Do not worry, I will not tell, for it is in the dead of night that I saw with mine own owl eyes, your wings born to help you fly. Oh promiscuous dream of mine to be as free as only you seem to be. Oh pregnant hope is all I carry upon my camel back. I am an unsettled gypsy hanged from my silhouette.

Well, I tip my hat to you far friend, as you mustn’t come this way ever again.  Tis what I mend my mind to do, be deilvered from all my wants, worries, and cured of all my wonders too. What in a leaf but a wilting old soul, who can only be free when his colors turn gold. For he will rest his thoughts upon the ground, and trust the wind to give them sound.

The traveling Leaf

I ran through burlap fires and danced through shimmering rain. I gave everything I had, but not without imposing a fee for my leave. 

I made amends as the rest were lost to the wind and sullied in spirit, yet it was I who had the guts to fly. By myself, I flew away, and stirred my uprooted soul. Perturbed from harmony, and missing my stem, I learned more of me than chlorophyll ever will.

And this is why I still soar.

In autumn, I am a blushing bride. Under the subterrain of the Tundra winter, I am gold unalloyed.  I take a short power nap underneath the permafrost, so that I may be fully ready. For this time, when I awake, I will run through the corn fields of devotion into the air that hosts my creater, at last falling upon a new branch and reuniting with my stem. This was the joy of accepting his bargain.

The hardest thing to do.

The hardest thing to do is to accept the life waiting for me. To wake up early Christmas night and to realize though Christmas means everything, it means less at the same time. To realize that one red blood cell does not change into the shape of a sickle without His consent and to live as though that same red blood cell is in everyone from  Tibet to Tahiti and Tijuana too, all the same. Not white, not blue, not black, nor orange, just peace. To treat any progress one makes as needing more work than the Summoner and the Pardonner on their pilgrimage to Cantebury, and even then to continually strive. To drown in the billowing waters of truth, selflessness, and unity, such did Voltaire’s Jacques the good anabaptist if only to be spared another endless series of cycles of birth and death and finally live on. To amputate any part of the body in which the notorious “I” has spread pain, disater, dis-ease, and doom, whether be it finger, toes, hand or whole arm. And throw the shoulder under the saw along with’em just in case it too was tricked into believing that it was part of this “I.” To willingly and humbly hand over the the reigns and accept the staff. To use this staff  to aid you in walking straight, in climbing the mountain 10,000 leagues and more if it so goes, and to beat the hands of calamity that may try to thwart those plans along the way. And neither church, nor good deeds and service can teach one this. It’s the best unkept secret in the world, but the hardest one to listen to.

my lovers quarrel

My lovers quarrel rose, but not like dreams, more like a prickly cactus. With as much faith as if it were ready to die, it challanged me to a duel. I accepted the challange and soon stole a sword leaden in character, so I would be ready to face my fate.

My lovers quarrel carried me to battle, but not such like the one in Nam, more deadly, like the one that lies behind the lids of unsuspecting eyes and untapped consciousnesses. It forced me to let out my wounded battle cry, which was not a chirp, nor a hum, but more a sigh.

My lovers quarrel condemned the plot I rest my sole on, and right before I thought it over, told me to wake up!