Today I chose to be a writer

Tomorrow I think I'll Be a Fisherman


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The Navigator

Rudderless they traveled

On mountaintops they gathered

Sought and swayed, along they swung

Unbeknownst, at her mercy they hung.

 

Serpentine shadows slither and wry

Seraphic spies sing of their light

Though Eris O discord you are the prettiest

Ti kallisi you called and tore asunder their plight

 

Upon this blunder, chaos unleashed

Alone you stood, your fury appeased

Before you, a spiraling mass of no-thing leered

among this maelstrom, naught was queen.

 

But fear you not for One has appeared

 

Inspired by genius the djinn has desired

To act as a vessel for being to thrive

A navigator has risen and taken up the fight

To push through your waters, a bright flame alights

 

Veritably chaotic your waters do flow

And through them to Will is the way

Inspired and lucid, a pinnacle aspires

A reflection of you, inverted but true.

 

Pine not O Eris, for One is ablaze
From naught came one, the Navigator inspires

A brilliance so astral, the spirit awakes

To learn your movements

step and sway

To spin and turn to your rhythm

ebb and flow

To lavish your beauty

Ecstasy!
Ataraxy.

 

In societies they gathered

While forward they plunged

to emulate their forefathers

her name they expunged

 

Spires so tall, rise fiery and bright

Tremendous endeavors of glory and might

Serpentine shadows slither and wry

Ti kallisi you call and render them slight

 

All falls and crumbles when she sings and humbles

inherent destruction is never a slight

when Discord O Eris is left to her sleight

Behold her elation; a glorious sight

A rebirth is neigh, the Navigator inspires.

 

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Jack in the box

Shaded black and white, and enveloped in old news paper.
Forgotten but not ignored it lay awaiting the beholder.
Once beheld its shaded nature began to deepen and brighten, a myriad of colors and hues escape into the ether, enlightening all which it surrounds.


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The Gift

This realm is but a field of knowledge, and we its fruiting bodies.
Torn open, this field of knowledge reveals
a great expanse wherein a turbulent river of pure consciousness flows;
rushing by in torrents of ideas, magic, and divinity,
maelstroms spray mercurial droplets onto ethereal banks in a thin mist.
Deep in its flowing pattern ancient shapes and archaic runes appear, resonating with Intention.
Deep from its spiraling waters rise tendrils of benefaction
that reach into the mind of Being, to provide
the essential spirit of awareness.

To think and reflect, absorb and create. We paint it all with our eyes!
Each Being and seraphic Form a part of the celestial process.
To communicate is a such a gift, to reach into that flow and gather a bit of knowledge,
focus it in the mind and then release it through the mouth.
It calls to me, this field of knowledge-this flow of ideas, like a mythical siren, it calls to me.
To See and experience it, to drown in it…
A warm voice exclaims a dire warning from a distance:

Beware for I am Old and Treacherous, Within there is no logical path and you WILL get lost.

Will i think to myself, as I rush into the chimerical rabbit-hole, Will is all we’ve got.


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We See Far

In the azure early morning, a point of light appeared and the world began to transform before our eyes.

Buildings stretched and seemed to come alive; fiery and gold. The air filled with an orange glow, deep blues and reds rip through the chasm of night and a fluid ring of fire appears on the horizon.

Transfixed we stare, as an event horizon unfolds before us and we are suddenly caught in an infinite moment that extends to an ever shimmering point in cascading colors and divine fractal misalignment.

In that moment I swirl inwards towards it, a loony smile on my five faces, and my fifteen eyes fiery and mad with love.


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A Static Hum

Beat sore, but still trudging along; the broken mends as time spirals outwards ad infinitum, and along I go- a writer, an observer, eyes wide and thirsty to see. Finding inspiration in strange corners of reality and fleeing one vice only to find the next, most days I find myself lost in thought for hours, dazed, and bewildered. Overwhelmed with love and hate, peace and anger, lust, madness, and all the other joys of being an insane ape. A teacher? Ha!! How can I teach if it’s all so unclear, what do I see which I can point to and describe? Better yet, who the fuck am I to say what that which I am pointing to is? and for that matter who is anyone? But, Here I go anyway because I Am! As Is everything else, as it should Be, for it could never not Be.

This is a mad house, a playground for thoughts and ideas, for brilliance and darkness- a game of polarity and duality. At some point in this game, a strange psychotic ape finds itself aware and able to assimilate grand ideas and express them with words and pictures and symbols (oh the symbols!). I’ve had insane visions through a keyhole, and saw through the eternal eyes of a tree, in a frenzied moment of schizophrenic clarity, the very fractal which drives our consciousness towards a defragmented and delirious end.

An ancient eye, watching the sun rise over a plane of eternal ideas blinks away ethereal tears of quicksilver into an unevenly dug borrow underneath the tree of life, and under that tree suckling on those mercurial essences are thirteen unholy bastards and their thirty three bastard children.

A Mad house I tell you, a static hum, an interference pattern, an ongoing cosmic orgy of dire explosions and minuscule annihilation, an illusory field of existence in which desensitization is appreciated as growth and wisdom.

Listen closely and synchronicity will speak volumes, let it rule and go where it takes you, this has always been my motivation. Alas! This illusionary field solidifies and is subjected, a spiral slowly digresses into a dull circle with no holy progression, and the thudding of marching boots overpower such a fleeting sound. Thirteen unholy bastards are hard at work and within their trinity we are all enthralled.


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One Who Sighs

Within the place we all exist ,

is a voice that whispers softly.

It murmurs ancient secrets into the ether.

listen well and you may hear

an eternal song of sorrow,

Telling the tale of a melancholic sparrow,

who could not sing but only sighed.

The soul reproaches it’s disconnection from the whole.