You, a Palimpsest

You author reality with metaphors

and verb to make a living

while the ghost writers circle

like carrion birds, waiting to rip

your soul from your flesh.

You, a palimpsest, have shed

covers, switched genres, crossed out

every adjective you used to be;

and I, your avid reader, await

your next page, enthralled

and close to tears, overlooking

your plotholes.

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You, a Fractal

You pull yourself in, deliberately,
abruptly peaceful in your fate: being
a minuscule point of space, a short line through time.
You call it progress but I resist,
caressing the dials of my perceptions 
to watch you bloom
in all directions, infinitely, like a fractal-soul,
which is, after all, just a point, a line,
multiplied forever. Or
in other words, your full potential.

Fierce Gentleness

The gentle ones get called

the worst of things

(of course they take it lightly),

and they know victory doesn’t lie

in how loud you can be, how proud

or how abrasive, how brutal.

Authenticity shouldn’t be an excuse

to inflict one’s insecurities

on the unsuspecting. No, the wise are still raw

when speaking in varied dulcet tones,

knowing how to reach people at their level,

how to win an argument without arguing

at all. Real strength goes undetected

most of the time, but humbleness is

underrated besides. Why take oneself

so seriously, when everything

is infinitely meaningful

and infinitely meaningless at once?

Gentleness is no mere trojan file,

but wild freedom to live

thoughtfully, and keep youthful, longer,

watching more than talking.

When did authenticity come to mean bravado

and pride in your tragic flaws?

Othello’s sorry, but most asses aren’t,

as an ass continues to be an ass —

glorifying assery, throwing ass parades.

I don’t have to be loud

to be heard. People will lean in

to hear a whisper, and remember it.

Maybe even treasure it.

 

 

 

A New Shamanism

Spirit knows no time or place

besides everything, everything at once,

all life and all death at once,

all beauty and ugliness,

all passion and emptiness,

everything, everything at once.

Everything that has or ever shall have

spirit are now alive, forever.

It is but a little thing

to slip into this vast river’s flow, visiting

sorrows past and future

to breathe comfort and love

as the spirit guide you are and were and will always be.

Reaching back

to your pain-struck child self, or youth, or adult, whisper:

You’re not alone. You are loved. You are infinite

and wondrous and perfect.

I will come when you need me.

Keep your promise. Face the pain. Visit

until you remember

how a spirit of light came

when you needed her.

 

Life; Death

Disaster days keep us alive.

We eat the dead. We burn the dead

and build from the dead, a fate

no cry of compassion can quit.

Disaster is the elixir of life, bringing

us to boil with adrenaline

until we feel on fire, so alive.

Complete peace only stagnates, dulls and deadens

as cunningly as poison,

and small sips make us all think we’re immune

but real salvation lies

in the terror of existence, where we live

just atoms away from death, always.

Here, there’s nothing to do but dance

between every breath

that could be our last.

Anything could happen.

It’s the disaster days that throw

us onward through time; it’s death

that gives us life until we die.