it’s always much too soon, ahead of all parting

migrations are many
far and away
they go
within you with-out you
whether you do or do not know…
a delayed reaction
toward your realEyesed success
loving the word as you do
becoming the most outstanding
‘time-waster’ of your generation
as if on a well-trodden rockie-road in Afghanistan
where we’re constantly replaced
(in absorb’d reflections;
a screening in paraSympathetic relations)
to be aware where we are
faceBack’d
in a walk about
baby…
I was let-go due to Economic necessities, (
today there was a chill in the air)
yet, I rode my bionXbike 11k, eh
but it’s contagious, this lack-mentality
and dangerous, too
making making a difference marginalized or repressed
beating down the doors to get in
and by being deeply moved
so you no longer weep or laugh
so, it’s really beautiful
these migrations
we do not gently go through
to the last-laugh stage of life…
it does not fall everywhere, all at once.
and by going through the out-rageous repercussions
of throwing books around and
exclaiming with inflection,
‘look where knowledge got me now!’
underunderstand: we’d need not understand … there’s nice sounds in that – in a language we’d need not understand
or it’s really really another chance to recreate yourself
in the many mansions of your heart.
a fracture’d creature that looks over to see
this sudden sentimental-reality
it’s like they’re really only pointers
file’d under ‘with or without each other.’
yet
I’ll always take away something valuable,
about what I really want out of life,
so I can exact a plan to getting there…
it is always much too soon
’cause in duality it’s conflicted…
and it’s just another place where I’d desire only a deep sleep without too many dreams
and that the underworld would not have me…

civil-writes

?what does a Spiritual-Person look-like?
do they dare to look and look and see,
with an essential-self in-epiphany,

are they sloppy-solipsists for-soaking sentimental-reality,
hail'd by Mary everywhere on their pinnacle of doubt,
 cross'd in-divinity, individuated against impossible odds,
a magnificent rebellious-angel both within and with-out,
so illumentated with a fiercely-individual light,
or are they more often under
understood and out-of-sight

do they make meanings so merCuriously aware,
do they wear super-fantastic under-wear,
naked just-there, between their inner-whirl'ds and
 outer-airs, expediting creative-destructions negative-space,
a certain semi-someone somewhere
                so enthralled with all the rush
                                   at the speed of life
                 rolling with their body of cycles to
                        cross the thresh-hold of push and shove
 just to make-nice...

expanding negative-space

...from the eye
of an artist's
howling-pen
language-weeps

language-weeps

after-words language-weeps

from the wounds that reason makes;

seep from wounds of omission,
seep from some-deep-super-scary-SaṃsKāra,
seep from some gimme-gimballed lurching-duality,

trembling from the loss of blood
lost in the wailing rhythm of suffering,
...
innocent victims like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy",

there where the manic-music lifts
dreams farther-f u r th e r then the stretchered edges in longings go,

to those places where the bubble-breaks,
there

where all that's left is dark and deep.