To net a butterfly takes time,
catch the states of mind with kindness.
From thoughts, emotions, opinions, belief,
ethereal dreams may seem out of reach.

The small pineal gland still stands tall,
even if we're concealing what is real.
Cold hard stone in hand,
a granite man can fracture.

Match the eye of sun gods,
appreciate your wider space in chorus.
Combined from our creative borderlands,
where we learn to understand and teach.

Factual fractals repetitively resonate,
so try to make the most of your ability.
As intuitions have a silent plan,
contemplate your future face.

This life can be deemed a dream,
where we're all here for a finite time.
You're born, you work and times pass by.
Then onto the next opportunity.

I tread to keep my head
Just above the water;
But find myself floating away ~

While others were sinking
or swimming
down yonder, I ponder,
though my thoughts betray

The reality that I perceive
Which may, or may not be as limiting
Of that which you can conceive,
Or can see much stronger

I no longer bother;
It’s deceiving so I castaway,
And leave myself astray in the fray /
Blottering•
To alter my relief of mindscape
and believe, there’ll better days,
beyond what I face

Cremate my remains in the ashtray someday

Energy never ceases to exist
It perpetually permeates the cosmic collective consciousness

Wherever my soul will occupy
the confines in space
Of the vibrations that happen
to solidify my base

And give me just the slightest trace,
that I’m phasing amidst
these in-between places

I feel as though I am an imposter -
Egregiously living a grievous dream,
of which I have conjured;

That I am lost,
and therefore cannot prosper
Because I harbor improper resentment,
that I will foster until my departure

This fractal picture of the macrocosm
only grows larger,
but from farther away;
As it becomes harder to map the realms
of territories unchartered in my escape

I try to attain, but only falter in vain
To discover what the universe
truly contains

And convey that in words
to paint mental frames/

Maybe it’s strange
but one must think
outside the constraints

It may sound absurd but please
keep up the pace
Spiritual enlightenment for real
is the surreal end-game
in which we all play chase replacing
Incarcerated rocks to be polished,
in this giant machine

Perpetually incarnating
A shining spirit until
that’s all that remains

Once every imperfection
Is completely erased
When the correct particles
have been finally arranged

& Nirvana has since become fully sustained
Can I truly be One with my Self-
And not just a product of fate

I closed my eyes,
lids down against the fire of the afternoon sun,
and through those new curtains I could no longer penetrate.
And so I turned inward instead
seeing the fire within my head,
the glowing embers radiating
out in a spinning, shifting, turning
series of wheels and tiles, burning
a deep glowing red,
then cycling through to hottest white
And the purple and blue
of deoxygenated blood
Returning to my lungs for another breath,
To gather the elements to delay my death
Working with my heart
To keep me vibrating
Every part in tune,
Each cell cradling me within
A billion tiny wombs comprising my skin, my flesh,
Incubating every spark of me that is
(my spirit).
That fire that burns within those spiralling rainbow hues,
that welcoming tapestry of space connecting me to you
and everything.
I saw this only when I closed my eyes
and let the sunlight filter through.

My biggest fear
is that I will someday be 61
looking back on my life
as an imposter in a body
I don’t own
that I won’t
have stretched the skin and
scarred the cracks
or let the sun into my retina
I fear I won’t have drunk from life
as one drinks from a waterfall
part of a beautiful cosmic rushing
that only exists to **** you.

I read the numbers on headstones
and count the warning
that my life exists as a dash.
I have pocked my face with dots
so I’ll exist as morse code after
I’m gone
so that the synapses in my
alwaysthelightson brain
will sink into the soil as static
and evaporate into the sky
where I’ll live as lightning,
striking the tall boreal pines.



I read thunderstorms
to speak to the dead,
offering prayers of roots
and bloodshot eyes.
I can hear what
they’ve been telling me
all along
deep in my nerves
we’re not alone
and
we’ll be ok.

The mountain becomes microscopic
when the sun shines on a leaf
or the ripples of a shallow stream.
The leaf has the precise shadow
of a winter stem on its white tongue
and the ripples make the stones
look like little dwelling places.
The mossy one I kneel upon
is like a carpet of fresh ancient forest.
A wind rises from on high
ranges over ranges…
There is still so much
possibility.

The world grows many times over
as the eye sees more than its sight.

I make faces and fingers
out of the stones and branches
and my own face in the water
is feline, a primitive mask
I take off for shining water underneath.