Inconsistent

I swipe the stars from the sky
revealing the vast dark underbelly.
I rub the remaining colors into a blur
of textural gas and particle matter.

I reveal the finite nothingness and
the walls separating it from
an absolute
greater nothing.
We are all a smaller piece,
a minutia,
of some greater nothing.

In this lack of purpose
I feel perfect.

I never dream anymore
like I once had every night.
I never quite feel awake.
I never quite feel awake.

I bend as matter bends
to the rhythm of a string strumming me
into a wave of existence
all on its own.
I bend as matter bends
in a flat and spinning precursor to itself.
I bend as matter bends
at the suggestion of time and space.
I bend as matter bends,
waiting in fear of a greater meaning,
hidden.

I swipe the stars from the sky
and watch the empty space sink into darkness.
There is no before or after,
all is a return to the here and now.

I feel perfect
in this lack of purpose.

If I ever die I want to come back as a worm.
If I ever die I want to come back as the worm.

The Cosmos Always Wins

The universe expands and recedes with my chest
and my breath is taken from me again.
The physical world melts beneath my feet
as I fall disheveled and bemused.



My heart beat is a catalyst to which aligns the apocalypse; I have always been told that I am a fatalist.



The universe expands and recedes in my chest
and my breath is taken from me again.
The material world melts beneath my feet


Time and time again
, the cosmos always wins.

The world melts and I drown with it.

All is a smear of consciousness: a collective of the positives and negatives- a brilliant amalgamation both the beautiful and the ugly.
Who would have thought this to be a portrait of the end?

Winter

Where I live there are no trees.
Brick houses are rooted in to the ground,
and they breathe
and they sway in the wind.
These houses lean in an ominous manner
providing shade to the ground creatures
as their windows provide shelter for the rain and cold seasons.
They creak and they moan,
they groan and they scream,
regardless of who is around to hear
they will not age in silence.
Where I live there are no trees.
The houses grow tall
and crash to the ground in time.
They change color with the seasons
as their paint goes
from green
to orange
and red
and yellow
to grey.
The sky is littered with crystalline clouds
and stars
which explode as the climate changes
and showers the world with refracted light
bringing in a tide of silence.
A rainbow paints the world
and all that could be heard
is the sound of the sky meeting the earth
and them dancing
as millions of shards pile upon one another.
The streets are empty now.
All there is is color and light.
Where I live there are no trees.
Just the buildings that shelter the creatures
that were once man.
These buildings that have a life of their own now.
Once nothing more than small humble homes,
now a jungle of apartmeans and skyscrapers.
The canopies stealing sun from the smaller more modest buildings
which hollow and die in the harsh seasons.
This winter will be bad.
I can feel it.
And it excites me.
The nights will glow and burst with aura as the day blinds.
Then as summer comes and the crystal wears into sand.
The buildings will breathe again
and what man has become will roam the floor.
There are no trees.

The Curse of Reincarnation.

White.
She opens her eyes
and all she sees is white.
The world introduces itself to her
in pieces-
It is
a patient parent who is in no hurry
to have her lose the innocence
of discovery.

 Textures form
and dimensions wrap themselves
around her
as color fills in the spaces
and space fills in everything else
in between,

and the first breath of air
fills her lungs.

Welcome back,
it seems to say as
her chest heaves with dry coughs
and desperation and greed
to inhale all the precious oxygen
that her developing body can take in,
and
to breathe on her own.

A weight is holding her to the ground.
Her muscles,
not yet strengthened,
and her body,
not yet accustomed
to mass, weight, a new open atmosphere.
Movement is a chore.

She looks around and the world is unfamiliar.
She does not know where she came from
or where she is
or
even realizes yet what she is.
The consciousness of self
not having yet
dawned upon her,
she just absorbs the physical world
that has forced itself upon her.
The stimulation is terrifying.

Where are the faces?,
she wonders.
There are normally faces…

She screams.
It is almost as if it were a muscle spasm
or
a twitch in her brain,
she screams and she screams.
Entirely out of her control,
she screams
until her lungs are empty
and she is emotionally mute.

And then she sleeps.

Her new born consciousness,
over stimulated and frightened
shows her a world long ago
and left behind.
A world full of life nourishment.
Something she will
never
personally experience.

Dreams of past lives
and past universes
will be her teachers from this point.
nature raising her
to raise nature.

Give and take

Interaction will be that of memory
if it is not with the inanimate.
It is her place now to be a guide.
How many more lives will it take
to fix a lifetime of mistakes?

What did she do to deserve this?

Beauty and the Beach

The beach shimmers beneath my feet and the glow creeps between my toes as the sand is lifted by the tide and climbs the fleshy canyon walls to the world above from the valley below. I stand and watch the Earth reshape itself every couple seconds, minute after minute, hour after hour, but it still continues to shine in radiant life with explosion after explosion of bright blue and green destruction. Every pull of the hungry tide takes what once was into the smooth and cool blue, from the textural, violent world, and into the calm and gentle, as all is started anew. All to the tune of a calm wave’s breath and the high pitched piercing hum of chaos and creation coming to terms with one another and itself. Her mind is made, and then it is made again. She is never content, she takes what was and then starts it all over again- Until she is done with creation and all that is left is destruction- Until the blues and greens of sandy brilliance and whatever life made this land its home is lost beneath tons of impatience. 

Fire

Blooming in the sky,
a flower of such magnitude-
flourishing and wilting, breathing,
as its seed rains down
and the fire consumes all
in awe of its beauty.

The petals fold out,
expanding the fire’s reach
as the clouds all gently burn.
The blue sky wrinkles
and turns a bright cinder’s yellow
then from red to black, it turns-
melting into night.

The Earth below glistens
in those final brilliant moments.
It blurs and the world is hidden
in a haze of color that coats the land.
And the wind
whistles through the trees
forced through by the tides that the blooming pushed in;
a sunset explosion.
A sunset explosion.
Then silence.

The world burns, the sky- in flames, then she finally wilts.
Petals fall into nothingness, the night- all is left in ash,
then we wait through the darkness
for the arrival
of the next day,
her sunrise revival.

Sandstorms

I once strode a desert trail
as it wound between the dunes,
but the sand was picked up by the winds
to dance before the moon.

It all began with a song
that called me from my hollow-
a whistle rang
then soothed into gentle hums
which beckoned me to follow.

We flew past the trees
as the winds made the leaves plead
and scream,
and over the bridge
where the river was pounding and roaring
like a child in desperate need for attention.
We went through the meadows
where the grass was flowing violently
like an ocean’s tide in a storm,
then into the desert
where a trail of sand rolled
in a clean, winding formation.

Then the moon showed herself to us that night.

And-
Before the moon,
before myself- each grain then came to life.
Then by her great behest
they began receding and advancing like
some formidable, heavenly breath.

They speared and whipped,
they bit at my flesh,
they thickened and thinned,
they calmed and then…

They took new pattern;
another path grew
beyond my sight
into the great dark blue.
They unspooled before me,
they stretched beyond horizon,
into new unknowns
that had revealed itself to my eyes, and
my eyes alone.

I tried to continue upon my path,
to join them in the sky.
I was tried and found unworthy
and the storm swallowed me alive.

I once strode a desert trail
as it wound between the dunes,
but the sand was picked up by the winds
to dance before the moon.

It all began with a song
that called me from my hollow-
a whistle rang
then soothed into gentle hums
which whispered not to follow.