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Published: February 19th 2017
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No story, just pictures and poems. Read at your leisure, and don't forget to click "Additional Photos Below" at the bottom!
Desert Balad
What is this perilous attraction to your
Rolling dunes and
Barren horizons?
What draws me to miles of unapologetic
Nothingness?
Oh desert, enfold me in your sandpaper pages,
And whisper me silent dramas of wind and sand,
The untold epic of the ages!
Would that I could take roost
On a stalwart desert tree
A stoic desert bird
Flying distances which no one shall measure
Singing songs which shall sail through desert night
To no ears' harbor.
Oh desert, bump me onto your desert back
And march me to the stretchless horizon
March until I know not east or west
But have arrived at your center,
The hidden center of the world
Where I shall sink into your wind hallowed crevices
A certified citizen of sand,
A happy devotee of dust!
Oh desert, you are the world's inception and
Its denouement.
You are where wandering finds itself
And lostness loses itself.
You are the timeless master of extremes:
Heat, cold
Stars
above, sand below,
Vast distances of tinyness .
I go to you then, knowing this going is a
Coming, and that out of barren straits of nothingness,
I become full.
The Poet and the Moon
Why write poems when
The moon writes poems just via its procession in the sky!
Take a lesson from the moon--
It understands the art of reflection
without mistaking itself for the source.
It even takes a brake once a month!
Submerging itself totally.
Listen: you cannot be a poet (or anything like that) if you commit yourself to writing poems.
That's not being a Poet, but an employee.
Being a poet is not a job in your life,
but your life turned upside down,
poured clean through a seive,
strained thoroughly of its clumpy inessentials.
The precious drops that come out become ink in your pen,
which become words on the page...
But don't think for a moment you've written anything!
You're a talented dancer,
But as soon as you think of yourself as choreographer
you'll fall.
The author of your poem
as blind and anonymous
as a bud silently blooming.
There is less here to do here than you think!
The more you write,
the less you get done,
That's the kind of space this is.
Don't write into a somethingness
Write into a nothingness! Or,
Better yet, let your pen be like the moon:
Dancing silently between them.
True Love
True love demands a run through the guantlet,
A trip thtrough hellfire.
Otherwise, if you are sleeping when this train comes by,
it'll leave without you.
Don't think you can have This and That,.
Can you split your body and send one half North and the other South?
This demands total surrender.
You've been wandering through the desert your whole life. Miraculously,
you make it to the ocean, but like a prisoner used to his prison,
you are wondering if it is OK to stay on the beach.
The beach is just as far from the ocean as the middle of the desert.
A prisoner isn't free till he's stepped
beyond prison walls, determined
not to look back
So douse yourself with This,
and
don't even let a single strand of hair stay dry.
Speech and Sound
Speech is never just speech,
but terminally lyrical.
When we forget all speech is song,
Then we plunge our heads down
Instead of singing buoyantly into the air.
The Word divided night and day
but it did it with a song, a sound--
Not the meaning inside.
That came second. The wise are
conscious of the musicality of their every utterance,
even their actions and thoughts are hymns instead of
sculpted meanings
I would have you sing nonsense!
Before making a perfectly sensible speech
That insists on its own un-musicality.
Read this in a single sound and you would understand my meaning.
Divide it into words and I can only
Point you in the right direction.
Don't Take It
Don't take it;
that is all I have to say
Pass out of that
into This
Fall and fall until you learn to
fly
Other birds will say you'll hit the ground hard
But you say:
"I'd prefer one shot at Freedom
to a life of folded wings."
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