Spirituality is a chance for a spark to surf through a spiral.
I'm a pagan but I would pay to preserve stained windows and Arabic motifs, both of which exude precious patterns.
Zoom in on my pupils, and watch their playfully wild sparks, kindled fiery tendencies that automatically refine real virtues.
Solitude loans me twin gifts— my grand tininess near sacred spaces and my pulsing interest in guarding the holy libraries:
be they Latin or Pali,
verses or sutras,
canons or Ramayanas.
To hate ABBA is to hate inhaling. Which sane lover of liveliness can reject milk and honey? to rejoice in their counterpoint is to honour the milky way galaxy.
40 years of wondering are tapped on the shoulder by a rebirth of stellar avatars. They're a fusion of then and now like a solar core.
I will shout from any rooftop for you I will groove for half an hour for you I will raise my glass of tears for you As you make wine from my teardrops O Bjorn, Agneta, Benny and Frida.
Audio Who dares explain our laughter to us? I refresh myself, as you refresh yourself, leaning back my head to laugh out loud with you at the explainers and at the open naked skies, let’s watch that arena of night horizon while tracking the shooting stars breath upon breath, sigh upon sigh, recycle your lung bicycles, mount your heartbeat pedals with me, cycle on and on and off.
You! Triple-headed human hear the wounded wail of the loon Cerberus, notice nature and her rare haunting grounds within your internal territories,
You! Double-chambered human tremble beneath the weight of decision and indecision, pump and blend unruly reflexes into a spontaneous dynamo of plucky will
You! Single iceberg of seen and hidden complexes, peaks of which melt and float, freeze and sink, once the best of you interrupts the worst of you, gratefully embrace the pause of ill will.
Bittersweetness is a sneeze reflex.
It sneaks up on the unsuspecting
stranger better than a pickpocket does.
Neglected feelings evaporate, condense and then
become a cloudburst that drenches the present.
Nostalgia is a downpour of blurry, broken images.
Photo credit to Todd Becker
T-boned by a carjacker who had overdosed on opium, I rolled over, as shearing forces shredded my stomach walls into vulnerable straw;
My raw extremities were bereft of an outstretched finger which has always been frescoed but is now intangible to me.
Frisking the sidewalk for an anchor, my fingers ended up dog-earing leaves of grass, whose roots nourished my bone marrows like filtrated milk. Walt Whitman is why my stylus bleeds daily and I don't.
His free verses of himself grafted my limbs to my own trunk without any yoking charges; Whitman is the wanderlust of weathered hands, All who adore outdoor air walk on his open road.
His phrases shielded my brains from a blitzkrieg of rubrics which wrung awe by cutting branches of curiosity into wrongs and rights to climb; His songs boomerang like the rings of Saturn, whose Olympic range exceeds the bar of every ladder, ruler, and graduated cylinder.
I don't want to argue with anyone anymore about ethics or apologetics, even though ogling those spicy debates is fun.
No more locking horns with anybody about afterlife theories, Yes to drowning in cute kitten videos, if those activities were my only options.
At. The. Moment. is the currency I refuse to exchange. How you wait in line matters far more than how hard you try to convert me.
Your ATM behaviour takes the cake on and off camera in and out of airplanes up and down the aisles of Wal-Marts and gown vows.
Twist, roll and bend my joints! Heal my troubled body, and try to escape wallet-based therapies; pump up the volume, pop the weasel knuckles, watch your creaky wrists swing!
A catcaller's stare is a poison dart shooter, piercing casualties as casually as a barbecue skewer; blunt comments - parading as raunchy compliments - are caustic excuses a pervert abuses to trespass personal space in public; her cheeks burn with a preventable corrosion of self-esteem, while assassins brazenly dissolve outer features seam by seam.
no card deck is required to shuffle people around a vendor's stand; see, a merchant can mesmerize passer-by via sleight of scent alone; any sorcerer of flavor worth his or her salt knows how tightly noses hold the reins of the brain;
We like to think our choice of food is free of influence, yet one whiff of a choice Thai curry can flip the script; for aroma is a red cape that waves customers where it wishes while a street vendor flips the cape as Matador of our senses.