>Nothing here matters!
But here’s where I am.
And I can’t dance, yet, forever with angels.
So may I sink silent & selfless beside you in bed
a quarter past three in the yellow-black morning.

>O, dear brothers!
O, sweet sisters!
The Search doesn’t end at the Lord
but only at the bank of a cold stream
deep in a misty wood,
far from home, far from neighbors,
far from lovers and far from habit.
Where you drop to your knees
(if you’re willing)
and pull yourself up by the roots,
casting the sprouts of ego into the water.
Yeah, He’s waiting somewhere
downstream of there.
Downstream of self.

>Like a lap you have when you sit
and lose when you stand
or a fist formed from folded fingers
that evaporates when they straighten…

And maybe I wrap myself tight, tight, so tight
in semantics
to guard from the uncertain cold
But who cares!
Every word I’ve ever said
is a dancing shadow
cast by a sputtering flame.
The Truth sits there
in plain view!
But I’m blind, blind, blind

Yeah, life is just a lap
just a lap a lap a lap
someday, God be praised
I’ll stand up.