Tag Archives: mortality

The Wild Path


The mind runs like a mustang
Unbroken by the boundaries,
The bindings,
The bridle that cuts at the chaff

The chagrin woe
The steel plow
The oil drills, spilling in volcanous spewing

And like a different kind,
The same breed
But race horse
Fills the pocket stash

Greed, gleans the collected man into composure
The pasture from his birth to freedom day
Nothing there beyond will his eye know of

Sure, the grain chews greasy in texture
Prick precising
Divides the whole
In two unleveled halves

We are assigned
From birth
The have nots; the haves
The common stream
From which both drink
And share
The backwards flow
Ego; wrath

No beard on a mountain sings of hunger
No coin in the bank sings full

The stallion knows not of blue collars and class
His wisdom, either
Will not keep;
It’s perished just as soon
The moment’s passed

All the wild horses…


If Only For A Moment May I Touch The Wild Twist


I stand alone upon the sentence of my grave
It keeps no form of weeping
No telepathic takings have their measure
No hush-hurries have their place
No one thing or soul is safe
If in reason-seeking came

Embers to be faced
From a fire which could not be traced
Stamped out
Pressed in around its edges
Told its name
Assigned its space
Dare we call Earth’s Mother

Here upon the wild froth
And crashing of its waves
There lies a subtlety
A saved and wretched madness
A lingered still breathing
Unlabored, though
If not in vain

Hopes collect in mass and come unkempt
Together, here remain
Tempt and torn
Undressed in haste
Of that which guiltless keeps the blame

Hard, unforgiving hands beat down
Of time
And laws of reason;
And its often wake
Collapse upon the cleaved-leaning martyrdom kind

Not a one
Shall find complaint

Be stilled, unsorrowed, soothed

Like footprints
Be them far removed
Scattered in and off the path
Variations of a purpose
Deviated from degree

Still, the skilled wisdoms of the ancients unfortold
The blind–but not the sightless-heart would seek

Be it bound
To thee, in chains
To endless fuel
Of longing
For knowledge
And for innocence
Dichotomous belonging

Matrimony juxtaposed
Mortality in duty
Bind the seagull, searching seeking
To her own refusal shore
Emptied of her wanton sight
Unthieved unclaimed
Uncoward braved
Forevermore, Foreverstays
The treasure
And its troves untold
Or if at all, then too untake

She came–not once did hesitate–but crash arrived
In versions; sighs
The truth a disappointment
Perpetual, in nature

She was Compassion
Without permission
Sympathetic of all sakes
But came, she nonethelessing did
To have her bite
Her bitten dust
To taste
Its dew
The morning midnights
A legacy, abate

Familiar should be as the gate
The worms shall have their meal

This of course, is what is meant

By patience, terms of virtue

Cyclical in terms of sense
In feel, it be serene
Portion filled divinity
The quiet keeping bliss

Simplicity reducing us
Duality, to this

Death? Or Life? …is but a dream within a dream.


So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
–F. Scott Fitzgerald

After falling asleep last night, I experienced my own death — a painfully numbing experience, for a dream.

I woke from a dead sleep only to discover it wasn’t me lying there, sleeping; it was my lifeless body, an empty shell of unfulfilled expectations; left exposed, lying empty, silent and undiscovered on the abandoned shore of my early age.

I no longer had a home there, in that body. Those feet were no longer mine. Those eyes would no longer see all the magic in a life that I was once so foolish to call my own. All that magic; all that spellbinding beauty and treacherous awe. The restless mind behind those big brown eyes: for once, at last, was resting. Resting; still. And still yet, no longer mine.

Sometimes, to evolution, we can be a most impervious creature. I was proof. I never did get beyond much of the rudimentary aspects of my own humanness; and yet, even in death I would come to find something perfect about this; rudimentary can be profound.

No matter now.

I began pacing; pacing the walls and pacing the emotions, a simultaneous-somehow endeavor; all of those familiar confinements to which I had spent my life so mindlessly, obliviously imprisoned.

Pacing now, pacing. But this isn’t what is supposed to happen; where is the big bright light? Where is the sense of peace — and finality? Aren’t all of my dead loved ones supposed to greet me on a cloud?

I attempt to get dressed only to find a deep and bitter longing; rather than a phantom limb, a phantom body haunts the soul of me raw. How radically self-obsessed human beings are! The irony now doubles me over. Imagine it. The body you once had; the bed in which you once birthed dreams; the person you thought yourself so surely to be, made of fingers and toes and ideas and breaths taken; these all haunt us after we die. What can we haunt? We don’t become spirits — we always were spirits. We release the physical things to which we clung for so long — and that is what is “haunting”.

I take a gander in my gardens. Winter has undressed them haphazardly, like a man too eager for his bride’s modesty to be saved. Geraniums — neon fuscia and fluorescent-red-orange and yellow-orange too — these are in full bloom. As if to laugh violently at my swift misfortune. It is December 8th. Thirty-five degrees outside. I scraped ice off my car yesterday morning; yet the ice could not rob my geraniums of their splendor. Still, these geraniums too were no longer mine.

Did you know they are considered an early spring flower? Not late spring; not early summer; not mid-summer or late summer or early autumn or fall; and yet… They are at the peak of their season.

A glorious display of sense that can’t be made.

This is a perfect example of divine synchronicity. As if the Majestic God of Love is hinting to your soul, “Are you paying attention? Have you ever really felt love?”

God’s whispered truth is everywhere. He weaves His wonders and His eternities into the fabric of our days like Savador Dali painted his insanity on blank canvases. Funny thing about that: most of the great creators — Vincent van Gogh, Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allen Poe, Franz Kafka, Henry David Thoreau, Johann Sebastian Bach, F. Scott Fitzgerald — knew nothing of their own greatness in their lifetime. Some of the most gifted artists and writers, the souls who came into this world to make it more beautiful for the rest of us were the ones tortured endlessly by oceans and tidal waves of doubt and self loathing, and genius that bordered the wavering boundary between prodigy and lunacy.

Succumbing to the weakened atmosphere of calm, I find myself gently opening my eyes, startled by the brightness of that Eastern piercing sunrise through my bedroom window.

Slowly, quietly, as the house is still sleeping, I make my way to my wardrobe.

My jeans have never felt so wonderful.

I decide to have my coffee on the front patio; I haven’t seen my flowerbeds in months.

As I glance over, I catch sight of my geraniums — tucked in-between dead canna leaves I failed to prune — and wouldn’t you guess… they are in full bloom.

The most beautiful song in the world will end this piece perflectly. Click here to listen.