there is fight left

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this is no place for mirrors:

sharp shards,
sharper truth-lies;

there’s enough coming at us.

keep your beveled glass and
judging eyes and light-throwing.

i am coming apart
on my own terms

from the inside out,

like a million-watt
welded fist

–rising/flying/smoldering/smashing/burning/breaking–

spilling pieces of
dark-light.

there is fight left,

somewhere in this heft of
crying blood.

and if that isn’t true,
i don’t know what is.

for tjr

your one beautiful life

indigo
april is a good month:

rain, flowers, thunderstorms,
beginnings;

birds returning,
calling to you in the
early dawn.

it’s a good time for writing,
a good time for waking,
a good time for napping

in a hammock in the yard.

it’s a good time for finding out
what you really want,

what you’re made of,
what you will and will not tolerate

in this, your one beautiful life.

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liquid loop

i have note books all over the house,


and pens, and pencils, and markers,

and sticky notes, and highlighters;


and still i fail to write things down,

forget things before they can be captured,


lose the words, the notes, the momentum,

the dreams, the meanings.


some things are meant to be lost; to be found

only in the ether, free from paper.


the liquid loop continues to run

through my mind,


changing with the wind,

with the tide:


elusive little bitch,

she takes me for a ride.


it won’t stop until i die.

look: love

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If I look closely, I can see my self in you.

If I truly love my self, I will love you.

If I can accept my own humanity, I will accept the humanity in you.

If I can celebrate my own divinity, I will celebrate the divinity in you.

Loving God is loving my self, loving my neighbor:

the Light, the Shadow,

God in me, as Me; in you as You.

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conjure

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the baby steps to bliss
are right at your finger tips:

just stretch down and feel
where you have been,

where you are headed.

bend your vertebrae
to your will.

reach in past the
trigger shell–

the symmetry shield
warring between

waking and dreaming–

and adjust the
anchor.

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dark thorn

dark thorn
rising,
howling,

filling-falling-emptying,

like every
thing living.

there are exceptions:

dreaming-flying-loving-spiraling,

sixth-seventh-sensing —
in which you never come down.

transcending the
libelous
fear:

finally.

the eye of the needle
leers,

drags
down the out-line;

under a blood moon,
muddy waters

spit-shine.

the keys to the kingdom
are mine.

help my un-belief.

howl

now shows up,
listening hard:
conducting dark orange irony,
shrinking vex.

ebullient he is —

giving her the muse, the beautiful,
the beautiful colors.

lifting she is to the torch of his touch,
like a whisper about to expire —

we are all about to expire.

now shows up,
listening hard:
conducting shadow symmetry,
shrinking hex.

he wants her to know
what it is she
wants —

and further-
more,

to howl for it.

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