CPoetry

church bells still ring in winter, clear and sounding.       this is what my heart learned. ::: you are a seabed rock and the ocean water is the world around you; it is your choice to be oppressed and rounded by the water or be fortified against the current as an obstacle for the water. ::: life is not an answer you want; it is an answer to no question. simply a response to an ordinary knowing. ::: sir! sir? are you ok? ...Yes. ok, i'm sorry to disturb you. i thought you might've passed out! That is kind of you. No I am ok, I was just meditating. you were? i've never seen that pose before. I call it the Tipped-Crown Pose; my head is my crown and when I rest it on the ground, that is when it has become tipped over and powerless. In this pose, the heart sits higher than the mind. With my head grounded and silenced, I can hear my heart speak freely and truthfully. interesting. i've neve...

the tired bartenders and waiters are inverting the last of the chairs and giving rest to their legs until tomorrow's piano sings soon. but, there is You. here. and the only one dancing is the smokiness of others' escapism from reality and do-dare-enter-ism into expanse. oops---they just cut the lights, while the last of the berry martini cascades down your throat. there is You. here. tenting the martini upside down so it, too, can rest until tomorrow.      everything is quiet, is it? i think there is still a song. a smooth jazz that fills the bar at every glance You graciously give. there is You. here. then there is us. leaving there. we have left, but something insists itself to stay. there is You. here.      and a song is still playing. ::: fail yourself to think God is far; the hum and the hummingbird; the wave and the ocean; the smile and the laugh; the moon and the sun; the flower and the flower's frag...

tears that escape are wet ball and chains. tears that release are wet breast and feathers. ::: walk, firstly, through the brush of the jungle. walk, secondly, through the forest on the leaves. walk, thirdly, through the wheat field hand brushing heads. walk, fourthly, to the edge of the sea.  drown yourself. emerge not as a single sun but finally, as an entirely luminous horizon. ::: find the one who, outside of thought, of dreaming, of seeing, bypasses the heart and asphyxiates the breathing. the one who warms the abdominal area like a cast iron pot--- evenly, heating increasingly, reaching a degree of certain uncertainty until it transforms into salivation on the tongue; hunger.