a leaf in the snow

barren boughs sing,

and clouds echo in the skies,

teasing distant fires,

a celestial holi

and night’s eye


illuminate the stage,

the forest

wears a humble blanket,

a soft stillness,

a prayer in form,

a cold abode

with a warm heart,

a rest from the game,

a place above name,

a wooded island

on a snowy Serengeti

gives audience to an eternal performance

sculpted by the first dancer,

the wind herself –

a servant of grace,

a scholar of movement,

a friend of the air,

the leaf comes to life

on rolling hills of shifting snow,

between the legs of sleeping trees,

in the presence of breath,

in a moment

liberated from time,

in a moment,

the world is gifted

hope’s sweetest dream,

for in the desolation,

proof of beauty is found,

and oceanic roses celebrate

the origin of dance,

her student,

and the maddening elegance

of change

in the hands of life;

the play of a frozen leaf,

her touch,

her laugh,

her peace,

the joy

in history,

unites chaos to create,

the ballet of a dying artist

discovers an undying paradise,

the theatrical spectacle

of a fierce passion,

a contradictory totality,

the magnificent defiance of

a love that is true,

a love that is me,

a love that is you.




the investigation of a substance,

what i feel, what i think, what i say, what i do, what i

what is internal to my thoughts,


conscious expression?

is there something there,

something at the center

of it all?

does unity merely bring together parts,

or is there a greater sum?

what lies at your heart, dear?

where are the crossroads

where i

and now


the life line

experiences at least one point of inflection

the play of time and space

is directed by the witness perception,

one such perception offers a world with much color and shape,

an elaborate and graceful density distribution,

an unending sea of life

for what are we, when we are most fortunate,

but physical vessels for the accumulation of time?






collaboration of the will

an understanding of the winds,

a field for the compass,


the horizons, skies and oceans

to offer their greetings

as might old friends

as love rests on the chest of laughter,


bread is broken and water forgotten,

apart and together,

each then continues,

at once,

when waves of salty air assail

in celebration

a new purposive volition,

the course inflects –

the truth of the matter,


the legitimacy of the self,


the humility of the sum,


that’s for you to decide



There is a jungle in the forest, and the night is a shadow, a shadow that dances with the lights of demons and angels, a thousand million mysterious smiles, glinting, smiling. In this jungle, the cats are jumping. And the monkeys are running, screaming. The birds are leaping, circling, singing and clapping. There is music, there is sun, there is light, there is life. The jungle is alive, and it lives. The invisible forces that play as strings of a harp strummed by the most delicate and graceful fingers lace and interlace as they weave the infinite threads that are the fabric of the continuum of continuums. The cosmic ballad is a magnificent tome that shall only be read by the greatest titans, the eternal elites that are the unity, the one and the perhaps more. It is in this sphere of contained infinities that a beast lurks. The softness of the steps, the malice of the calm, the strength of the patience. There is a tiger in this jungle, and its approach, its departure, its eyes are unseen. It walks in between the spaces between one moment and the next. It is a particle that is a wave that is dueling duet of dancers, moving to the music, playing with the spoiled children of temporal containment, and it is moving. It is waiting, it is watching, it is sitting, it is hungry. The tiger that lurks, that we fail to see at our feet, in our spirits, is the subdued capacity of humanity. The ferocity of freedom lies trapped in the cages constructed out of the very elements that are sold fervently as the only modes of defense, of feasting. See the monster. Devour the evil. Raise to the heavens, human.


the birth of god

is the birth of the line

i think one of the best answers i have ever gotten,

i received from a dear friend to whom I asked,

‘do you believe in god’

to which she replied, ‘what does that mean’

another friend, some time later, made the point

rather than ask one another whether or not we believe in god

we ought to ask

what is god?

the answer to that question,

now, that,

would be worth both ears;

the first line

is the father of god,

the god father,

you might say

the original partition

with the fall of the grains

in the hands of an immature intellect

has been poorly cultivated

lines were given reality

and truth abandonment

the continuum of existence is undivided

the matter is arguably indisputable

the subatomic and cosmological universes look strikingly similar,

the shades of physical interaction span a spectrum

that is incomprehensible,



the animal human

the words that offer us dimensions

render our thoughts ultimately circular,

as no dimension exists outside the word,

and our thoughts see no dimensions without the word

yet the immature intellect,

fearing love and spiting humility,

you might notice,

gloriously feasts upon the lines

and harms its partners in unity,

brothers, friends, caretakers,

as it sells freedom as chattel to the master,


that that line,

all lines,

are real;

god, for a great many of us,

is an idealized form,

the sleeping fruit of a young collection of mortals,

and an irrefutable reason to contain the self

you see your skin

and you see the end of you

and the face of innocence’s murderer,

but, also, perhaps,

you feel the breathe of hope

and hear the armies of passion

rising to the summons of beauty,

for what a beautiful thing,

the line is

the projection of form,

the expression that is art,

the final evolution of the line

a state of being where,


without thought,

the lines come together in a project of living together,

the stories intersect and play

as might children in space

and the fetters of necrophilic domestication are lost

as wild civilization

gives life purpose

by taking it away



the feeling in the chest

the tingling of the fingers

the dancing of the music, the ubiquity of the sound, the breathing that rises and falls

as thoughts that form words, form vapors

circling, teasing, taunting, laughing

expression as an art form, monetized and stylized

when did we define art

what a preposterous idea

what a crime,

a shame

the form as a beautiful thing, why,

that is an architectural achievement that can only be reached,

a mountain that can only be moved,

a song that can only be sung,

with freedom

there is fear, i suspect

i suspect that is what it is, in the shadows, smiling, conniving

there is fear, and i feel it

of course, that’s the whole problem

that feeling,

it was named, and this name we have given an existence outside

the letters

to share with the world,

to look in the eyes of the people that surround me,

to acknowledge the humanity before me,

the fear must be overcome

paralysis its touch, addicting its scent,

terrorizing its stay,


it is no wonder that people pray

if you’re going to be afraid,

if you’re going to live in fear,

you might as well cower before your maker

you might as well bow before perfection,

as you wither away in the shackles of time

and judgment

now i must close,

for i fear,

i fear that i shall lay to ruin what i thus far set,

and so i must stop

stop, when you must

but never stop,