A Seagull's Soul

After motorcycling to Cape Cod with a friend, I took leave of him and rode off in the direction of the nearest beach. I soon found one, but its sands and waters were plagued by people, screening out what could've been miraculous beauty with ear buds and smart phones, reducing the majestic nature of the ocean to a place where they might catch a tan, one step toward a goal of ultimately looking more like whatever celebrity shone with artificial perfection on the cover of their last People magazine.

Seeing a land so dishonored recalled the words of Wendell Berry,

"There are no unsacred places;   

there are only sacred places   

and desecrated places."


 And so I slowly wandered along, steps falling on the marriage of sea and land, letting the ocean's waves form eddies around my feet. It was then that I noticed a Seagull, which appeared suddenly as a kindred wanderer and inspired within me the following:

And so I learn that I've a seagull's soul. A lonesome maritime heart, in love with an ocean whose depths seem to forever elude me. And the scavenging! There was never a sorry gull in a trash ridden parking lot as lost and bewildered as I, pecking at the empty litter of screens and controllers, a tragically misguided attempt to sate the intrinsic need for nourishment that only Truth can fulfill. And oh the futile flying against the wind! When will Your graces fuel my flight rather than hinder it? Surely I must wait for You. All things in time, and with an ebb and flow unconcerned with our insulated bubbles of hurry, control and sickened familiarity.

-The Monkey in the Middle

p.s. Here is a poem I must've written ages ago.

The time has passed, alack! alas!
To share in life eternal.
We swoon for swarms of lifeless screens
Forsaking forests vernal.

But your GPS won't draw a map
When you're anxious and plagued by strife.
I'm afraid they haven't made an app
For salvaging your life.

Asphalt Ocean

I did not like the idea of cars until I imagined them as ships, navigating an asphalt ocean. And I, a compassless captain who might somehow still drift into a new horizon.

Of Vampires & Briars

Last night I fell into a deep slumber, likely the bountiful harvest of the Angry Orchard. My sleep, though deep, was troubled by the most vivid nightmare i've had in at least half a decade. It involved Vampires (perhaps drawn from my recent conversations with Trace regarding emotional Vampirism), and was extraordinarily terrifying. At present, I cannot remember any details. Ironic, considering its almost tangible vividness.

What I do recall is awakening in the dampness of a cold sweat. After recovering in the aftermath of the lingering horror, I attempted to return to the realm of dreams. I was successful, and was ushered once more into the hallowed halls of dreamland. Sadly, there was no Kirby, but instead a most peculiar dream.

I had ordered several things from Amazon.com but, for reasons unbeknownst to me, they were delivered to Katie Briar's house. And so I ventured through the snowy Eastburn Woods for to claim my lost bounty. Upon arriving at the Briar residence, I remember the discomfort of being in a place I felt I didn't belong, awkwardly conversing with Katie's mother. The entire Briar family, in all its spectacular Roman Catholic enormity, was present, but for one. From young children trying their hands at Lego architecture to older people conversing over coffee, the household was vibrant, alive. I retrieved my parcels, but remained in the house despite having completed my errand. Finally, the only Briar who had been absent, Katie herself, arrived. Warm greetings were exchanged with everyone but me. In fact, it was almost as though I was entirely invisible to her (embedded fragments of felt high school irrelevance/ invisibility?) As she went to leave, warmly embracing everybody, including people standing right next to me, I turned away in an effort to preserve my dignity in the face of such blatant neglect. I do this often in the waking world, slipping into an air of detached aloofness to separate myself from the pain of my perceived social worthlessness. She was on the verge of exiting through the door when, suddenly, she turned around as though she had forgotten something. Then we went to each other and talked in that wonderfully awkward and energetic fashion which has characterized all of my conversations with the lovely Miss Briar. We parted ways as dear friends.

Poisson

I have heard it said
That a life of dream and abstract thought
Is like exchanging land for sea
And you will surely drown

But I have known those
Whose tears have acclimated them
To the aqueous depths
And they swim freely in the ocean
Most alive in what would seem calamity to others

And to them the unexamined life
Is a constant gasping for breath
To them, the stale air breathed by the masses
Is like a poison
Every dull conversation, every meaningless factoid
Contaminants for a fish out of water

Throw me back into the sea
For I have drowned, that I might truly breathe

Tasteless Graffiti & The Man In The Mirror

My mind has become a ransacked mausoleum
Memories once preserved in a reverential sanctity
Are torn grotesquely

It is hard to believe that this could be a temple
Desecrated now, the folly of a menace
Tasteless graffiti




The man in the mirror peers at me
Through vacant eyes and features gaunt
His lips contort to a sullen smirk
And form some voiceless, tasteless taunt
That all throughout the dawning day
His voice might resonate and haunt

The man in the mirror hides from me
With eyes like bolted doors
Concealing all the well sought truths
Of which no mortal can be sure
But fret about with sinking hearts
Til, tired of thinking, take the cure

The man in the mirror jeers at me
Recites ambitions unattained
Presents potential accolades
Then mocks my efforts, all in vain
I hear his laughter, clear and cruel
As I'm punctured by a perfect pain

The man in the mirror cries with me
Such sympathetic tears
Each day he lives and dies with me
A crucifixion of hopes and fears
That resurrect in sleepless nights
To grind my psyche's weakened gears

The man in the mirror laughs at me
He knows I know him not
Each certainty a pretense
Or some fable that was taught
Constructing frail philosophies
From broken beams diseased with rot

Three Poems, One Unfinished

But how misleading a title! for what is truly finished? Rather, one is DEFINITELY only the beginning of something I hope to love quite deeply by its "end." The other two are simple expressions of thoughts and experiences. The first is for you/ It's a haiku, I believe/ For my beloved.

I found my true love/ But death in life divides us/ Will our hearts prevail?

The second is composed of little observations I had during a partially meditative state.

To be a student of myself
Is to let silence be my teacher

Lessons unfold in gentle revelations

I am taught unscoldingly
From a syllabus of beautiful details
Quiet reminders of truths so oft neglected

Indeed. Life itself, daily overlooked.


The third is more akin to my typical style in rhythm and meter. It is quite rudimentary.

I am a levy, nobly bracing
Saving the world from a sea of rage
I am the dwelling of ancient forces
Timelessly warring through every age

I am a tree with roots and branches
Growing eternally, heliotropic
I am the verses of living poems
Gathered together in life's great epic

Surging, thriving, thundering, coursing
Present in everything, yet unseen
I am a unity, never divorcing
An infinite courtship of King for Queen

It's so beautiful when things write themselves, seemingly by unseen hands in the mind. I know many creative types are so familiar with effortlessly partaking nigh observationally in lovely works of art, but such creation is so foreign to me, and thus so beautifully and refreshingly novel! Throughout my days i've been far too present in any attempted poetry, it all seemed so forced and rigid. I remember longing for that unconscious flow that I witnessed in others, but yet considered mythical. So indulge my simple jubilation, for it is truly new to me. It may also be the result of SO MANY rootbeers after participating in "Hot Yoga" while in a state of complete dehydration and hunger. I almost projectile vomited on the girl behind me during a back bend. Wouldn't that have been lovely! She would have had to search for inner peace while gazing at her nose through my upchuck, gently cascading down her face. OMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Grounded In An Airport, Considering The Garden

How many are consumed with rediscovering a former, lighter self? Many pedestalize the whimsy of youth, long disillusioned by a labyrinthine network of their own burdens and responsibilities. How long have I been so consumed? Lightheartedness became my White Whale. I felt wronged by its flight from my life, devastated in its wake. And so began my obsession with recapturing it. I pursued it with a vengeance, only to find that it grew ever more elusive, always outpacing my ascending frenzy.

I scoured my surroundings for peace, chasing after it tirelessly. But even the greatest endurance must eventually fail, and the aftermath of my existential marathons was abject despair. I was poisoned by hatred and futility's frustration. Bitterness corrupted my very soul, birthing envy and a scornful, remorseless cynicism which blackened my world. Clinging frantically to self pity, I jealously watched others rejoicing in the soul's sunlight, furious that I remained soaked and shivering in a ceaseless spiritual squall.

But moments ago, as I sat in meditation while awaiting my flight from Logan Airport, I couldn't help but think that all I so fervently sought after had been dwelling always within me. I could roam the world, frequenting grand forests and lush gardens and doubtless I would find some measure of occasional peace, but it would be fleeting if the deep inward peace remained undiscovered. For I just found a peace and vitality sitting quietly amidst throngs of busybodies that easily rivaled my most placid times spent in solitude. I felt as though there was a fathomless well of life deep within me, overflowing with beauty and truth, inexhaustibly surging into my being. Whatever I could seek in life, however magnificent or extraordinary, truly it is always and already accessible wherever I may be, whether in a crowded subway car or in a sacred Tibetan monastery. I need only to sit long enough for the self-inflicted curse of busyness to abate. Sooner or later, it always does, and the patient of heart are then rewarded with a deeply genuine fulfillment. It's like remembering some foundational Truth and being embraced by it's warm familiarity after years of homeless wandering.

So I encourage you to ask yourself if there may be something you've forgotten. Are there things about you that you loved but have thought long lost? It's easy to become confused and disoriented amidst the chaos that passes for life around here, it's tragically common to lose yourself entirely. But take heart! and don't squander too much time in mourning, for nothing worth a damn is ever lost not to be found again, and thus cherished all the more for its supposed absence. All of the noise in the world, all the anxiety-inducing multitasking, all the shiny distractions and flashy gadgets designed to lengthen our befuddlement stand no chance against the Garden within. That's the thing about the Garden, and indeed the mark of all True Life. It's growing. It's alive and always moving toward the Source of Light. You can hack it all down, cleaving all the nourishing shoots of the Conscience. You can build a vast city of emptiness upon this inner hallowed ground, filling it with meaningless statistics, tv shows, celebrity gossip and the myriad hollow ways in which we entertain ourselves, but it will only cause an unbearable tension, for it is all only a parody of True Life. So maybe it's time to take a wrecking ball to the cities of delusion. Be enthralled at how swiftly the Garden reclaims its ruins!