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!

Fear, The Great Immobilizer

Having only very recently been introduced to the wondrous ways of yoga, I am still a novice, as pink as can be. However, though my time experimenting with postures has been short, my appreciation for the practice and its boundless benefits is nigh immeasurable (for its immensity). I finished today's session with an extended shoulder stand, and was awe-stricken at how consistently my physical ability exceeded my mental boundaries. Repeatedly, I found myself certain that I could go no further, only to accidentally bend MUCH deeper than I had previously anticipated. Luckily, I didn't snap my neck, rather I was taught (taut? hoho) a beautiful lesson about fear and holding back. Self-restraint undeniably has a place, and can often diffuse potentially volatile situations, but it becomes a problem if it leads to comfort within ones presumed boundaries (either physical or emotional) and a complete cessation of self-challenge; existential immobility, as it were.

These little thoughts ultimately led to a contemplation of fear in general and its antithesis, which I believe to be love. These days, there is little doubt that the body and mind are inextricably intertwined. It's interesting, then, to observe and feel the effects of both fear and love in a comprehensive sense. When one is moved by love, they are just that: moved, as though by some enlivening energy. Emboldened and courageous, they leap forth into the actions which love naturally begets. However, when governed by fear, one is more often than not hesitant and withdrawn. Bitterly embracing anonymity, their potential remains ever dormant. No action is taken, despite a festering desire for activity.

Fear and Love. Like many other words, we toss them around so casually that the emotional depth for which they once stood is either severely diminished or forgotten entirely. "I LOVED that movie." "Be afraid. Be VERY afraid!" Though this pop-culture marginalization of meaning is linguistically common and ought not to be mourned but with a hint of romantic nostalgia, there is still great worth in remembering what things once meant; in recognizing that language is not only a way to communicate, but a way to make manifest the tempests and quiets of the emotional realm. I'm AFRAID i've strayed way off course, and forgotten what i'd originally been pondering.

OKAY! So fear and love are words. Being words, they exist as signs to make sense of life, both internally and externally. "That's a tree over there!" "I feel extremely happy!" However, that thing over there is not a "tree". That soaring surge of lovely energy isn't "happiness." Both existed well before they were named. Indeed it was their very existence that necessitated naming. So, I invite you to consider what lies beneath the linguistic veneer, to explore the essence which lies behind the words "fear" and "love." What is this thing that would keep someone from doing what they want to do, this nullifying force? What is this thing that makes people entirely unafraid and beautiful and giddy, this energizing force?

It seems I've lost my focus, and butchered my intended thesis. Oh woe and lamentation! But perhaps this is the very nature of unbridled inquisitiveness! Well, regardless of whatever I may have set out to write, I just want to encourage the zero people who read this to live in mobility, to actively participate in the movement of life. You will soon find yourself dancing to the transcendent score of the Great Conductor. Perhaps it's a lively jig, perhaps a beautiful waltz. There are plenty of crescendos and decrescendos. Don't be crestfallen if you feel stuck, for all is dynamic, ebbing and flowing. Where there is paralysis and stagnation now, there may very well be unimaginable movement and growth later. The life of Spring becomes the golden gaity of Summer's sepia, which matures into Autumn's beautifully ornamented deathbed, a death that is completed in Winter. And then rebirth. Even in the passage of a single day is the cycle illustrated! So don't lose patience when it seems like you're going nowhere, for it may just be a long Winter, a seemingly endless night. But even in such times, try your best to move a bit. Or at the very least, read "Oh, The Places You'll Go" for some Seussian wisdom. And remember, the most seemingly futile effort may just be the very step which leads you into another, brighter, chapter of your life. Okay.

So it's only just occurring to me that I shouldn't have chosen Love and Fear, but Life and Death. However, I think they're in many ways interchangeable, for a "life" of fear seldom feels like living at all, and a life of love feels vibrant "alive." Fear, immobility, death. They're all on the same side of the spectrum. Love, movement, life. They're on the other side. I'm always so curious about the forces which support each side, whether for life or for death. Perhaps someday i'll find out. Until then, I'll be satisfied with a lordoftheringsian understanding of things. Okayiluvyoubyebye.

P.S. In many ways, life is unfathomably complex. So much still lies shrouded in mystery, and it's always a cardinal error to reduce things to polarized simplicities. This was not my intention, lest I be tossed into a group with that obnoxious teacher from Donnie Darko. However, many things are entirely overcomplicated. There is a certain depth of beauty and truth in simplicity that often causes me to wonder whether overcomplication might not just be a cheap attempt at replicating that wholesome depth, hence the frequency with which pompous verbosity is confused for wisdom. A vain, lifeless mockery of life. Like a factory when compared to a garden. But here I go again...

P.P.S. Oh yeah. The whole point was this: Don't let fear's temptations toward passivity thwart the realization of your true self! Everybody simply wants freedom; to be themselves, unabashed and unafraid, loosed of the bonds of shoulds and oughts. Be yourself and love being yourself! Then you'll be a big cup o' love, filled to the brim and indeed spilling wherever you go, whoever you meet. And it's so pleasant when a random cup of love spills all over you, soaking your clothes that had been so stifling while walking through the desert. Take off your mind clothes and run naked through the sprinkler of love. Ohmygoshnowisoundcrazy. Farewell.

Behind The Great Stone Wall

The air hung heavy with a somber mist. It was late Autumn and the mood was solemn indeed, though not without the deep beauty and reverence that ever lingers about the changing masterpiece of Fall's incendiary hues. A great forest was there, deep and dark. The trees were semi-barren, yet traces of their technicolor transformation still remained. The dense wood bordered an immense clearing of gently sloping hills, where flocks of sheep were once said to wander in unremembered days. A grand stone foundation stood at the crest of the tallest hill, some solitary unrealized dream. Men had once thought to build a magnificent mansion there, but the only remnant of their long deserted labors served only to arouse curiosity as to the origin of the lonely wall. How did it come to occupy such a still, quiet place, otherwise untouched by mortal hands? What interrupted these designs, and what became of its once inspired architects? None can now recall. It has returned itself to nature, indeed almost as if its surroundings reclaimed the elements of its construction, inviting the stone and mortar to take their place amongst the trees and flowers as steadfast members of earth's true and living realm. It has become a haven for birds and squirrels, and those curious of heart. Sitting upon its unfinished wall, one can gaze out into a vast wilderness of unbridled life, a final bastion of natural sanctity unsullied by humankind. It is perhaps one of the few remaining places for beasts to dwell in peace, undisturbed by the earth movers and city builders, the very thieves of life. There nature placidly unfolds, giving and creating as it always has, a reminder that all which was ever essentially needed has been provided, for neither price nor profit, a nurturing gift free to all. But those who deem themselves unworthy of so wholesome a gift think they must steal, they must imitate and forge sickly replicas of what existed originally in beauty and fulness. And all the vanity, hubris and mockery of man's attempt at deity might be captured in a simple comparison: the synthetic fibres of an artificial turf field juxtaposed with a pasture of verdant life, dancing with all the dynamism of pure existence. Return to the wild and be reclaimed, for therein lies vitality, resting dormant within you.

"And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil" -Gerard Manley Hopkins

Living Breath, Reanimating Death

Gasping for air after a valiant attempt at some more advanced yoga postures, I lay breathlessly on the floor of a dimly lit room. All analytical thought was banished from my mind and I was treated to a most peculiar peace of mind. As I dwelt in this refreshingly placid state, my attention effortlessly focused upon my breathing. Under the right circumstances, in times such as these, the breath is a transcendent portal, a majestic entrance into a realm both foreign and beautifully familiar. Soon my eyes began drinking in my surroundings quite unconsciously, for there were no directives given from the tyrant who so often governs my mind. All at once I was observing a network of cobwebs and its cemetery of fallen flies, forever motionless in a snare so wondrously spun by some arachnid architect. The miniscule fly corpses seemed like black stars, forming strange constellations in a stringlike sky of white. I began to notice the effect of my exhalation on this melancholy tapestry. Each out breath caused the web to sway, bringing motion and a sense of lively dance to the departed flies. Oh bizarre replica of life, when the living breathes upon the dead. Is it so with me? Can goodness be wrought through those long lifeless when the breath of the Divine graces their sordid souls? Move me.