Just to wake up in the morning remember who I am;
intake of breath and exhale.
Feel my chest move,
diaphragm relax, the air sing on my lips.
To touch the world, eyelash moving air,
lazy hand catching dust motes in the sun.
A warm sigh showering moist breath.
To wake up and realize that you have survived,
again, one more night.
It is enough, just to live, without dreams or despair,
past or future; to worry the moment. It is enough,
when faced with the alternative, to reserve judgement,
forego questions or hoped for answers. Just to be
a part of it all. It is a beautiful day. A new voice awakes
me from slumbered contentment, compliant reverie,
this passive repose of someone lost
to expectation and desire.
Man of Action
A rumbled trust growls deep; barrel chested voice
confident, unquestioning of variable truths or meanings;
unconcerned with ulterior alterities or liminal 'facts.
No paralytic notions elicit questions for reflection
to deter the waking lion with a mission to fulfill.
In this micro-maniacial moment you do nothing
but say, "I see..." as you slowly awaken from
an eternity-like slumbering repose , shaking dust
and leaf from your beard, and fixing your good eye
on the goal beyond the horizon, move to act.
From the moments after midnight,
when the light of day is lost
into a memory from sensation dead.
Before the morning on pre-figuring gesture
pulls the darkness toward dawn.
The seconds lose their purpose and minutes
lose their place as markers of meaning. Gone,
all attachments, social truths, gestures and actions
under many layered nothing that blankets
all intention in a coverlet of sweet oblivion.
It's not dying
Cast off unacknowledged constraints and see
for who we are as much your unaccustomed
mind can without losing all and everything.
It is not dying to kill within yourself something
dear and destructive, that unacknowledged sense
in self that now distantly mirrors a distorted re-vision
of what you never thought you were and now realize
you can not really ever be again, and are wracked
with regret for a now hated past, fearful at a future.
It is not living
That "ever-fix'ed mark" that "alters [not] when it alteration finds."
As change seeks change, like seeking like, a constant flux
and endless reconfiguration of the self to the myriad others
in the co-creation of matrices that sing and swing chaste
around an ever-moving unseen center. A center that itself
has no being except in that it is about which things spin.
Location, that quantum fiction of static potential as of yet
to be placed in motion has no more importance to life
than the last exhaled breath to the living or the lived.
And when will you, once beloved charished calm,
find within that to be into the nothing until all
potentials are finally put into motion.