our daily habit is running away
turning us into little battlefields
that have no other capacity
other than to walk towards war.
Poetry
Sometimes all you need to recover
your joy is to be neither holy nor wise.
Just inhabit that quiet world behind your face
where the awkward and tangled parts of you
loosen and fall into rhythm.
How you get there is up to you,
but once you arrive,
you’ll discover…
the shared urge we have
has slipped into the rearview.
Until it is reclaimed and in plain sight,
we will continue to fuel ourselves on fear
and never risk being absolutely destroyed by love.
the quest for wisdom has stretched out for thousands of miles
in the wrong direction.
it is time for us to turn back and comb through the book
of our heart.
tides of greed will recede when we discover that a single page can direct the rest of our days.
Approaching the second mountain of this life, I long for peace, and today, the guidance comes from the parrots in the trees clicking their tongues. They are never confused nor tire of being what they are.
In the tiny apartment by the river, the heat has no consideration and burns…
When you have walked yourself to the edge of insanity,
and your bruised soul cannot access any other tools than despair,
smile at your pain and hold it like it is your own child.
Do this as long as you can. The world will go on, but you will stop…
Poetry
the moment you remember
your resilience,
recalling all the harsh fires
you’ve walked through,
at once the scars are
stretched out
that provide enough turf
to take the next step.
I bring myself to the Macal gnarled and knotted from the American Grind.
Maps soon become obsolete and the compass I relied on for so long has drowned itself in time.
I stay until we merge and the sound of raw water rouses the blood rivers running through my flesh.
