Kali

 काली

 काली

 काली



"Artsy" is probably the most offensive word to an artist.

I'll always have these memories.

But they'll never have me.

Are you O.K.?

If I told you

Would you believe me

Or would I just

Be providing more reason

For whisper,

For distance?

I tell you no more

You do not inquire.

& this is okay.

Friday. I am waiting.

People take Fashion too seriously.

Fashion takes People too seriously.

I love it. 

A Thing in and of Itself.

I'll post actual words here when I realize what's going on.

The Vision I Had

Floating to the house now and all is light
Such warm and guiding light.
The house of God—I’ve always known it—
Small and swelling
With quiet joy.
Entering the house now,
Dirty boots line the entranceway,
Coats on the rack.

And all is quiet.

There are no lights, no fixtures,
But the sun through the windows
Is warm and bright
And sustaining.
The kitchen smells of delight
The food makes itself.
Upstairs, the beds are all made
And the air is thin and breathable
As it floats through the windows,
Passing over the flower boxes at every sill.
Out back the great oak tree stretches
To the skies as the men and women of my life
Lay on its thick, strong branches reclining
And denying any sense of effort or fear.
They ask me to join them,
But I’m not ready. I’d rather chase
The monarch butterfly in the yard,
The dew of the grass on my bare feet
—sweet to taste and soft to touch—

Mere droplets of God’s love—
Which is in everything, always,
Waiting for us to come home.

Moving Out. To What In?

I would point you in the right direction, but I cut off my hands when I realized the wrong they were doing.

Carole King knows exactly what I'm going through.

 I want to go home. But there isn't one yet. I'm changing my number and throwing away my black book and living in some miserable high rise that is in fact some ranch style two bedroom in a small town and will reside a complete alien among what used to be my norm, my wrecking crew, my friends.

And it's totally fine. 

Edified.

I can call myself “Poet” now.

My words mean something

They have weight,

They call for pause.

They do not rhyme

But they always sing;

Gladdened.

They make their way

Serpentine

Through the mind

Exacting their revenge

On expectation

And fear.

Released

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