My photo
:, Indonesia
I do not speak my truth to antagonize you.... I share this swollen river running -- This waterfall of faith-- because it flows from me like lennon's endless rain.... --my paper cup: this poem-- to which an endless string of words spill out and on to... I stain the sentences with abundant articulations that boil inside of me... I thirst, I starve, I crave. and all that quenches... all that can satiate me is to open the faucet and allow the words to run... They skip and dance across themselves... They formulate on their way out like fireworks deciding which way they will face when they open and sizzle in the night air... And when they do... it's a sight to behold. It shocks me like the boom, and takes me aback to see what has emerged. And Keroac knew. He knew all along... that I was one. As my words explode like spiders across the sky... I watch in staggering wonder at my truth revealed and know that I am home here. I have taken my vow... signed in blood... solemnly sworn myself in... been hazed and pinky promised... and I know... without the shadow of a doubt... that I am a mad one. ...and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

This comfort

We seek the eternal 
But can't wait for this moment to be over...
 A strand 
That we pull- that tugs on something deep and down below.
We forget.
...the journey is the gift * the prize is the path...
But would I have to give up my gold anklet with the jingly bell if I were to become a monk?
I asked. He laughed.
That strand
Pulled on something like an undigested piece of meat.
Let go! I cry out... Let go!!
To you. To him. To me.

I'm scared.

But it's so easy
We tell the many me's that hover and quiver in fear...
Just swap the 'C' and the 'A'
You see, ay?
It's almost SACRED to be SCARED... And that's okay.
But we must trust. It's trust or bust
For us who windy wanderlust...
I listen to the wind. To the wind of my soul...
My soul has wind. My spirit weather.
When it's dark and stormy my eyes still have starlight.
Why do we close our eyes when we kiss and sing and dream?
I heard someone ask that and I let mr. Jung answer from the grave - His words eternal.

His words eternal.
Will my words be eternal?
For that's what we seek, right?
The fountain
Of eternity.
So maybe writing now is my future legacy 
I'll leave behind.
And for now
I'll slip into something more comfortable and be present in the 

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