I really wish I could sleep later than 8:00am on a weekend. It seems my body just won't allow it anymore. Plenty to do today, lots of animation to block and plenty of tunes to jam to doing it. It's amazing how much reading old writings can bring you back to where you were when you wrote those words. Any art in which we must dip the brush into our very soul will surely bear that mark. We fix something of ourselves to that moment of creation - time does not dim its illumination even if those feelings are much changed upon reflection. And tracing from then to now, we see where we've been and hopefully if we turn around we catch a glimpse of where we're going. Continuing the look a old writings, I've got a varied collection today.

Swimming in a Cynic's Sea - 1998
I drift and sink amidst the hypocrisy
Of myself and of that which I carelessly say;
Wishing there an end to this seekers road-
Islands of peace on which to rest.
I question you until there is no you
That I see; For all of my inquiries
Fill the void of my mind until I feel
As if I will burst into a thousand shards
Of a once stable son.
All I desire is to know and follow you-
You call and all I do is run
Back to my cynic's sea and find comfort
In the insanity of a void of concrete truth
And an ocean of contemplation fills my gaping mouth
Till all I taste is the salt of the faithless' sea
And I wait to be thrown out
And be trampled by men-
For I fear I will never be salty again.



Loss - 1997
Which way is up?
Which way is down?
They reach and surround
me without a sound
or whisper;
Enveloping me
with dark hands full of blood
(It tastes like wine);
Offering sensuous delights
for nothing...free?
Ecstasy for a night,
no hidden cost,
no sense of loss
(until morning).
The Son rises and finds me
asleep in the light;
clutching the fruit of the season's container,
Oh, my beloved Sustainer!
What has become of my steadfast heart?
"My child, but open your eyes,
look and perceive:
surely it is more blessed to give than receive;
Or did you not know...the wine you drank was
the blood of infant saints made sweet by
but a lie of generosity."



Conformity - 1995
Standing in a masquerade;
Keeping step in life's parade
grows old and silly;
Yet I see
the mask I hold in my hands
is just what conformity demands.
They just wouldn't understand
the me I want to be
is not the me they daily see;
So as they perceive, I become;
God, that sounds awfully dumb.

Labels: Poetry, Thoughts