Elderly Walker

A weary traveler, he had turned into an elderly walker.

Quiet, unassuming, yet refined with his thrift store shoes.

And, mindful with midnight strolls.

Never tongue tied.

Infinity bold.

When we had become one…along with many a collection of souls…

I needed

I wanted

to know what I did not know.

The manner in which the elderly walker skipped and limped with impunity.

The gale force gait that entwined his grumpy smile.

His gesturing hands that informed those passing by…we can be free…we are not all that we have been told.

Used Thoughts

I wet my appetite with the languish of…

old roads,

abandoned homes

and stories untold.

Hell bent on mysticism from possibilities existence.

Firm, are my devotion to lines in the snow.

And, where could they perchance…go.

Scars in the skin of life.

That never remain in the same path twice.

As Music Goes Out of Existence

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When a lute is played, there is no previous store of playing that it comes from.  When the music stops, it does not go anywhere else.  It came into existence by way of the structure of the lute and the playing of the performer.  When the playing ceases, the music goes out of existence.

In the same way all the components of being, both material and non-material come into existence, play their part and pass away.

That which we call a person is the bringing together of components and their actions with each other.  It is impossible to find a permanent self there.  And, yet there is a paradox.  For there is a path to follow and there is walking to be done, and yet there is no walker.  There are actions but there is no actor.  The air moves but there is no wind.  The idea of a specific self is a mistake.  Existence is both clarity and emptiness.

Visuddhi Maggaimageedit_42_7053278528

 

24 frames

24 hours 3
Perhaps, if no one had a way to tell time…we’d spend less of it dwelling on age and, more of it focused on existence.

This is how you make yourself vanish into nothing.
And, this is how you make yourself worthy of the love that she
gave to you back when you didn’t own a beautiful thing.

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This is how you make yourself call your mother.
And, this is how you make yourself closer to your brother.
And, remember him back when he was small enough to help you sing.

This is how you see yourself floating on the ceiling.
And, this is how you help her when her heart stops beating.
What happened to the part of you that noticed every changing wind?

This is how you talk to her when no one else is listening.
And, this is how you help her when the muse goes missing.
You vanish so she can go drowning in a dream again.

You thought God was an architect, now you know.
He’s something like a pipe bomb ready to blow.
And, everything you built that’s all for show goes up in flames…
In 24 frames

24 hours 10

You thought God was an architect, now you know.
He’s sitting in a black car ready to go.
You made some new friends after the show.
But you’ll forget their names…
In 24 frames

 

 

 

Corrupted by Human Emotion

sex is always corrupted by human emotion
sex is always corrupted by human emotion

I closed my eyes on for the moment but the moment past…I tried to see sex in the picture as I always did.
Would my vision of sex be wearing a seductively soft and decades old flannel shirt with a pair of button-fly Levi’s….
Would she be preparing herself with shades of hues matched by no other?
What if sex came from the sky like a dove in mourning?
What if sex shattered the earth with it’s natural beauty engulfed in seas of shame and arousal?
Who would be sex? Who would sex deny and disown? How is sex anything but life on life’s terms?
Sex, indeed may just take the stage by storm shouting,
‘we are no longer in the same book or on the same page!’
-Ambien Grace, Non Existent Artist/Existing to Be