Sunday, March 24, 2013


With something too tender for jerky barbs,
Loaded truths and unconfirmed conventions.
Too soft for words that don’t match action,
And contrived functions
Called a naïve inclination,
Boyish wonder and friend means friend
Love means love
And it need not attention.
Nor confirmation
Sun shines son,
And home means home

And something too sharp for fickle wanders,
And fuzzy experience which shifts in the sands.
Solid and straight
Razor cut blood in the primordial spark
While undifferentiated flow
In both this and that
Never lost and needing not,
be found.

Stranger here though it’s all ones own,
And having not even the refuge of indignation,
As it requires a pity that cannot generate
To differentiate or not, even anger speaks
A delicate touch.
To speak or not.
Without solace in “I tried”, plumbers plumb,
Birds fly,
And tigers growl. To have choice or not,
Is a dichotomy untenable with the unrestrained
Heart of compassion.
Sitting tender and sharp, willing to be a stranger
And to own it all.

In the noise reign regal in silence
In the silence speak culture and vulgarity
And laugh with strangers,
Who have been cut, to whom love means love
Who bleed willingly into a spark
Creating flames to die with
Who are quiet and growl,
Solid and straight
Who are stranger here, and own it all.
Just done, and can’t “try”.
Thus done, there is nothing left
But to do it.
Stainless. Taking stains without fear.