You called emotions my body’s poetry, and you weren’t wrong. Most nights you can find me lettersetting the prose between the Current’s shores; the limbic begetting symbols and metahpors lost to the head but understood by the heart.

There are no assurances how long this bridge between the immanent and transcendent will last, just a promise of easy return till the vasanas are worn smooth by Grace’s holy waters.

True, dat:
The trucker to the left of me, writing his ministrations on the asphalt canvas between here and drop off;
The road worker behind him, washed in a driver’s profanity, creating hidden dust fractals with each push of the broom;
Both of them scribing hidden symbols and perspectives without the use of a single letter

Drone up and back, up and back;
See the ley lines connecting them both to their families,
and decision trees splitting off from each group
into a rooted system that just a few hops away
creates connections that would make a fungi blush

Sons and daughters working retail before opening;
Brothers and sisters engineering and doctoring and cold calling;
Uncles and aunts raising families;
Inlaws and teenagers and kids and elders full of joy and shit and pathos and courage

Poets all,
writing on the world pallet pre-verbally;
adding to god’s wiki built entirely on the Space between words

No index for this work, just visions and symbols and letterless verbs
Moving us all ever onward in the grand picture without borders
that can be ever intuited but never defined

sub ek

~

Rich soil there;
words drift like dandelion spires,
find purchase in the earth,
and bloom into fractals of laughter
that backlight god’s concert hall

This is where She reads our every story like sheet music;
groups of groups of silver collapsible music stands
stretching from infinity to eternity

Each holding the exact number of sheets
to tell your story
and yours
and yours,
and ours

Always a dynamic wrestling match
between the sovereignty** **of Her stamped notes
and the shimmer of our free-willed tempo and volume
~
You’ll be done before She is,
so when you’re ready, pack up your synesthesia,
leave your doubts behind,
and triangulate back to the poles of yes and no

Take solace in the safety of black and white,
but always be ready to split the binary, shoot the middle,
and come back to where part of you never left in the first place

See her walk the roads and hallways after the last school bell rings,
seeding future memories, songs waiting to to completed, and daydreams full of semi colons and exclamation marks

Watch her weave her mobius ribbon of the heart
around the words and images that stream and pop from buildings, homes,
dogwalkers and Prime trucks looking for their next algo-ed drop point

Love and imagination are the currency here;
urgency and patience trip over each other
as doodles and journals and oil paints and beats
are pulled from the collective and nursed into the world for this:

The world as Canvas unfurled for one Holy moment,
when light and Yes simply win,
and the Muse revels in in the Sate of Is.

sub ek

Step back, earnest East!
Because that seeking was never profane;
it was always the inbreath of spirit’s outbreath,
Always and Ever, one step closer than intimate

Step in, East and West!
Hear your mystics roar in stain glassed gardens;
ply the light that buys the light that knits the shadows
and pulls them like velvet from an event horizon

Where all that is left is
me, watching through god’s eyes
as She sees me

And I know without question
I am Love

While there’s only memory to rely on - even the idea of taking pictures hints at a profaning I am not willing to toy with -
no two seem the same…

–

There are the classics:
~round salined stencils in the cotton, with a few rogue cowlicks reaching towards the edge of the slips,

And the bandits:
~broken circles, with key border pieces missing, stolen by absorbency or aridity or other mysteries of the bedroom’s geography

And the Dali’s
~surrealistic messes hinting at the holy with a gentle reminder to not hold my breath while i’m trying to deciper them

–

It’s not the nightsweat-noggin-stamps that beget the wonder, of course, it’s the supply-chain that midwifes them from the transcendent to the temporal:

The space where god is first revealed as a verb rather than a noun;
Then remembered as Source, which the verb comes from and will return to,
and finally,
simply,

The Mighty Is

Pre - requisite, referent or relationship.

–
Not sure, on reflection, if you actually came UP with “pillow hagiography”, but Thank You, for pointing to its Pointing, to its contention that what is never lost can never really be found.

My ‘whys’ were replaced by ‘thank yous’ this morning, birthing god’s haiku ~
A brook with 17 stepping stones that led directly to Eckart Tolle’s roadhouse.

Infinite rooms and hallways there, as blessings erased boundaries in the Now:

All shall be well
May you be filled with loving kindness
Ya Hadi
L’Chaim

~

sub ek

Before Was, there was Current
And Current begat Many, and Many remained One

1:2

Current kissed the lexical but bid it wait its turn,
and hung feelings in the ether

And feelings clothed words
And words birthed separation
And separation sired the Thing of things:

A holy Currented Delta seeded with uncountable pending epiphanies

1:2

And the Delta was no delta, but a first -
the first cause’s first cause;
The Beginning of beginnings,
where starts and stops somehow defined eternity and infinity,
dropped them into the borderless Now,
and watched as separation sired despair AND glory with every inbreath and outbreath

1:3

And the Delta delta-ed,
through the weft and warp of time and space
Into god’s striations
Geo bio noos theo

1:4

And here is where we find ourselves
In and of and because of and in spite of all the layers
Current in drag becoming the layers looking back on Current

1:5

This is where Strauss and scabies and conception and chaos
all braid and dance in a holy, profane, beautiful mess;
Where your god’s conception tale trumps mine
and **my **conception tale subsumes yours
As we pull back and see the Delta
become the words
clothed in feelings from the Current

Smaller and smaller
Until it is all just a mote in God’s I ~
A stranger in a coffee shop picking up the envelope I dropped,
smiling -

Just compassion, as This, Now, feeds the Current that looks for the Was to become again

sub ek

I see him so I can’t be him, right?

But he knows the territory far better than I,
grabs an answer from the preverbal shadowland,
and drapes it over my shoulder like a rotting prayer shawl

Figured I had used all the punchcards for the shame pool up,
but there’s always one hanging around somewhere waiting to be found
(usually when I’m looking for answers in drag - books, people, religion)

I know there’s a better map, hell I saw it a couple times this week
(usually when I was looking for answers in drag - books, people, religion)
But here’s the thing:

World finding is like word-finding - you need to keep it right in your
spiritual peripheral vision - aware of it but not looking right at it
Wait for the shimmer and the draw,
Then open the heart and let the light in

Until then, or maybe on the way to then - there is just this:
Anger and rage and cell farms roiling in entropy
and creating the mulch that is one step closer to sadness
One step farther from anxiety and madness
A necessary trudge in this point to point
struggling to take me home

sub ek?

Heat-laden aspen whisper breezes;
Northern flickers’ call and response,

Or afternoons like today when the canopy wears Unusual like a pheromone,
silently nudging me past that trail head and that one and that one to
an xy coordinate that never shows up on the GPS’s after-scrawl

~
These are more holy Whens than Wheres;
expressions of geography no more constrained by cause and effect
than Grace or coincidence

Warrens of Now,
where volition and fate have both taken early retirement
and the only prescriptive left is to move from human being
to Human, Being

~

sub ek