russian hill to golden gate

russian hill to golden gate
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

hold your breath and listen to the sparrows. tilt your head and fall into the stream. the leaves cover you until you come out on the other side. there is sky you've never seen and smells you've never scented. pull that lotus seed out of your nose...

celebration

today i celebrate the death of something and hopefully the birth of something else.

i've never been one to make use of decay with the proper manners but this is a good time to learn as any.

decay. the point of time, space and matter in the human experience when the pieces don't harmonize anymore to produce anything that reminds the viewer of reality.

movements

there are movements on the ridge
there is motion on the uphill
seas of green strands swaying on the willow

there are movements on the ridge
there is motion in the hackles
the silver of the hackles don't lie

when down comes the movement
plunging is the term of something
sinking into and then below

like a fork finding recessess
into the not quite set meringue
so crusty at first but then satisfaction

there are movements on his spine
it is like a drunken scorpion
doesn't know when to put it down

The Gift (2004)

It is a gift that I have inside of me.
A heart of flesh and warm blood in my veins,
The images my eyes bring to my consciousness

And the courage of my soul to see them for what they are.
In pain and in tears sometimes my abilities offer me,
Yet in between all these sensations there still lies hope.

I must believe that hope exists.
I have a conviction that tomorrow the sun will rise
And with day’s end the moon will greet me.

I believe that when I look up at the dark sky
Shimmering stars will greet me with their smiles.
When in the desert with only sand and stone,
I believe my memories of you will never fade.

It is a gift that lives within me
That really belongs to another heart.
Yet I don’t possess the heart to put it in its rightly place,
Stars shine more brightly when viewed through a window.

In this house there are many glass panes.
They open our hearts to the past and to what may be;
They draw by lines and dots upon the celestial sky;
They tell stories of feats we may not always fulfill.

Yet they are faithful in a way that humans aren’t.
There are always gaps and holes in their stories;
There are always misplaced brushstrokes in their murals...

We can’t rely on murals to explain our lives,
We can’t rely on close ones to tell the truth; always,
Affection has her own course and her own ways.

But that is the reason we listen to her so,
It is not to record the bare truth of things.
It is to remember the feeling of our desire.