The Absolute Inseparable

I remember the day I realised my body

– what luck to find it attached to my head.


Nobody bothered to teach me to live in a body

– only that using the head would help.


I seek now the absolute from within this here body

(human experience from dualism saved)


as mind cannot dwell without body

neither is body truly separable from its mind.

How futile to seek hypothetical vacuums

where rational reason is said to exist.


Abandoning vacuum for the human lowlife:

body to mind

as mind is to feeling

and feeling back to the body and mind;

circular schemata a center connecting

penetrate through to link each one up.


No separateness in totality, and no isolation

only varied dimensions indissolubly linked

where as soon as we deem one more than the rest

we are lost on pursuits of confusion, at best.


The absolute inseparable

as thoughts from the body and feeling rising the thoughts

learning sensation to create sense therefrom,

that absolute center where futures still grow.

Love-Grief

My heart throbs with wisdom

of a thousand moons weaving

past into future

, now ,

moment deceiving

, holding totality ,

, holding all being ,


being through feeling alone

(is it pulsing?)


love-grief, and all that’s between

the self-reaffirming

surfaces gleaming

(grief cannot be where love was not prior

and I’d rather grieve love

than neither at all)

Love-grief fills us with being

pulsing cells feeling consumed

drunken with bliss, formidable after

arriving through all which one sense

and so heavenly drawn.

Speak out to me lovers, the language of grief

through hearts broken throbbing

, holding together ,

held together by light

of all the stars in the heavens above

together to shine

in love-grief’s might

boundless in depth

as the height we may rise

together in bliss and sorrow combined

embraced by this vastness

and by it brought back to life.

The Spider

Waiting.

For what?

Hanging like spiders

blown by the winds,

the waves

against which we plan precarious futures,

spinning out webs in the ebbs and the flows,

spinning out webs,

spinning out.


First Wave

Second Wave

Third Wave

How many Waves?

Still hanging, the spider

blown by the Waves, the gusts,

sharper, becoming

sharper still as our loneliness echoes

louder and louder with each passing month.


How many months has it been again?

The texture of time at this point so foreign,

priorities different

from the momentum of lives we once had,

the forces disturbed, seeking new balance

negotiations at play

between what was there, now impossible

and the possible not yet there.

Not yet.

Individualists in insular cities full to the brim,

crowded, spaced out, further still

by the vastness of this solitude

grappling with our totality,

grappling with it more than before.

Is the spider still there?

Is she alive?

Is her thin string still holding her,

rocking along

with the

First Wave

Second Wave

Third Wave

How many Waves?

Paul-Linke-Ufer, Spring ’21

Traffic of humans and ducks

by the water

filling, bulging the buds

hanging in strings,

pearls

off branches of willows

weeping for friends long unseen

and lovers unlived.

Smiles from strangers

and laughs at the dogs;

life in the air of a city

losing, lost

longing

to leap in the arms of those strangers

and return to admissions of lust.

The surface in shine,

sun and friends there no longer unseen

emerging desire and welling up spring

in traffic down by the water.

My heart is not with me

My heart is not with me.

It is out there, somewhere, with you.


It wants to break out, be free but

it stays out there, somewhere, with you.


Ensnared by your eyes,

the smile and glimmer they shine when upon me.


Release me, free me,

return my heart to me.


I cannot continue to live with

a heart that’s not with me.


I need my heart here beside me.

I need it restored, from doubtful thoughts drawn.


My heart is not with me.

It is out there, somewhere, with you.


Release me, free me,

return my heart to me.

The ponds of one’s sameness / energies of no outlet

Stagnant and drifting

in the ponds of one’s sameness

where frames never shift

but shrink all the same;


tight round one’s neck and

one’s heart and


one’s thinking

lost in irrelevance & languidly foolish;


a layer tight blanket

tucking the chest and

disturbing what’s left of ubiquitous rest.

Sweet, what not,

mostly not

– not much remains;


no sparks but far days

as a week brings in time

a whole month’s heavy strife.

All these discordant energies

– up, then down –

then up and sideways and

then down again,


fluttering thoughts and actions

of restlessness brought.

I don’t know what I want or need anymore

(how many months have passed again?);

only left here with feelings of being

severed, singular, static and torn

apart by these

building energies of no outlet.

The first song of Spring

The first song of Spring 

through drips icy arrives,

a lone bird for one that’s alone in it bringing 

the seed of expansion which stillness so hides. 


Hard is the bud where leaves lie in slumber 

as all of us dwellers still inwardly bide, 

listening, there, the bud in its slumber 

to the first song of spring, expecting its flight. 


“Sing to me, Spring, the seed of expansion, 

for winter in silence must too one day end

and all must emerge from its still sharp embrace

which life doth protect from harshness and death.”