Tabula Rasa

The blemishes that I have never left
do not deny me my rejection,
For to no end, of love am I bereft
and no choice I make is but reflection.
The tailspin through the augur peace
I've traveled seeking rest.
None have given me the least
translation, no such kind gest.
Yet it must be for a reason that I lay
my hands upon the slate as clean -
I cannot fathom a further price to pay
but for my fears to merely seem.

Faith To Let Be, To See, Really

Can you imagine, how it feels, the day you decide to walk on by, past excuses, past the little cowards of encouragement, through the wispy veil of fear, and out into the light? There, where the rain reminds you of rebirth and not the gloom of past days kept sickeningly frozen, you'd finally see me. Not with your eyes, but with your breath. Not with your ears, but with the thousandths of inches of spaces in between your freckles. You'll realise that death parted us not, but that we forgot to laugh our puerile confusion away. I'm smiling as I write this. I remember what it was like, before we lost ourselves to who we weren't. Funny moment. Funny timelessness. Inoubliable, yet it passed and the skies felt grey when drops dropped from it. What happened?
What happened to us?

I am here, in the sentiment of the day, experiencing fullness to the rim yet patiently waiting to overflow; for you, to come beyond the doors. To smile. A genuine regard never looks at something, but beyond it. When you look him in the eyes, you but gaze into me. You hate him. And you fight for him because you want him close to you, you want to prolong the pain. Just days ago, you willed peace, and it was given you, the feeling that you are. And you still are. What happened that made you look away from the mirror? Did you see a glint in his eyes, a fabled attraction, the hallucinatory guise of attack, about to pounce? Were you scared? Were you doubtful of his trust in you, or yours in him?

This is a crisis of faith. You and the magical window. I talk about reflections, them being everywhere. Sometimes you look and see them, then a shiny surface again scares you. Because you don't see yourself in it.

But you're in them, I know this, yet it makes you want to run aground, push back the ocean so you can hide away from it. Fear isn't real. What you are afraid of, this enemy that you perceive you are, is not there. But you hate him. That's what it sounds like. But if you looked not into his eyes but beyond them, you'd find yourself there, but without the timorous visage.

You don't trust him because you don't see you're him. You lose faith in God because you forget He's there. You choose not to listen. You choose not to see. You choose not to be who you are, because, love scares you. You are so petrified of being hurt by what cannot hurt. You stone man, you can walk because your feet are not frozen. You can sing because your tongue is not still. You can speak because your breath has motion.

It's not any of these things that makes you alive, though. You know.

Faith. And Love. And Joy. And Harmony. And Peace. Sweet Peace. It is all here, where we are.
Let me show you.

Tous Les Lampadaires

Tous les lampadaires,
brillants,
sont juste comme les moments,
passant
devant moi;

donc j'ai sauté
dans le taxi
et j'ai payé
mon prix;
voilà,
je connais
ma destination,
mais je n'suis pas
là, dans les rues.




"Street Lights"
de Kanye West
(traduit)

Ent In This Moment

Oui.
Je voudrais commencer avec ça. Because
the allowing makes way for what cannot be seen,
yet will be; what is, is.

Demain, dans un recoin d'un lieu inconnu,
quelque chose s'arrivera.
It will become the precursor to the written word, spoken by battled pathways, upon journeyed pipelines from whence the tears of solemn seeking ambled.
At first, terrified.
but then - triumphant in its trek
now tesselating towards tomorrow's today.

Try.
Follow the path, three doors down, instructions written on the other side of the panelling that lines these walls; beyond these corridors lie lies; and here, ushering new existence, stillness carries out the weaving of the fabric of life, majestic in sound, incomprehensible in reality, yet existent nonetheless, uninvited but inviting as a sweet dew to the soul's morning herbe.

I shiver, and here it rains. Il pleut de l'âme, because what else could sheen so brightly in the moonlit circumference of the prayer.
And it glides - outwardly touching within, explained nowhere, but witnessed everywhere and remembered anywhere here. Dans ce moment.

Ce moment. Ent, a tree root's knot in a bowl of
glass, fathered hymns,
praise, honour and grace,
ce moment, ent-ire worlds aloud,
in tie are worlds allowed,
and I, our world's a loud
memetic colouring book.

Shades

In my ego's world view, only things that matter deserve full attention. And the criteria for that is incredibly strict - everything has to be serious and important and has to have a great impact on all of humanity. It isn't that way, but that's the way I see it and that's the way it appears. Yet I squirm when 'big' events happen, and avoid them, because I don't want any harm done, I just want something to talk about, something to impress upon someone else. And saying this makes me feel off, because I don't really want it anymore. Seeing it only invites pain and hurt into my consciousness puts me off having it as a perspective.

Why so serious? A question. Lies. Good answer. What I feel the world is about and what it means isn't what it really is. I just saw a TED talk on "being wrong" and it reminded me that this type of thinking is wrong, because it sees a problem everywhere: out of any situation there is something to solve and all the little details, the ordinary miracles, are missed because they just don't 'seem' to impact the world that much. It's like a focal choice: to see what is there but not really what is there. The world view unconsciously filters what it sees to limit it to what it wants to see - events or things that can be exaggerated and 'seriousified' so that they can be 'fixed' by me. This is my ego's way of seeing things. It's not how it is.

How it is. That's what I'm moving towards. And it's not a way of seeing that comes from me, as if it was it would just be a different pair of my ego's shades. No, this sight is given to me, not needing further interpretation, not needing defense, as it sees everything forgiven. That, is what I want. To see everyone as they are, without judgment. To see through egos, to see through mistakes to the sameness that resonates within everyone.

Idyllic, says my ego. Truth, according to God.

The Challenge For One And All

To be truthful in this:

I accept myself, as I am, not as I should be.
I accept that I am loved by God/Life/The Universe/Love itself.
I accept that I am whole.
I accept that I but need be myself.
I accept those parts of me that I felt were incompatible with the way of life around me.
I accept you as you are, not as what my thoughts may be saying you should be like.
I accept you are my brother, as one with me.
I accept that you are equally as loved as I am by God/Life/The Universe/Love itself.
I accept that we but need be ourselves.

I forgive myself for not accepting this before.

Faith. Courage.

Beyond The Word(s)

Before I named it, that was it.
Those abundant skies are beyond
the vapor in my lungs, but there's closer.
The reflection in the puddle on the sidewalk,
the tears behind the water.
I did not cry to be heard, nor seen.

Before I named it, that was it.
Now it's just words on a canvas,
the paint about a picture of regret.
Now it's a second guess, mistaken
for the way it could have been
but taken as the nail that bled.

Before I named it, that was it.
Heaven's doppelganger's wish fulfilled,
directions misremembered, spilled
coffee, blood, thoughts on the carpet;
and leaves. Now, I've forgotten.
So now, I can remember again.

En Arrière

Chaque partie de moi, chacun on voit,
Chacun on trouve dans mes éspoirs,
Chacun on cherche dedans ma paume,
Dessous de la peau que je ne peux pas appeler
la mienne.

Mais voilà, on cherche sans entraves
Jusqu'au jour qu'on peut découvrir
Le sourire de mes bras, et leur verité,
Leur appel à l'âme, à la vie étrange,
oubliée.

Ça sent comme l'herb divin, le déjà trouvé.
Et puis, gardant l'histoire de mes échanges,
Je choisis l'autre option, la seule
Lorsqu'on se regarde en face, grâce à ce qu'on
ne peut pas voir.

J'ai photocopié mes émotions sur ma paume
Afin d'être capable de lire ce que je sens
quand je me cherche pour l'avenir.

C'est ma main, que je laisse
Me faire entendre, tandis que
Mes yeux s'occupent du reste, sauf,
Bien sûr, le bien-être de mon oeil
dedans.

Nobody's Road

This poem is not about you, but
I feel you're worth mentioning.
It is written because
honesty will find me truth.

I feel excluded.
Yes, that's how it feels to me
when you share your attention
as a merchant would swap coin
in a market -
there's so many you can talk to
about everything and what -
what is there to talk about
but what is what,
and laughs about.

Hold on, before I name you not.
This is all in my head, is it not?
I'm trying to let go of you,
of this paragon you represent,
yet I hold out, hooked on a sliver
of your well-to-be shirt,
reconsidering.

Could you make me happy?
Could you be the one I want,
the one I've always called for,
even though I know,
I am nobody special,
nothing to spend much coin on,
offering little return in your eyes.
It is only in mine that you find lies,
because they stand in between
you and me, me and you -
one, but distanced as two.

And so apart we stand,
you in the middle of a bidding war,
me imprisoned behind a stall,
looking loneliness in the face,
watching it not smirk but smile
and mouth "you chose this."

I realise, I must have, I did.
By bending my thoughts back
into my fingertips, I typed,
on and on, the poetry of a sod.
I wanted your attention,
and you gave it to me in pieces -
never the whole thing.
I wonder, did you know I would
not be satisfied? Did you think
I wouldn't be, ever?

I forgive you.
It's best you didn't ruin your existence
while I was attempting to ruin mine.
Your smile, I still like it,
but I don't like it when I don't cause it.
That's right, I feel responsible
for your happiness.
And the 'sweet' things you enticed me with
give me no room to breathe
while I think them over and over
for their meaning.

You told me to find a girl.
I didn't. Not yet. Not one that would have me.
Yet I crave - crave - your approval
because I feel it will make me happy.

But - I know better now.
This is all in my head.
So, my happiness is guaranteed
if I just get you out of it,
at least off your throne.

You can't make me happy,
I can't reciprocate.
I tried. Clearly, I failed.
So what are we to each other now
but passing thoughts:
one is yearning for the other,
for the same nothing to be real,
and one is something
I can't touch.

This is nobody's road.

A Letter With No Address, To You

Dear,

We may have met, or maybe yet to have. But know from the get-go, that I am not going to be your everything. That's an expectation that, while my ego would love to fulfill, is not one that I can. I am who I am, and I've walked where I have walked, and I will try not to point to my footprints when we meet, but if you see them behind me, and you ask me about them, I will tell you where I have trodden. I will be honest. I will be. There is no other way for love to discover us unless we are open about where we have been, what doors we have closed, but most importantly which ones we have left open so that the breeze and the sunlight can have passed through.

Do not hold on to me. I won't to you. If there is pull, and there would be if it would be love, we will come together and celebrate our oneness. And why not go for long walks on the beach, or talk 'til dawn, or cuddle and kiss and look into each other's eyes as if we were looking into sincerity? I can play with your hair, you can play with my lashes. You can dream, and I can dream, but let's not hold on to what we've done or what we make up. Let footprints be, but let's celebrate now, what we are, together as one, beyond what we may look like to each other.

Love will find us. This, I know.

Be ready.

The Work Of Air Upon Ink

(By not defining poetry,
I can make man sane, with the arch of a brow
by pen, my mark made mine by
possession,
an ugly weaning of the crepuscule
and synthesis
of words, concepts and other ordures from the rebel's dictionary.)
I can kiss the rain, because lips are
everywhere, perfectly positioned
to fall unto mine,
a sweet deluge weeping for the loving touch
of my pen;
is it here,
ticking streaks upside stretched
cut throat
basting on the widened alleyways of my
grin right now, between one sensational lip and
the other limb, erect
to fool the folds
and cracks of that eager smile,
eager to sip the ink, curdled vomit
passing soon, drip,
dripping wasted life, life I could have given,
out of the corners of the mouth
that produced the kiss of the tempest,
in my choking voice?