Thursday, April 24, 2014
Our answers ride in on a horse, "Doesn't Have a Clue,"transporting our hearts across the river of the inevitable, washing away our regrets and wrong turns. Buddha teaches us to laugh, no birth, no death. Ha ha. Ha ha. But that too, is an illusion. When we go to the desert of our thorny blunders nothing comes together in the end. Like the poem we write on a wing and a prayer, we're pure in the unbearable brokenness of being.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Twilight felt like one lost, flaming hillbilly as he kicked a halfull bottle of whiskey across an empty field. The soil he walked upon was exhausted and he was falling apart at his dreams.
“No one is a better example of foolishness than I, foolishness for everyone. The ruin of my imagination is a steamroller flattening my existence. I’ve been drinkin and drinkin with the money lost souls send me in those little prayer request envelopes. So if you want Grace, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. The secret is to read the sky as the truth of living inward where the spaces are vast between the who you think you are and the old stories you tell yourself when you're alone. Now, if you still love me, honk like your life depends upon it.”
Image: Gus White
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
I was originally an angel of hunger
with an innate aversion to reality
Now I stand at the foot of Mt. Sopris
at ease with death
like the first caterpillar
at six thousand feet in April
Whether the season has hope or not
what I have is everything-
Image: Tooga, Cocoon
Monday, April 21, 2014
The secret of dreams is that subject and object are the same. The object is self-luminous, fluent in form, multivalent in its meanings. It’s your dream, the manifestation of your will, and yet you are surprised by it … Write down your dreams. They are your myths.
— Joseph Campbell
I step out of the silence into my life today
no one else can find a way out for me
or clear the air, pierce the walls that have held me
On a crimson spring morning I step into my life today
and it fortifies me against the hungry ghosts
turns any suffering into an impossible surprise
from now on
I slip past the curtain of wounds
into the room where everything
broken is fed
Image: Robert Frank. Untitled (Children with Sparklers in Provincetown) ca. 1958. Gelatin silver print
Sunday, April 20, 2014
April's snowfall of
Bridal white apricot blossoms
& you fall into the empty cave of yourself
You press against the lens of surrender
& watch yourself blur into nature
It has always been this way
As a child
You spaced out—
In accidents of wonder—
& were absorbed
By the light which stayed with you
You see it in the aspens from time to time
You watch as it falls away from itself
In the meadow's pool
You know it intimately
You have always known
That this would happen
A miraculous sky
Against every loss you'll ever know
Is the image you preserve
Image: Josef Zedlak
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Twilight moved into a house at the edge of town. Something was not quite right here. In the middle of the night he would crawl scraping his hands on the pavement leaving a trail of blood, but discover himself in the shower with legs covered in smooth hair. He'd head out to the tarot reader only to find himself sucking his thumb in diapers under billowing pink skirts.
"I've removed my defenses. I don't understand the story of who I am. Dream me with a naked brain seeing a hundred miles through the veil. Everything sparkles. I've left my thoughts behind. Spring is full distraction and surprise."
Friday, April 18, 2014
Twilight loved a tree in his garden so much that he would kiss and embrace it. When he was alone he was drunk with a diamond like awareness. He was the artist who left cryptic messages spray painted on the walls of abandoned buildings and on highway abutments.
"No words shall be saved in the house of men. "
"What the devil would this devil be."
"Faith tore out my heart."
"The evening crows begin to break us."
"Know the rivers that run with no water."
For forty days and forty nights he wandered the street of dreams. Miracles were everywhere. Windows were opened and every bird in the sky was on fire.
He cried out, "Weave me like a wave of music in the sun and gold."
Artist: Jacko Vassilev