Mythos, Ethos, Eros, some trilogy • Lend them all to me sister/brother, that’d be sublime as we trundle through • Science is as real as it is no denier of the mystic, as it is universal, as it is useful to be a poet who sings & sees, a singer who breathes & plays apt fingers on strings or keys, a writer with sight, a painter of spectacle, as we too are both connected to & transcendent of the world in which we live, or we are liars and we are thieves without a spiritual trip near the sand & sea • Chained to some post most of us would never have had the notion to plant there in the cold Dead Sea Scroll grounds there under hundred degree sunshine, in the bellybutton of the planet as somebody once called it • Of the notion that only one dogged mama-papa trilogy of concrete enclosure is walled around such lotus of id & infinitudes open closing open closure open closing open closure, no drowning and no abyss fettered by potholed streets and parking lots • No, there’s no open and shut but open to what? • The sun, the womb, the sacrifice of self for another, the tomb of one great being hidden beneath the chalice once said to be our safety, our keeping, our tree • Oh,  why must some jail the goddess of love, the mother, the sun • The moon is born and dies and is born again, son, and someone called it twenty-four hours and a day • Oh, goddess, you true know our plight • The bird outside: I know it’s a blue jay …not a hawk, because I know the jay has mastered mimicry for sake of the hunt & gather ritual • & I know the cardinal for it’s single note monotone • You and your impressive dreaded denial of nature so perfectly enigmatic there before you, child of woman, my how you’ve grown in so many ways and not in others so important to all of us • But what do I know? • I know if I wana pray I will pray and if I want to remain outside of your castles & kingdoms to do so then I will, and if it is with white sage and sweet grass and cedar in sea-crafted mother-of-pearl then it iz and here it is to only-no only, to sekishu no onjo, to be the rhymes of reason/un-reason, season/un-season, knowing/un-knowing, and so be it, that’s how the story goes • Been goin’on for so much longer than your language knows or so I’ve come to share this notion • Oldest notion, newer notion, many motions in a pond with ripples •  Who’s to say, really?  He who does say needs only be afloat on some calm sea alone • Or soggy and exhausted at the crest of some rocky mass not easily scaled • No, it matters not where but how soon • Beside the lion and the serpent and the tree of infinite knowledge:  we who increase knowledge increase sorrow, but he who decreases knowledge to drive in higher seats develops only the sorrows of others and his own young progeny looking up to him sometimes and outward, blessedly, at others, so sullen will be their young faces as history is ignored and new words are written in the attempt to minimize the lives of the many for the audacities of the few & the sky is lit by the destruction of convenient spaces where some hellish figures tread and so many of the simple real people dwell in terror • Oh no: to be noble @ birth but not @ heart; to be higher than your brother is to build the woe that we have known for far too long  • Oh yes: to be noble of the heart & gut (and know that nothing has worth to a life form that is not whole with kindness and of the perception that finds one in relationship to a divine flow of wonder and even, yes, valor, while coexisting extraordinarily as individuals unprepared to face such horrific uses of lives & livelihood) is to be my brother • & if not whole, then trying to be, as this is the toughest thing in the midst of tyranny • Born as a singular ingredient of what is far more immaculate than this one lifetime could ever surmise to know and institute upon another; take a stand there with a gavel and robe and you know in the dark before sleep that you see the creep in the mirror lying to all who call you chieftain • Don’t wash off that blood with impunity, sir or madam, look at your reflection in those bloodied hands and sorrow for we all have to own up soon to the pebble, lest we gather dark harvest until the end of the elements that sustain such a godly and ideologically infinite state of hope & wonder, hunt and gather, fight or flight, meek or might, awake or asleep-sight in the company of all those born unto something unknown at birth and yet completely open to possibilities,  unless the hand that receives us is one of bias and a length of chain • I hope to know that a son can be a free-spirited one heartbeat as well as an honorable young man who shakes his girlfriend’s father’s hand while making good eye contact and assuring them of his intentions on the night of some said arbitrary homecoming dance • These principles are not what clots the wholeness of humanity and the land animals in walk and stillness; not these things because we know how it is to be civil, sure, & honest too, but why would we aim to kill the creative energies, and for sake of things less spiritual than individuality in the revelry of connectivity? • Eternity is far greater than this blink or flicker, yes, but it is in this blink that we live together • Much less an idea that all of life came descendent of an ousting from Eden …or mournful scourging beside Gesthemane, by guards dispatched to be brutal, where disciples prayed together before rendering their compassionate brother to be duly martyred underneath no bloodier hands in history and all histories to come • As Persephone died and was reborn upon the spirit realms we all seek even in quietude; yes you do, yes you do, oh yes you do • But no, the bloodied hands keep working, kept on coming • Kept on perpetrating avarice acts of sullied minds gone for the gold and tyrants known to have stronghold and the peoples’ counted sorrows sown whilst dying there, beholden to “the man” who bolds the token scepter of such broken lands, …oh…so much more the serpent than the mother, sun, the sea, the sky, the will to wonder, or the man you’ve claimed you are • There laughing smug before some rainbow of benevolent notions the world over, you test as others toil, smile while others die for your dementia •  There but for the lack of evidence, you and I may call one man gospel only hoping that the knowledge granted is as holy as the fear we hide inside • Of death and unknowing the truth that lies beyond the grave we all know we must face • Apollo & the muses know us better • I say death is just as much a rest as anything restful and death has too many faces, and death takes away only the tomorrows in the company of you; that would be my greatest sorrow, yet to have my spirit travel could be good enough tomorrow • But to live now in this day I have is better than to lie prostrate before your pat-heavy dire tax burden upon the spirit and the pocketbook, for sake of something you consider worth revisiting upon everyone ad nauseam • Sneaky, pigheaded buggers • Yeah, even when we clearly say,  “It’s nothing to me.” So be it, move on, tread on you if you like, don’t tread on me • But it is certain, death, today or next year or in the decades ahead and we are alive today to see our way to water and breath away beside a son, a daughter, a mate we’ve come to know better than anyone else for that matter, or alone with our thoughts and hands-on activities beside such dwellings that we liken to call home • And know a place called everywhere, where our neighbors are unique to air and fire and water and each other, whether you like it or not • Don’t be inauthentic and make me call you chieftain • Don’t rob me on the road to Damascus, don’t anoint my head with oil … unless it’s warmed by you, personally, and herbal and you touch me with intent to feel me here beside you • No, not as you but beside you, as you are you only, and I am me not as we are we, but as only I am being, let us be we … or chose not to be we, …together or separately, we coexist in fluid connectivity • I’ll gladly warm oil in my hands and touch you for bliss or relief, as a token gesture of benign compassion and the gifts that are these two open hands and all the most present earnest communications between one and another • Each and every one of us have eyes, unless unfortunate in that sense, yet … still a mind’s eye that is of more than physical sight: a lantern • Yes, a hurricane lantern inward to a singular part-way soul & outward to infinite singular part-way souls or being within being within being, rings within rings, outward from a pebble into a pond, source & song that reach out to every water's edge and to the winds again and again, and yet many hear it but seldom listen •  Each born as one in a billion singular part-way souls that only as the one can we ever fully try to know the whole and somehow all of us the same in the ways we grow heaven,  when bliss is here with us to be propagated, and earth, when we wake to find ourselves capable of deed and maintenance, and pain, when pain is near to some while others know joy • Oh, to know another’s such woe of sorrows today-tomorrow as they know your joy or sorrow while you know happiness for a moment or the downside of life for too many hours for any one soul • Or even only later-on as you walk out to the car in the cold there before the sunup, or perhaps the testimonial storm before the calming effects of the most heartwarming moment you may ever live to know in this lifetime • As tears that before were set in stone now flow and light up a face once cast in the shadows of industrial complexities and the counting of man-made city blights & street signs everybody heeds from time to time • I’m not afraid to cry • Not at the movies, not here in your arms today • But I may be steadfast in my stoic as well • That, I learned from my father, my brother, sisters, daughter’s, sons & the self in turmoil • The me who is the my who I am born as,  …whether I like it or not, it happened and there’s no turning back from this moment in time as I know it • You know it too, there somewhere facing future in the dark or the light • Sun shines on me today, then shines on you only hours from now • & who’s to say who knows better, the east or the west, the sons or daughters? • The forests are not as green; the water cannot be drank straight from the stream anymore & it’s a pity • & it just is