A Reflection on The Transient & The Ephemeral

What lies at the core of worship?

Even the most devout atheist, in some form of another worships.

There exists, a compulsion in humanity, to latch oneself, an agent of transience, to The Fantastic, The Ephemeral, The Numinous.  Whether it is to a God, or perhaps zealous adherence to secular scientific doctrine, maybe even The Artist who seeks to affix herself to eternity vis a vis her magnum opus, effectively becoming a saint of her craft.

In the simple work that we do…

In regards to the pursuits we engage in with ease, that feel as a natural extension of self expression; what springboards the individual towards mastery?  For the hobbies we love, we enjoy them not simply for the sake of the act, but rather mastery of the act itself.  I do not believe this is simply an outpouring of Western tradition, it seems worldwide people are not content to write a story, but rather write the best story they have the capacity to write.  It seems a very human thing to triumph over and above oneself.

At times I have felt when I am writing my poetry that it is not so much me that is writing but rather I am having a higher metaphysical communion with a force or agent of which I am only capturing the bare minimum due to the poor capacity of my feeble mind.  Forever relegated to snatch crumbs but never perceive the big picture.

But this isn’t true at all is it.  The human brain is as of the moment of my writing the most complicated and sophisticated structure in the known universe.  What am I really yearning for in my pursuits? As I live and draw breath and wake up with vague purpose, living through the banality of my day hazily and lazily until The Spark ignites in me during truly singular moments.   Like when looking at a beautiful woman and being moved to a state of selfless expression.  Or waiting vacantly for the maelstrom of ideation to take hold of my wanting consciousness. What moves me to strive? Above and beyond. It validates my existence in a way that is so existential I feel I could handle any great expanse of time or myriad obstacles The World would throw my way so long as I retain mere embers of The Spark.

For without my art I am lost…

A flame absent a wick on which to burn…

Even as I’m writing this something stirs within me…maybe a psychologist would have some designation for what it is I’m feeling, maybe what I’m saying is wholly insignificant, experienced by innumerable human souls before me since antiquity.  But this feeling of being tethered to something greater as I pursue the highest capacity of this instance of my work, I believe lies at the heart of worship.

It is in these singular moments of silent, nigh psychic communion, perhaps with my subconscious or the metaphysical world beyond, that I feel lies the crux of worship.  It is in these moments that I feel Death holds no sway over me and that although my flesh is bound to erode I am fundamentally impervious to destruction.

I am comforted.

I personally am not necessarily all that religious, I am also a staunch proponent for much secular science, but in moments like this I believe…In the ever twisting and stretching limbs of Space and Time, I am significant not because my work will be honored, but because I have honored my work.

We are all vehicles to the destination of immortality.

Worship faithfully.


Fire & Water in The Mouth of Ophiuchus

Beauty resplendent in glory like sunlight,
Won’t you hold me close to your burning skin?
Won’t you draw me in with those eyes like flames?
Boil away the shallow doubts interceding in my veins like frigid rivers of rumination reminiscent of indecision hesitant longings and parting ways.
Won’t you ignite my Summer days?
Ring around my skin like thick coils,
Tongue fluttering like fantasy, black sand restless tides finding comfort in my shadow. The place you reside when you illuminate my desire.
A tight clutch while you drink me in, Sun soaked, star drenched, delight drugged, desperately drunk, existential expression.
Expectantly awaiting touch…
Hot and Wet makes steam.
Fire and Water makes dreams.

The Lost Faith (VI)

As soon as Abigail’s hands found themselves upon the handle of the door, the distant bell above the cathedral tolled as if to spurn the heavens into motion. Looking up the vision she saw unfolding above her nearly brought her to her knees. The previously unremarkable sky had completely transformed, golden light poured from every corner of the sky as if the entire sky had been repainted with the rays of the sun.

Gently falling from the golden sky like snow feathers bright as stars plummeted softly to the ground. Joyous laughter welled up from Abigail’s heart as a feather floated down into one of her outstretched hands. The profound and beautiful silence of the moment moved her to tears.

The giant doors to the cathedral were lighter than air to her touch and swung open eagerly before Abigail’s fingers. She stepped into the cathedral and was shocked at how small and comfy it was on the inside. Aside from a few rows of pews and an altar on the other end of the room the cathedral seemed to contain little else inside.

Abigail walked towards the altar trying to make out the strange glyphs inscribed upon the far wall. She stopped shortly and try as she might the more she studied the symbols the more bizarre they seemed. She turned her sweeping gaze across the other features of the room; there were no symbols in the room defining any particular religion.

The benches that made up the pews were crafted from simple cherry oak. She inspected the back of them hoping to find a Bible or Quran perhaps, nothing. The carpet stretching from the entryway to the altar was a simple red with white borders along the edges.

Some candles set inside of candelabra in the corner of the room on either end of the altar gave no insight. Upon the altar itself, white cloth and a jeweled golden chalice. “Communion maybe?” Abby thought to herself. She leaned over and looked into the chalice, nothing. Frustrated and slightly crestfallen at the lack of answers Abigail turned to leave.

“What have you come in search of?” The question most certainly ringed in her ears but was it coming from someone else in the room or her own mind Abigail wasn’t sure.   “I don’t know,” replied Abigail aloud. Her eyes darted around the room for the possible source of the voice.

“What have you lost?” This time Abby was clear, it wasn’t coming from her own head, the voice seemed to be coming from the room itself, with no distinct center. “Faith,” Abigail said addressing the chalice on the altar. “No,” the voice responded.

The voice almost reminded Abigail of Nana but somehow distant, softer but somehow stronger. “What do you mean no?” asked Abigail defiantly. “Not it,” the voice replied simply. “You’re wrong, that’s why I’m here,” Abigail replied desperately. Her voice was quivering, full of doubt and fear, if this wasn’t why she was here then why would she be? “I’m not close, but I’m not lost,” the voice whispered.

“I-I need your strength…” Abigail pleaded, the words almost failing her. The voice did not respond. “Please, don’t leave me, I don’t know why I always feel so lost,” Abigail had uttered the words with utter humility; she was moved to speak to the voice by a force she did not know. Her pride and knees failed her as she cried out to the voice from the cosmos.

In the silence of the cathedral, as Abigail cried on all fours, she felt a warmth flooding her crouched form. “I’m never far,” the voice said breaking through Abby’s cries, this time distinctly above her. She looked up and instantly felt at peace.

The figure stretching above her filled the room with golden light. With wings as pure as ivory and eyes glowing with sunlight Abigail struggled to comprehend, the entity’s form. The Angel’s garb was a purely embroidered dress.   She sported ornate golden jewelry all across her body. Her hair flowed as slowly through time as if woven with magic. The angel reminded Abby so much of her dear Nana, but also looked profoundly different. Maybe this was Nana when she was younger? But no her face was different, one Abigail couldn’t quite make out.

In the presence of the Angel Abigail could feel an immense power welling up from deep within her. As she looked down at herself, she could see golden light pouring from herself as well in the presence of the Angel. In the Angel’s hands, Abby noticed the chalice stretched towards her expectantly.

Understanding dawned in Abigail’s mind as she reached into her pocket and withdrew the feathers that she had fallen earlier. Lowering them into the empty chalice, the feathers turned into a glowing liquid. Abigail pressed the chalice to her lips and drank the contents full.

Instantly she could feel the effects, the liquid making her body feel as light as a feather.   Deep inside, Abby felt an old wound close. The Angel smiled and wrapped itself in its wings vanishing in a radiant glow of light. “Wait!” Abigail cried out. “Never far,” the voice echoed, this time inside her mind. The light from Abigail muted substantially in the empty cathedral, but a portion remained all the same.

Even now, Abigail could sense herself stirring, waking from the dream. She tested her lightness, and surely enough, as soon as she willed herself to, she found she could fly. Facing the empty chalice and altar, the glyphs on the wall illuminated as if lit by an eternal fire. The walls around her were beginning to fade as she began to wake, a single word churned into being like fire in the darkness, Gratia.

The Passion

When you lie beside, thigh running over thigh, arm over waist…

When you touch and clutch, and grip me with your smile…

When your hair rakes me and your fingers take me…

When you sigh and search, whisper with thirst…

When you climb as we grind, skin shining sublime, bodies intertwined…

When you leave nothing of yourself outside my skin, and the Gods above and Devils below call it sin.

I know I carry a piece of you within.

Against The Still Wood

The sprightly spider spins it’s silk as thoughts give way to dream. The dawn weaves through eaves of leaves towards hallowed eves of rites belonged to dusk…
All against the still wood.
Nests nestle, songs settle, birds bellow…
All against the still wood.
As life endeavors to the sun in mottled leaves and aged fibers, deep channels, and stirred soil, Steel tries it’s might. It must yield as stone does…
All against the still wood.
Fire maybe or poison perhaps, all is sheltered beneath the frayed fractals of the still wood.
Air exults as rain tumults, force fractures the sky. And still against calamitous end perseverance tensed it’s roots.
Stalwart seeds sift through space, tending towards the terminus. Solemnity is ripened and plucked as humility is laid to rest…
All against the still wood.

Beckoning of The Numinous

Space speaks to something very deep within us.  The Universe is full of intricate and deliberate astounding almost incomprehensible beauty.  Nebulae and galaxies filled with light and matter drawn inexorably towards one another across an endless, ever stretching expanse.  The Universe offers something far beyond beauty, to compare the greatest endeavors of human expression against the majesty of Space and Time and it becomes clear to any true critic that our attempts at aestheticism are laughable at best.  When we stare long into the beauty of Space we don’t simply feel moved, we feel a resonance.  Something deep within us pulsing and pulling towards the entirety of existence.

We come to know, to understand, the at once inconceivable glory that is the presence of reality.  When we stare deeply into our true world it becomes clearer that reality is not simply some cloak we drape ourselves with and freely change or discard depending on where we are and the people around us.  Space reminds us of the presence of Reality that exists concurrently with our subjective experience.

When we inhale it isn’t simply some function of biology but rather we pull against and draw in the fabric of reality in tandem with something ancient and immutable.  Physics and Chemistry do a great job of demonstrating this concept empirically, for the very material of the human being is the essence of deceased stars.  It is humbling to reflect on the fact that the seeds for our existence were cooked in the furnace of boundlessly powerful stars that once illuminated vast regions of boundless Space, like the will of monarchs manifested in antiquity.  But perhaps the most moving and humbling truth of existence is that despite the fact that we are formed of the very material that constructs the most fanciful and transcendent objects in existence, we can never call that beauty into being through our own endeavors.  We will always fall short.  But at least there is comfort in knowing that the glory of the numinous actively lives within, and is the final fate of all agents of reality.

Behold The Storm

They called you Shango in ages past perhaps or maybe Indra, Zeus , or Thor.
There is of one thing to be absolutely sure,
You come with promise of howling wind and scattered shores.
I can’t imagine what it must have been like for them to gaze upon you for the first time.
I remember mine, seeing you stir the sky and cleave the heavens, the roar of thunder as your accompaniment.
Ever present the serenade of water sundered, thousands of splintered streams splattering against soil, sand, and stone. It’s no wonder to all you were a god…once.
But now all of your edifices have faded away like stone eroded.
Like a cloud too bloated.
Like a tear emoted.
But there still lies within a little of you left.
When beckoned you reap through the mortal flesh. Skin teared, seared, till nothing is left, like a sky bereft.
The lightning from your nest dwells within my chest.
You live on in all of us, even if forgotten.
Is that your fury? Your fate?
I can relate.
The grave for us lies not in the folds of Earth, but the mausoleums of memory.
I too will revolt.
Like scattered, frenzied, bolts of light, I will illuminate the sky.