self knowledge

Instinct

It’s funny how no matter how deeply we understand a word, phrase, person, or innately stored concept, our attempts to convey said understanding always falls short.  The way we define things is only ever an approximation. The way we use the words we do and why we choose them are mere facsimile when juxtaposed to our innate understanding of concepts.  Even the most eloquent members of our species are doomed ever to build the shoddiest bridges of communion from one seat of consciousness to another.  Despite this apparent gross mishandling of language, we are always compelled to pin our “best attempt” at communication to the surface of another’s perception.  We are like islands of being.  “Good writing gets down to the essence of things,” a good mentor once told me. There is a divinity ceded within brevity.

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Exotic

(Somewhere along you linger, in warm sheets against my facsimile, haunting my dreams like a shade…)

{I know The Sun rests on your shoulders, by the way your skin glows like gilded mahogany.  I know somewhere in your cells lies a wicked light that doth sunder a man to ashes. I know you over again like the Morning Star, it’s lost titles, and the songs of The Heavenly Host.

And you were a promise I chose to keep.  Over and above hollow vows, precious stones, and sweet things which in their apathy, refuse to persist.  You rescued The Day from my night, with The Sun resting on your shoulders. Your name is a word worth keeping.

What does grace look like?

It swims in the eyes of a Black Woman.

What are riches worth?

That which she chooses.

And a Black woman is…?}

[And she took the form of elegant persuasion…

Her hair coiled around the air like cocoa butter and castor oil, starving it of lifelessness.

Lips filling the sky like sun and moon, she had her own gravity.

Something unearthly, Godlike burned in her eyes…

Her skin slid across The Elements like Energy, contouring to the imagination, ebbing and flowing to the desires of the mind.

Flowers blossomed as she sighed.

Her laughter stirred inertia in The Cosmos…

What wit? What force of Fortune would endear me to you?

How horrifying a mistake I’ve made to live so long without you…

Please excuse my tardiness.]

 

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.

Butterfly in The Night

Stranger things have happened…

Somewhere in the vastness of a churning ocean once, as waves berate rocks into sand.

Under a twilight sky of mystery and intimation, as stars alight dreams and daring of impetuous mortality.

Maybe if I…

Could steal some late hours from you.

Duality is selfless, its hold on individuality selfish.

Soft smile aloft fragile shying wings.

Can I twist the vapors that shapeth aero-space, for you?

Lay your pinions betwixt the aether, scrape aloft stellar parades for you?

March at celestial pace for you, lie in wait attuning Heaven’s gate for you?

Selfishness, that begets selflessness.

These things I feel. And are true.

Eyes that hum like levitation, in the silence of the cosmos, as I lay bare my truths to the peering, beckoning Sun.

Body built like obliteration, humility, worship…My last to be offered beyond my sake.

In you I am lost…

My center redeemed.

 

In The Backroom

Was you a Black Queen in a past life?

Did God grant you a pass like,

From ancestor to grand daughter,

“I got you right the first time,

no added mix to the formula…”

And she said,

“I beat these bruises out my face,

and rub a smile across my lips,

but you can still see the thorns draped around my neck.

So if you think you can just buy my affection,

or spend my time…”

We painted all night in my studio,

She had a candid conversation with my canvas,

As I brushed her skin in candied couture,

Each breath like laughter,

Until honey dripped between her thighs,

The way the flames of another person,

Swallow you whole before you can wade their shallow waters,

I feel comfortable the way we bury our problems in one another.

The Numinous Waters of Aquarius

Within still waters.
Let my skin breathe.
Against vaulted walls painted like skies.
Stretch my mind to tether infinite.
Bellow old ruined thrones and scattered crevices.
Tread my veins.
Pour overflowing.
Word over word.
Ringing, extolling, parables.
Etch yourself within, beyond.
I as anchor, you as beacon.
Call forth tides.
Heave in silence.
Whisper from the deepest cracks.

False Fantasies

I know it, I know I’m wrong.  There’s no way I could ever be right.  Rationally and empirically there is no possible way she could be the right one for me.  Why? Because I don’t know anything about her.  But I know if only my voice could reach her.  Not that I’m afraid of talking to her of course, I could chat up a storm, but better yet I’m a superlative listener.  I just need my true voice to reach her, the one that speaks on first sight, that  speaks of all the miraculous things the future for her I hold.  I know I can be your everything.  I know what I can be. I know it like I know the tenderness of my mother’s kisses.  But I can’t speak of such things, I can’t say how I know I love you.  How you ignite everything inside me and how there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to you.  I know that I’m just caught up in the experience of witnessing beauty something that should be preserved but not possessed.  I know you could be just as broken as me.  And yet…when I see that woman…With the floppy hat, fur vest, skinny jeans, and black heels.  With the black lipstick, pierced nose, soft lips, rich eyes, and deep skin. When I see her…I can’t help but love her.

Quiet…You’ll lead me astray.