My Birth Place Is Here

I remembered that I am a wanderer.

And what would a wanderer do with their growing presence? I grow too big, too visible to the naked eye –

I search for hinges, a way out or around. I desire a familiarity that I know deep down does not exist on this planet. This is the wrong planet.

But I am the right half-light. A sacred story being told from the beginning of time – across the deep – to the end.

Life is a narrative that utilizes time to understand – a shift in the material to make sense, make form.

My being is immaterial. It contours outward and into this abyss. The same one that you know – however, in this longing and falling and becoming – I am home. I am who I was always going to be.

What I sit in is love and its ruins. There is no crevice or vacuum that contains explanation by way of His reasons.

Love is reason enough.

All grow weary and protrude with a gangly stalk toward the sky, unknown.

In this space I find you. Or I find the scent which would pervade my valleys when I stared too long into your eyes.

I am not lonely when I die unto myself. This is what He asks of me – to honor the truth of life and our animal nature. When He asks me to let you go in peace – to stop moving and feeling and crying and reaching.

Here in this ruin, I am held in loving arms.

Close into the bosom, the deafening closeness – of all this expanse from which I came.

My birth place is here.

Somewhere inside of my skin, my lungs, is a fragile bird who is built for flight but cannot walk without an awkward hopping.

A fledgling in a storm.

This is breathing. This is seeing and knowing.

This hopping is a joyful praise for everything this world has yet to tell me about myself.

From, I Used To Write Free, 2022-24

This is the Geoveritas

What are we making with our lives?

There is no we.

What am I doing with my life?

Build according to a Truth which aligns with the earth,

not the ideas in a herd of humans.

What am I becoming in this life?

Do not be afraid, just focus on your truth.

What are we hoping for in life?

We are free to move on love or move on fear.

What am I saying about life?

Now you are there, and I am here. And we can relate you to me according to this space,

And, the plants grow regardless of the outcome.

What is there to build in this life?

            Isn’t this just the same old question of how to be human? Alas, a millennial’s lament.

Where should we go?

            I trust what the weeds teach me about freedom.

From, I Used To Write Free, 2022-2024

Philosopher as Accountant

The example of the artist’s life is where the Truth rests. But we only care to see it, once we have approved of what the artist has made.

Rumi’s poetry sings. It caresses and rocks the soul. Its heart is light and attentive to the sunrise. It is pure and gentle and full of longing and rumination. It stretches and grasps. His words answer questions born out of the stillness of becoming. Growing – maturing. Ripening.

This ripe fruit is an image gifted to us from the trees. And the trees stand still – they live until one day their hardened bark gives way to death’s ever-present soiling.

The future is a fantasy we construct today. It is a focal point, a desire, a fixation – that we indulge in the long hours of our present.

Our want of the future is a way of distracting ourselves from what feels already completed. Immovable – unmakeable. For in the Now, there is only one way to be –

And I am already bored with today. When I breathe, I want to inhale tomorrow’s light. Tomorrow’s DNA – its undoneness.

Accounting is a word full of connotation – lacking in imagination and completely counted out, written off by the seeing.

Thus, I hand you a gift. Future is latent within its dusty cupboards, its forgotten scaffolds – its honest precision. Future is asleep in its potential.

I want to make my way through cold discarded names and narrow alleyways and cracked hinges. I want to reconcile what has already been abandoned.

All this to say, I want to lure the future here, so it can wean my needy heart.

From, On What I See, 2024

Did Krishna walk, and if he did, did he wear shoes? (oil on canvas, 4" x 6", 2022)