Category: Living on Purpose

+

Trichromatic

From monogamous Mind does Heart steal a kiss. Stern rebuke. For Mind is loyal, frustratingly so, to that rational lover called Brain. Heart’s so confused; a moment goes by– the jettison to action a rebound with Renals– and Mind will be mine, that Brain be damned. But it’s not so easy as all that. Feelings are fragile and coming from dear Heart: this lack … Read More Trichromatic

+

Warm Summer Nights

It’s moonlight time and I decide I’m insane– with Seneca and someone else’s dog for company, I consider life beneath Davis jazz and note I’m nothing like them. O, Them. The elusive plural my mind’s convinced pronouns the masses. Have you met every single one of Them? I ask. My mind replies, witty as ever: “Have you ever met me?” Touché, dear anima. We … Read More Warm Summer Nights

+

Maybe One Day I’ll Earn My Own Plum Sweatsuit

A pint of strawberry stems sits plastic and dull on the bench in New Lynn. We share the space; least I could do. Around us swirls the ghosts of the tai-chi women, still clad in fashionable plum sweatsuits and moving like Santa. These ghosts provide the intention and presence today; I told them it’s up to them I’m too slouched to do it. I’ve … Read More Maybe One Day I’ll Earn My Own Plum Sweatsuit

Adding What I Find

  When I signed up for this, I was told it was my soul on the line; that to do nothing was as good as having nothing to do: and that was unfathomable.

Dissonance

  Warm summer eases against my skin, a kitten, pawing for affection, pawing for attention—the grass beside me is envelope haven and the wind, which raises my hair in caress, is a friend, it sings, only ever friend. But I find myself resolute: tight-lipped arms-crossed brow-fixed sat, shiftless, in the midst of murk determined, sort of, to sift through the mist but not sure … Read More Dissonance

The Vagabond Muse

  This is what I talk about when I talk about the wandering vagabond muse: truly truly the difference between “getting” and going that of “seeming” and being that between “rare” and raw. The wanderer, alit with the muse of equitable bliss rarely gets anywhere. Instead opts for the slow methodical languid locomotion of going. Going where? Going here. Perchance there. Going anywhere, and … Read More The Vagabond Muse

+

Staple Tales

  The inefficient stapler, what with its effeminate undertones, emasculates the opposition into petty submission to do its bidding til the end of time. Inefficient? It asks itself as it gazes with lust into the hallway mirror. Hardly. Subtle swagger lights up steel hips and the stapler sways back to its black hole.

+

Intersection Choreography

When it happens, it is my toes that feel the thrill the most. They are housed in sandals, and in their breezy half-naked happiness they wiggle against the black pedals. If I were better at balancing, I would stretch out my arms like an albatross and soar (I usually attempt this one-armed to not the same effect). I wish I could chuck off my … Read More Intersection Choreography

Legacy and Longing

  By the passed humanity, whose active progeny is the heart beat rocking my sense of soul—as I clutch the leather-bound covers of Burroughs, of Whitman, di Prima and Ginsberg, in the soft lamp night, rain shadows wrapped against windows, me, folded into fresh sheets, with a cup of tea; hungry, Alive, washed, I sing— and selfish do I less than pause before the … Read More Legacy and Longing

Solitude

  Solitude is a bridge. I clutch the railing and can see a panorama of worlds— the ancient child the youthful vigilante the compliant adult the manifested— I, on my bridge, pad about in the middle. Well: not in the middle; I’m removed from it all,

Under a Tree (in the Rain)

  If you could see, right now, this piece of notebook paper upon which I write, you would know practically the whole story. The ink smudge bullet holes would be enough and you, in your intelligence, wouldn’t need the sight of my speckling jeans to know that, now: it’s raining.

Tendrils

  Tendrils of time hang loose sloped dampened a bit by misconception recollections the sorts of stories recounted in dreams and spread like gospel bonfire. I should not like to entwine with those loose hung tendrils of sticky time.