Interpretive bodies dance like a conflagration Instigating the ever-reflective Hold a mirror close enough and looking past yourself Becomes A probable parody and/or parable Worth wasting time for And yet, is time ever truly wasted?? Or does every faulty attempt at discerning the all Fall into the category of ignorant stagnance Regardless of motion?? Development of the expanding intangible?? A graspable portion of eternity??

Just as this too shall pass Our cleansing comes and goes In so many guises How fortunate

I wear no mark or balm, nonetheless, seal it with a kiss. My parcel to Israel is what one might expect for a dear friend, but it carries the weight of infinite honest wellwishes. As I recount every kiss and soft breath my meandering mindset casts off into an ocean of naked information teeming with a love many will never allow themselves to know. I revisit what feels like a million beds, showers, floors, couches, pool tables, riversides, beaches, airplanes, and dorm rooms. Occasionally pausing an extra second on a cement floor next to a washer machine, or in the arms of a demigoddess unfolding her life’s story sweetly unto my eardrum. The I love you’s, fuck me’s, go harder’s, softer’s, slower’s, faster’s, and varying confessions of passion ebb and flow with meditative ease. I engage the present long enough to recognize the decrescendo my breath has undergone, now almost nothing more than a slight cycling sigh. A good man once told me breath is all we are, and I believed him. That inward and outward sharing with all the world. I can only imagine the remnants of every great warrior, every lowly peasant, and every nobody that the living endulge in every day with the simple act of breathing. And how blessed I am to have been there so many times, sharing those remnants with another, closer and more comfortable, more at peace and in pieces than many others will ever be WITH that person. All those backdrops on beds and beaches supply the artifact particles of past breaths as two beings engage the shared love of self and beauty of the other. Its so easy to pawn it off as just an experience but in the appreciation of life, breath, sex, death, all there ever was, is, will and will not be, there is no such thing as a mere experience. We creatures of assumed and convinced importance, attract and retract, trace and traipse with full embodiment and liveliness whether we are conscious to it or not. We apply principles and morals and values and ideals upon the fleeting moments of our too long, short lives. We create ideas of and about ideas, compounding interest and chronic interrogation onto the “real world”, all the while still being in and of the very substance we are witnessing, not a simple piece of it, but it. The whole of it, breathing and beating like the figurative and literal hearts we possess, steal, borrow, and break. And somewhere out there is a created idea of my heart, sutured to my only notion of true love. There is a beautiful, wonerful, tragic creature that I “truly love” in the here and now. The words liar and player reel about my continuing meditation as my breath hastens, now taking in more & more of the ancient present by the second. That figurative heart of mine stings if only for a bit, but evokes nothing other than a smirk. So this is catharsis. And that letter, to another just as beautiful and wonderful in every way. Another who has shared the fleeting, momentary, artifact inhalations followed by elongated brevity in exhalation. I told her I love her and do, and she knows with all the way one can know love, even in the sands of the “holy land”. I know both of these exemplary lives well and in many ways, none the same. Recounting the not-just-experiences with either pervades a sense of contemporary bliss and bain. Yet the one closest to the idea of my heart will find her way away. I’ve known, and not wanted to know this for quite some time, now. That “the one you truly love and the one who truly loves you are never the same person”. She will seek out her sacred substance in and of our everything in her own fashion. She believes, assumably down to the core of her ideas of her own heart and soul, that we are not meant. And meaning used to have more meaning attached to it. I must do the same, though, I assume. There are many more moments within this idea of a thing called life for me to seek out and possibly never find. Maybe one day my solace will come, and I will describe it as a beautiful, magnificent, frail, strong, loving, caring, exemplary creature, but most likely I will only have te eternal attempt at expression to tackle any thought of such a moment. The uncertainty exhillerates and staggers me with all the force of an expanding, undefinable universe. Whatever she may make ends of me with will certainly never be within my grasp, but every time I recount the seemingly infinite not-just-experiences of my life, a part of me will flutter and fade over her ancient and temproary existence, her everything, and my all. But this journey figure eights upon her pinpoint until I stop it for now. I have to have an idea of living on in this moment, and there’s a kissed letter I would like to send to israel before the homecoming of one such exemplary being, if only to show my idea of courtesy and love.

“Moral excellence comes about as a result of habit. We become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.”

-- Aristotle

Computation and complacency Contemplation and consitency From to core to the periphery

Save your saving for the faithless

The strength and solitude within is howled out as loneliness and the weakness of one

Reversion doesn’t always mean regression

The primroses along any path smell of self deceit The lights along any abandoned street lack heat The fires in alleyways merely light worn faces The trees in a woodland gorve block all else on might see

Yet one must travel onward in the name of that progress Continuing to bewilder and beguile any offset rest For stagnance is death, and walking slow torture Which enlightens before the end of obsequious culture

The praise from any applause can deafen The smile of even the most beautiful can blind The taste of bittersweet nothing and everything numbs As such do the senses crumble within the mind

Stripped of these may we, just once, find peace

Beauty is in the eye of the beheld sometimes

Panted and painted across the ever-aligning brick face. Tagged and tainting the natural order to fortify a child of nature and nurture (ideals and ideas). These heaved forth upheavals of unending circuitous majesty can form a facet of honor sand pride to swallow in a singular visual dose. You are the rooted veins of the better half of societal under-bellies. A masked marauder of the ordinary and plain sight. Unfold your forgeries and destinies upon the plain-Jane attire these cities were dressed in. Paint the town the color of whatever-the-fuck if only to stamp creation upon creation upon creation, etc. etc. Make us marvel with a whimsically wooed whisper of canvas. Daunt the atrocities and mundane life philosophies of the perilously forgettable. No tombstone necessary, life is a beautiful canary you nurtured and let fly. Oh universe, I wish I had THAT birds-eye view.