You are what you are looking for. Just as the gentle ringing of silence in my ears is what I am listening for. When there is nothing left to listen to, when there is nobody else for you to look into… You find it.

It was there that whole time. It is a shadow hidden by other shadows. You are the breeze covered up by the wind. Everything you search for through words is already known by the heart. The woman I search for, or the man that I wait to show, is only another I in which to share this entire new sea of happening wonders with.

You can only see in your mind what your eyes tell you. The same way, you can only began to wake up inside your own mind, no matter what I tell you. The simple you that I address is more than likely just me.

You see?

No, probably not, I sound like a madman.

Think of it like this:

That particular song that takes you back to your high school days? Where you would drive with the wind combing your hair, and the car speakers were blasting and rattling, the seat belt forgotten, the road feeling fresh and new under your tires… All that you had on your mind that day, those high school days, comes to mind when you listen to this song. The you from then is somebody old and almost forgotten. Not even remotely who you are now. Well, isn’t it fascinating to think that the nostalgic feeling that takes your heart away on a blissful waltz through time is experienced only because of who you have become?

You were never nostalgic before, in your high school days, listening to this song. It was just a song. You liked it. But the feeling did not taste the same as the wishful remembrance of that feeling now.

So, everything comes down to the moment you are in. You can set this paper down (I will wait) and come back to it three years later. It will sound different to you then. These words that shape my mind and drive my fingers will play different music to your eyes.

Have they changed then?

Of course not.

You have changed. You are all that there is.

You are these words that you read. You are the inspiration that is keeping me awake right now to write this. You and I are same. You and this soft breeze that carries the sounds of night are but the same. Even the stars and their ancient bodies are what you are. What else could you be? Completely new, yes. Completely fresh, of course. But you share a spirit with the entire universe. You are not outside of this thing called life.

You are life.

And your true moment (when you realize just how even the past is experienced in the everlasting moment) is your soul.

And it’s time for you to be who you are.





Words, words, words.

Trying to find the next one like trying to find the perfect girl. I look around the dictionary in my mind like I glance at the girls passing me on the street. I’m not looking for your body, I assure you. I am not remotely worried about sex. I search for something much deeper, something much like poetry.

Just like I dream about the perfect word, the perfect string of English droplets, I dream of the perfect girl. Nay, the perfect companion. Society has told me (in fact, all of previous evolutionary bodily desires tell me) that I search for a girl. At this point, I would want for a dog, a bird, a man, a child, an elderly lady, an alien life-form from Jupiter’s moon Titan, an octopus, whatever! I simply want for companionship.

The melding of souls like the smelting of gold. In a bowl, we spill our consciousness and drink. Through words, we manifest what the heart is already telling us. Through poetry we blossom, from the earth of our love, different colors of flowers. And understanding runs deeper through our bones than fear runs through the shivering of darkness.

Words, words, words.

That is all that I am doing. I word here, I word there. In those rare nights that I find open ears to my words, words, words I feel drunk from talking. I talk, talk, talk. I word here and then there. Too much, I think, sometimes, that I word. Because I feel, feel, feel!

Weddings are the most delightful game. Last night was I sitting in the lavishly decorated chair, besides close friends, watching a less-than-known friend tie the knot of companionship. Fascinating it is that I watch this exchanging of souls, this melding of spirit. Like stepping into the theater an hour late and having the whole beginning of the story to simply guess from what is happening that moment. The two characters looking like restless stars in the night, bringing the darkness of night to life. They look into each other’s hearts through silvery tears. They are alone, just for this moment, in this fellowship of family and friends (and in my case, friends’ friends).

Reverberating through these words, words, words is that face the bride made. Those twitching hands, begging to touch his own. Those eyes almost straining in their gravitation to his gaze. How I cannot wait for those eyes to be seen in some other skull staring at me. How selfish I want to be and steal that look she is giving the groom!

At that moment, at the altar, sharing the same traditional moment that millions (billions? trillions?) have shared throughout history… at that moment when all expense leads up to (camera man clicking away with his device of capturing a timeless moment, flowers singing their colors into the sunset, mother and father in attire that they itch in discomfort, beer and wine tapping toes for the ceremony to finish)… at that moment, nothing ever matters besides that look she gives him. That look (I assume, for I could not see his face) that the groom is giving her.

I was stirred, even though games and tradition make me ill. I was humbled and danced under the fleeting friendship of the beer and wine. I talked of words, words, words with girls, men, women. I explored with littler humans. I was joyful. I found something. Games are all that there are. They are not to be scorned. Why hate the game? Why hate the players?

All there is, all there is meant to be, all there will ever be, is a game.

And that’s just a word, word, word.


My Ability on Love

            There was something pulling me from my aunt’s house today. No, it was pushing me. It was smoking me out. This feeling of nausea, this broken desire to do absolutely nothing. I was so incredibly dissonant today, I got my book, grabbed the labtop, and I sparked the ignition of my broken car. That poor steed.

He took me from North Dakota to here, Oregon. He saw mountains and lakes, grasslands, meadows, desolate fields, sunsets, sunrises, even the Garden of a Thousand Buddhas, he and I shared the sight of. He bed me for the nights, kept me safe, kept me warm, and now he was pulling me from my den into the uncertain order of societal Monday afternoon.

Through the showering of falling leaves, as if they too were growing stagnant in their homes, I dragged my steed. He is so tired, and I’m sitting in the tire store with the mindset of a mother waiting on a sick child while he is on hydraulic pedestals getting examined and probed by aliens that call themselves man. It’s a good thing I brought my laptop to ease this pain.

He’s back! I rest in his shelter like he’s a tent and I am his homeless man.

I found this park today. Well, sorry, no it is called a Natural Area. I said, fuck yeah, and pulled over to the curb. Sorry buddy, you don’t belong off the roads. I walked and met people with curt nods and shallow h’lo’s. Then, the trail spilled into a parking lot. Goddamn it, I thought. Alas, I was saved by the game trail that led from the asphalt and carefully placed stone trail I was s’posed to keep my feet to.

This was my moment as an author. I crept with my head low and my steps whispering, pretending that they will hear me, they will find me, they will do bad things to me. Or the wolves are out, be quiet. I love pretence. You can feel the shivering in your spine when you do this. With no sight of road nor sound of car, you are really there! Who says that there aren’t wolves or dragons or monsters?

Or snakes!

Adventure was always imagined, never did I actually hear the howling of a wolf. But when I stepped over a log and saw the tent, I froze. I shook, yes. The wind was blowing and it felt alien to my face. I pulled my jacket closer to my self and I almost turned away. Most would have pivoted their heels and squished the yellow and brown leaves into the soft soil on their way out. I didn’t. I don’t know what I wanted, but I knew this is what I was s’posed to be here for.

“Is there anyone here?” I call, creeping toward the camp. My voice sounded harsh and I realized that I had become the wolves you kept quiet for.

No answer.

The tent flap was open and I saw feet cocooned in a blanket.

“H’lo?” I asked. The word wasn’t hollow this time.

The feet disappeared and became a face.

“What d’you want?” the beard asked fiercely.

I realized I didn’t know.

I told him my name and realized that is just what a cop would do before he said, “Get out, you can’t be here!” Or even worse: I sounded like I was pitying him! Oh, lord.

He relaxed, though. He smelled of cigarettes and damp clothing, but it wasn’t an unpleasant scent. I sat cross-legged outside the tent, aware of the scurrying-off of critters. With the look under the dirt and grime on his face, I realized that I sent off his friends.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you, if I did. I just—What’s your name?”

God, my voice is too high pitched, I sound like the prissy white woman who is about to tell you off in a nice way!

“I don’t give my name out to people.”

“That’s fine. I was wondering, actually… What’s it like?”

I saw the muscles in his face relax. “Well,” he said in a mountain-man voice. “It’s not like anything, really. Just nothing. A whole lot of nothing.”

I’m not going to write what we talked about, because to be honest I don’t remember the words as they were laid down. And I would hate to remember them falsely by making them up in a dramatic rendition. So, instead, I’ll tell you how I felt about him. About meeting this remarkable individual.

Because I can remember in crystal clarity how something makes me feel.

I had no fear, whatsoever. I never did have fear. I could imagine this man laying there drunk on this Monday afternoon, perhaps even approaching me with a knife and telling me to give him all my clothes and money. The thing is, I would have done it. But not without a, “You know, sir, you can take my clothes, my cash, my life… but talk to me first. Let me know what you want the world to know. Give me advice you wish you would’ve followed. I will die with a smile in my heart if you could grant me this.”

The connection I had between this man was what I feel for a dog or a cat: unprecedented love. There was nothing in the way for me loving him. Not his faults, not his odor (though he had none), not his lack of property… nothing. I saw the love he had for animals, sharing his precious food with any and all, and how he treated the insects that moved in too close (he very carefully picked them up and moved them away). He was calm, peaceful, perhaps sad. I was moved by him. I love that man, though he probably thinks little to nothing of the boy who stumbled across him, with the nice backpack and the pack of cigarettes he gave. I didn’t want them, he could use a smoke much more than I could.

Contrastingly enough, when I found the paved pathway from here to there in perfect order as I left it, there was a little lady. She was looking into Johnson Creek with eyes of a child, eyes that we all have for nature, eyes of love. I connect so easily with love, so I said, “Such a beautiful day, eh?”

She murmured something, instantly losing the love in her eyes.

As she moved away from me, I sort of picked up my pace, smiling still from my encounter with the angel in the tent in the woods.

I said, “I just moved in from out of town, I’m new here.”

She picked up a brisk pace, moving away from such an uncomfortable situation.

“I just wanted to ask you,” I said, pretending not to get the hint. I guess I was sort offended with her and my courage was talking proud.

She obliged with reluctance. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to ask you what your favorite place in the city was.”

“You just moved here?” she asked. “Do you work?”

“I have a job with my Uncle down in Aurora,” I replied.

The relief in her eyes pissed me off.

“I thought you were homeless or something.”

Can you imagine! I had just shared such an unbarricaded conversation with the most remarkable man who just happened to be homeless and this lady, with her ear rings and her purple, spotless jacket, this lady with her raised chin and nose as if smelling the wrong end of a dollar bill, this lady had a fear for the homeless.

“I see,” I said as pleasant as possible. “Are they bad here?”

“They’re everywhere! You have to be careful.”

We went on talking, mainly for my curiosity into this fascinating contradiction. She told me how kids move here with no jobs lined up (oops!) and bum off their friends and family for living (haha!) and are what make this world cringe and deteriorate.

I think I proved her wrong (albeit having checked off each of her little opinion-boxes), for when I left to answer my phone call she asked my name and reached for my hand.


I made an impression with both sides of the spectrum today. That gives me hope on my ability in love.

God’s Song

These laments that I mispronounce with fluidity of tongue and pen are the spectrum of color playing tricks with the white light of the page. To me, these misspells are life: you either love what your doing or it becomes a prick under the finger. Sometimes, everything I do seems wrong. Things happen to me that I curse under foggy breath. These are just the days of shadow under the Sun, the sand left from the ebb of the tide. Negativity being wrong or bad is child’s play with words. Negativity is simply the other end. It is not something you should duck from or hide under the tabletop, where illusions are served, in reflex to. It is as natural as the rain.

Before the Sun comes out, you might want for it. Those nights of stagnate sleep make the grog of morning seem to shine in your headspace of anticipation. I eat breakfast while thinking of the day before me. I wonder what I’ll find, today, hidden under some stone unturned. I vow to be the one to find it. When I bend my back and stretch my legs to lift this unturned rock, I find underneath it a simple reminder.

            You are not what you are, but you are what you are not.

            When did poetry climb into the dampness where the insects hide? I swear to you that what you are searching for is already taped to the back of your head. You simply need others to tell you in words what you have had all along.

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