Be the flame – not the moth.

“Robert Wright: So you believe that a Buddhist can be saved, can have salvation, the afterlife that a Christian has?

Lorenzo Albacete: Probably faster than I would.

Robert Wright: And what about an atheist?

Lorenzo Albacete: Oh yes, faster than I would in all probability.

Robert Wright: What would an atheist have to do to get into Heaven?

Lorenzo Albacete: Even St. Thomas Aquinas would say, follow his or her conscience. Be honest to your heart.

Robert Wright: But clear moral…

Lorenzo Albacete: Yes but it’s not the morality that gains you heaven. It’s not because an atheist does good things. It is the heart that gets you there. This is very important. Even for the Christian, a Christian can fulfill every damn moral law there is And end up in hell. This is a doctrine of the church. It’s not what you do, it is your stand in respect to otherness. It is your conscience.”

There has been a time for words of love, and an equally long time for hate. Today is an era of neither. The day the realization dawns on me that we only love as hard as we hate, will be a new epoch. Of abundant clarity, simplicity and that searing sensation of being without. The long walks of solitude has coupled with the sprints of passion, the result has been exasperation beyond the comprehension of the long distance runner. Such tiredness, such fierce dances, of fire and ice, magic and colour; he never saw eyes burning so bright!

So sincere, so utterly confused, so out of her mind.

That realm where tears are not for crying, but rather a residue that warmth brings. The fear of loosing that time, knowing it to be the last. Not too unlike slow dancing in a burning room. The music never stopped. The lights went out though. The carpet was the only remnant of a room long burnt, where people often danced.

Drunk and honest, she walked into the sea on her own.

Light in flashes, lightning crashes, all around us, for the world it flashes. Gagged in the manner of speech, I was so happy. I sat down to talk on the table, but I decided to listen instead. Words were spoken, some were true, most were false, but over it all, it just made the room grow small. The science of reason was deemed blasphemous. We had to recede in to the realm of the esoteric.

She spoke, and I spoke some more, till we found, we’d run the same lines ashore.

Chess was played. Some games played by the Gods and some by the angels. We cleared the pawns and the horses, hoping we learn to play the game too. The statue of the king stood eight feet tall, and that’s when we knew he’d never move. History had dealt us the deaths kneel. As I stood with my swords drawn, the spears sharpened, all that greeted me was a battle field of hollow voices of dissent and misunderstood truths. Taken into the strides of time, the age of love-hate-and all things seldom said reaches its conclusive bend and no one wants to accept responsibility. Some say it’ll end, most say we are simple fools conducting a stereotypically foolish orchestra, digging its toes deeper and deeper into the quagmire. Someone throw us the lifeline please, ‘cause else, we’re so going down!

Sadness is seldom a cause for sorrow, I said.
What if I was wrong? She inquired.

Colourful Greed.

Feed live colours to the sea, pure child,
Carry white laughter in your hair,
Wild violets within your feet,
Rum stains in your eyes,
Gleaming, In the half light,
Of this misty, orange morning.


Run and slide to see,
The silver mind, the remedy,
Wreathed in greenish notions,
Loud, shaded, striped-potions,
And light air sequences,
Losing sight in your blue mind,
Rising tides, rising tides,
Of some misty mornings' paper sides.

That last journey is not end,
Those era songs yet not sung,
Though all mercy is forgiven,
And those words forever given,
Rising tides, rising it rides,
Into all the wishing sides.

A Lack of Name?

Come directions, in the far sided levees. Replete but yet so honeyed. Argumentative bees fighting for benign supremacy, of the religious flowers, flowering. They arise in swollen shapes of raging man-made rivers. Thousands of flapping wings, flowing in their respective alleys in search of the Grammatik stand-off.

Who was the regions last long distance rider? Did he finally marry the goldsmith’s daughter? Why not? Aah! That balloon of a man finally did meet a dismal lady of his dreams. My pessimism is well founded; the collector’s daughter is privy to that sly reasoning.

The bees dressed up in gold? Never could wear the sunlight, could they? Suits the queen, I presume. A bit over weight though, birth of a colony is the causal culprit I recon. Do I speak for the other too? Not to my Gnostic knowledge. Fat filled flowers? Not the colony? That is for the dietitian to decide. I’m forced to plead ignorance to that science.

Laughter!

There were champagnes’ from all chateaus of the region and rice beer too. But the invitees of dignity sipped their personal liquors of choice. The marriage was a rape of the traditional beliefs and mores. Never had the quarter of a generation waited for the eventual marriage of such an uninspiring family to the goddess of visions and rebellion. Not to me in the direct sense of personality of even harm, but simply the attitudes of the beasts in the neighboring ocean-villas flopping about in their ideas that grind my bones to silly irritation. Man and women of desertion.

Shocked!

Then a cloud of shocking evens ensued: autumn arrived in its abundant splendors to press the fully cloaked bees to the wall. A marriage was announced. Some lonely two legged creatures decided to please the world. Food was ordered and a fire was started. The previous union had left the galleries of the chefs depleted, and hunt began for the remaining autumn flowers. With singular silvery motions, one to another, the flowers bleed and fell to the hands of the ceremony of love. Elixirs flowing into the tea pots for flavoring of the dried cousins. The beauty was killing the guests off penury.

Sniffs!


Too young, the maids of honor were to even understand the words being spoken. But they did understand the tones though, the tough parts from the romantic, the pristine from the jaded. It rained red and white the proceeding jabs. Complete in its visual antics. Designers of a lost kind, the traditional! All the way, from the next complete room. The vows ensued. The lovers renewed their recent commitments. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Cheers!

The noise was deafening. That clanging shrill! Spoons on glasses of wine. And the dignity of champagnes filled, the hive with jealousy! The thin green candle was lit! Happiness at such moments is the foreplay to dawn’s glowering secrets. The bees missed the invitation to the gathering. No alembic lines to interpret. No directions in tow of the decadence. No reason to watch from trees up in the realm of smoke. So silent. The queen was in a deep thought. The slivers of nature were rubbing shoulders with the cloaked insects of the sweet day. Images and images.

Descends!

A furore in the trees above was noticed by the young, first time caterer, towards the cynosure of all activity, a colored mass descended. A million stings were felt and cried out for, slapping of the wrists in a ditch attempt of safety. Silting slowly in the torrid zone of shouts and wails, a marriage was broken. The first dance.

Cream!

All the willowed pieces, all the hefty agents. Dying, dying, all along the old vine, borrowed. Random acts of flight, an attack on the wanton acts of the parties. The surrogacy was complete. The victors saw the picric grass. “Where did the runner run?”
Very far? Thought to that direction! “Did the lady find beauty?”

Compromise…

“Pretend the dove from above is a dragon and your feet are on fire.”
- Josh Ritter.

...

They showed me ice lights
Rising from foreign corners,

They showed me light green
Water in their eyes,

They showed me circular ponds
Displaying their hyacinths,

They showed me the gilded mirror
Saying we are made of stardust.

They showed me soft sands.

They showed me electric trees.

They showed me,

Yellow,

Light laughter,

Asterisks and Exclamations,

They showed me the room
I just walked into.

Shaking my head, gently.

Ellipsis.

Balance of sorrow.

"Her name shall be Deirdre, and she will be the most beautiful woman in the world. But that beauty shall bring death to many heroes, and much sorrow."
- Deirdre of the Sorrows.

Initially the phrase was ‘ The’ balance of sorrow’. But after a slight chat with a relative friend it struck me that the use of ‘The’ in this situation would be an acceptance of the generic viability of sorrow. Balance shadowed the sorrow. Thus ‘A’ balance of sorrow. The balance was delivered in my head through red-eyed projections.

Tears cut, and stolen from gypsies who were lamenting the loss of dynamic relationships. Relations shared by them.
Shared by them, with their sorrows. Confused purely by the virginity of these vestal, emotive aggravations to their ideas of grief.
The initial moments of sorrow. How plain! How sweet!
Litters of flowers in reds and blacks.
Dirty! Rotting, not just yet. Orange!

The moods:
Engulfed!
Engulfing!
The remnants of the strewn feeling, drawing from the simple multitudes of the aforesaid harsh moments.

2002.

The torture of the limited conscience for the legality of the patriotic serum, dry and driven. The raped song! Drying within the tube light nations images of the west running, and accused of secretly applying fiery balms to divisive wounds. The floods dried it of the acceptance of unattainable ignorance.

Tilting, are the seesaws of the hide and seek game.
Status quo. Irrelevance.
A monopoly of truths, an army of orange flowers, walking below bridges and building criss-crossed shelters. Attempting the emergence of sorrows.

Religion sat on a park bench, religion absorbed, the gifted red. Not asking, nor refusing.
Religion jumped from rooftops, impaled, in perfect unison.

A weighing scale, yielded by the queen of circumstance, crouching behind marked oak chambers. Weighing the rivers of sad memoirs written in bright inks, in the hope of a notice. The balance.

Tears and fears with angel leers.

In their eyes it can be, in their eyes it shifted, sparsely. Balance of such sorrow reflected off the silver glass panes and numb movements. Silting in issued tents. Not asking for comfort or pillows. Nor strong words of love and martyrs. No curtains.
Only macro scopes. Yes! Macro scopes!

The second discussion –

‘A’ balance, rejects the collective sphere of sorrow. ‘The” balance, forgoes the personal experience. Thus the balance I try to elucidate if dwelling in the chasm of these two bi-polar desserts of sorrows. Both eyes see different angles of the light. Collective sight is the aspiration of this piece.

Blue has many shades.

Smart words! Smart words!
Escaping my windows!

How to relish the fog? Or the smog where I’m concerned??

In pursuit of a silent movie I’m walking a mile. With sneakers on for comfort. But it’s biting into my vocabulary. And I do not attempt to lie. Sense is not construed in untruthful sentences.

Took the painters advice and bought some cushion for lying down.
Next to a few mythological dreamers. We had a lot in common. All our words lacked gender and tense.
Lacked even the viable strands of times’ errors. Words on words. Not a line spoken. All through the tentacles of the dictators of the silver screen projections.
Not the directors. They are content being ghosts. Driving home language instead of limousines.

I was not interested in languages. Nor were my mythological dreamers. It was the grail of ultimate letters in tow, we were after. Letters in tow.

The weight it yielded was light. Only the esoteric group of welcomed bystanders were heavy, seeped in misplaced profits!

Misplaced profits! The guffaws of the banks ware hardly cynical. They too succeeded in comprehending the dreamers’ dream. The mythology of words.

Found words are far too boring. I was going on and on about the languages I could not speak. Illiteracy in the guise of ignorance.
The lost words are the real interest.
Free of morality, they operate beneath our/my radar. Copulating hazardously. Practicing incest. Dying in orange pools of slow blues numbers. Orange!

I discovered a new author this morning. He wrote pretty poems too. I felt his pain. Died his heroes’ death. Cries his widows tears. Understood all his poetic allusions, and the realm between the lines. His words were mine. I knew them all too well. He just said them with more style and panache.

He never bothered to invent.

Nor did she.

The only time I collapsed attempting the revival of the unknown linguists, was also the last time I lost my mind in straight sets to an under confident player of the arts. Why did I never call for a challenge?

Being doomed to the paths of the less knighted, dwelling in the soft glows of the green lights, the long sentences I omit are forgotten by the deep sea publishers.
Growth to the wandering babbler. Hail the unreasonable household rambler.
The pioneers of the fantasy. Of discoverable words.

Orange, live, in silence, no longer rotting in water bottles, under the plastic covers we laid it to sleep on. Seeping fast into the shoes I wore in search of the silent movie.
Comfort, the vocabulary is now preserved within the envelops of the gallery walls.

Cyan waters – cerulean mud – robin egg blue imagination – teal bells ringing – viridian stones gathering paintings to quench the unattainable thirst of colour contrasts.

Wish me the courage to imagine new letters being towed!

Of confusion, destiny, illusions, and sounds.

Sounds are the integral system of confusion.
Fearing the cacophony, the jingles of confusion are born.

Noises from the vocals of a reason ravaged generation. That is it that is so different from the lonely hobos of the yesteryears as opposed to their counterparts today. They sing in the same alleys, similar songs. Of love, riches, roofs and subway tickets.

Is Mr Sen correct in describing the illusions of destiny in a 198 paged book? Rather simplistic I feel. But probably not.
What I feel is ignorance is also the flip side of the beatific illusion called destiny.
I am inspired by Mr Sen.

So how is it that I aspire to relate sound, confusion and destiny?
Its rater simply depends on the following of the colours.
Dolphins and glassy water.
Scarlet windows beaconing me to climb a little lower into the water and attempt to touch the skies way below.
Not the reflections of the northern clouds but the reality of such illusions.

Thus comes the tap on the big doors of destiny fixed into contorted shapes…
Contorted shapes….
Confusing shapes…

Now that is where it struck me that these shapes were way too busy with vivid sounds to care for the reason ravaged voices.
Fear of the cacophony binds the strings of paralysis.

Waves crashed onto the brown rocks wearing the crowns of a thousand rich kings.
I stood on the realm of this kingdom.
Intoxicated, floating on the noises, confused, dazed, like a poor song, sung on the galleries of to few, attacked my the misers of the deaf.

The only connection between the noises that gave me this illusion of a confused destiny was a lyric. Which one, I forget. But it was lucid, mercury, and a silence of green eyes.

Orange windows and ice showers.
Ice mints in my mouth.
Ice mints in my mind.
Ice - ice - ice

I’m sweating snow!