Matching Intensity

Intensity in interpersonal relationships occurs naturally when chemistry is involved; personal, intimate, spiritual, sexual energy. They are all inclusive and of the same origins…The source of all Creation (God). A God’s-eye view of our fractal universe may not differentiate, for example, between the energetic signatures of violence and competition. It is not unrealistic to assume that, viewed from a similar energetic/fractal/vibratory perspective; we are seen as holistic “symphonies” of interweaving frequency. Each aspect of our being (emotional, sexual, spiritual. Intellectual, logical. Material, etc.) forms an essential part of the symphonic whole and lends each of us a unique and easily definable pattern. Failure to integrate all available frequencies and aspects of energetic expression presents a less dense, less structurally intense signature. Fully integrated individuals present dense, interwoven signatures. Density often equals intensity. Intensity promotes acceleration in ambient, as well as individually concentrated, vibrational forms. Individuals with extreme intensity disrupt not only energetic systems within the environment, they are capable of disrupting established structures on a cellular, energetic, psychic, sexual, emotional and even societal levels. Being intense sucks. Kinda hard not to shit where you eat……

Dustmakers can’t keep. I wonder how long I will be required to keep this up?

Urgency

I don't know what is coming, but I feel it in my bones. Huge. Dark. Brilliant and terrifying. The world is changing. I am changing. Soon I will fade into the hills, dissipate into the desert. I can hear the trump lifting to waiting lips. It is almost time now. It is almost time.

Abysmal Thinking

Do I create structure and space to promote and protect a delicate relation, or do I do so to protect my own deep fears of ultimate rejection? Can I survive if I do not run? Maybe I am trying to have my cake and eat it too. I may be left with crusty cake and still feel hunger in the pit of my stomach. I am afraid. And I am running in a different way now.

Pausing

Golly Gee.

A pause, a break, a lull in the lifelong conversation, time and space to breathe apart without the constant interchange of emotion and messages through the heavy air. Introspection. Silence. Waiting for the vibrations to silence themselves between. Thinking. Wondering. Hoping. Praying. Was it real, or sensory overload? Sounds and light bouncing to and from, reverberating from flesh to flesh.

It was real. I felt. I suppressed a giggle. Feeling without words the finer interchange of spirit and heart. It is there. Still. Strong. Piercing in the polite staccato of your voice. In your eyes. In the posture of your neck. I feel anew.

I missed your face.

Pipes

Far off goes
The piper playing
Tunes upon the empty air
Floating gently from the highlands
For me
For me

A jig as lively
As the morning
In the market
Sunday early
Clear and clean
Again its drifting
Cross the heather
For me
For me

This time closer
Still I listen
Not a jig
But dirge on the breeze
Full of sadness
Full of longing
Calling home
For me
For me.

Iconoclasm As Liberation

I examine the edifice, created by my own hand. It is listing slightly left and missing gilded trim about some of the edges. It is worn and tired, the paint chipped and rubbed thin by my venerating hands. I have worshiped there, seeking salvation through the mercy of another, seeking connection to my God, vicariously riding on the excess virtue of a plaster saint. Her smile appears sardonic now, mocking and chiding my naive belief and fervor. She appears transformed from flesh to clay before my eyes. Her light fades in the pale noon pallor. Incense wafts sickly heavenward, masking cracks and crevices of indiscretion. Once there was belief. Once there was faith. Once there was an ideal worth kneeling and pleading. Once there was love. Unconditional. Masochistic. Self depreciating. Humbling. But not now. Not anymore. It seems to have dissipated, like the green smoke before me on the alter, scattered to the winds as empty prayers to unfeeling Gods. I mourn the loss deeply and turn toward the bustling world...in hope of salvation.

So from Maria emerges Sophia.

On Being Bastardly

Sometimes I am a bastard. Sometimes I am not a bastard. As I age, I am more not than so. That said. I have been a bastard recently. Famously, perhaps in my bastarding of late. Dumb bastard. I gotta stop that.

Perhaps my manners will improve to jerk, or douche bag. Maybe aspire to dork or ass hat. I doubt that. I don't know what ass hat means.

For now. Bastard. Captain Bastard. Strike a jolly pose.
And wait 24 hours before emailing
And texting
And try not to talk
Or think too much
Bastard

Oscar Knows

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.
Oscar Wilde

Look my way
Turn your head, a tilted ear
To the wind
Listen in the crowd
Feel my eyes searching
For yours among the plastic poses
Sense your way
To me with your whole
Body and soul
Till the small softness of your fingers
Traces the contours of my face
And you exhale
Recognition

And so it is.