room and board.

Room is seeking its place in my agenda. I feel to make room for this Room I must commit one crime against my maladjusted self-perception - removal. Ceasing to assist this assassination causes only but one grave grievance - discontent. When we reveal this rhythm to the orchestral pit of pittance, there is relief of an unrelenting kind - redemption. Together we sing the sonnet of Eckhart that, in concert with compassion and gratitude, says come out of yourself and let God be God in you - poetry. So 'tis the removal of discontent is redemption, its poetry. That is the room where an absence of God is an invagination of insanity. For if this is a mouthful of honesty, the Room I beckon angels to prepare for me is already surrounding me and I cannot help but wait for my perception of God to collide with my perception of self.

philokalia

Deep around, digging gingerly into the core of your love, the great flood of Exalt has uplifted me far past the horizon I had only been gazing on - all that I thought was possible. It is simply stunning to be nothing but naked, liberated from the vise, that patronizing vice of vengeance. To lay a rest, arrested and embraced, next to the truth of your beauty, I am both invincible and invisible. You bleed through me. I breathe you. Together, we become nothing of everything all at once. Then gone. Now done. Enraptured in your ecstasy, 'tis easy for me to see that you are right there again, like time melted. Looking near, nearly in, it is far too immaculate to deny the Divine. But in the distance, will we be close? Are we traipsing on a tangent? You engross me, your spirit eclipses my mortal idols. They are inert. But we are enabled, engraved with a symphony of soft voices and tender grazes. Fast, vast, bombast - I take you in unhesitatingly and know nothing is wrong. This moment, with the momentum of grace and love, captures the next and they, too, become one. Like our blood. Like our breath. You're my great love - the beautiful good. And when love loves hate, I know that you make confusion fuse with correction. Right. Right is that which is left between the me you give me, daily, and the you that only you can give me. Us. So the way of this pilgrim, collecting the residual soul offerings abandoned haphazardly, is to gather good in all places and to spread that substantially. This makes us closer. So close we are one again.

Cubed.

Eating flowers and singing the sails of my steadfast love, we lift each realized soul to reality of that which we cannot see but must not seethe. Oh Consciousness that catapults our cavalier childhood into that pure point of passion, I am under your purview. Here I herald the happiest happenstances your gift to me and I cannot go there from here without paying homage to my homestead. My holy. Hallowed. When this day does not recognize yesterday's aches, how can we prevent incapacitating guilt from simultaneously loving now and knowing lows, the blows of my mightiest blight? Hatching seeds in the thatch of selfishness is thwarting your business. Its like my busyness is the hitch despondence adheres to and ad hocs that ruse of ruckus, muck and lew doings.

But I know it now and bow down my disobedient discord. You pick up the eyes and set them east, like the star in the east. Wise woman and man making the lightening, an electrifying connection between Provider and provided. How great can you be when you are the Gift, the Giver and the reality of that Giving? I cannot even fathom what such complexity means to me or me to them. It isn't a mistake of semantics that me is in them. But look at that - its reversed, as if I must invert the conceptions I have previously understood. What comes first? The reward for giving or the act?

When you are to the third power on such profundity, your significance is unmatchable.

Neologism

My form of violence is the spreading silence when the internal voices are nothing but self-negating. I am detonated against the worry I wake up with - today I will not refuse to be that which is me. But before I have the opportunity to not refuse, I resist and the renegade begins. Again. If I didn't love death as much as I fear life, I may somehow learn that those verbs are only created in my misconceptions. Since I cannot conceive anything outside my concept of what is alive and that which is absent of life, I never really now if these two possibilities are separate entities. What if they mean the same thing? What if the deceased are not able to comprehend the living in the same way the living cannot identify with the dead? Then maybe those threats would be empty, benign and sordid. To see existence grasped on a notchless timeline, drawn to no knowable scale and in the middle of the longest run on, I may not waste creative space to pander my self-hatred and that denegation would be the greatest mockery of (wo)man. Rather I would wait not one more minute to make my wings the way of the majestic. The mourning that bellows - the unmuffled moratorium on mental misbehaving - is only the beautiful music that allows creation to reach out to creator in that one moment when a space between I and thou is recognized. Though the space may be small it is the only thing I can think about. It ravages my concentration. It demands my attention. It is the love I am learning to articulate and ambulate to a world I am called to make accustomed to grace and faith.

Because I create my misconceptions. Clarity is the universal denominator - the mathematical truth from Providence. I am the one making up words and the meaning to those words.

Not, what we are

If my feet are running brashly into the unwieldy desire of the ego but they advance with natural grace, then let them prance. If the mind is quick to follow, yet obtuse in intention, alight the pursuit. For the feet may go but the mind must be trusting in the unfolding, as it has - as it is - as it will be. To be after that which is after us is the only momentum to sweep ourselves into, standing afebrile in the burning torment of demands and expectancies. Patiently surveying is painting your breathy spirit into hostile interpretations and sorrowful disappointments. Hastily we condemn our failures, our rejections. We become the objects we regularly use to describe that which truly cannot be ascribed about us. I am not my nose or that noise of the noose we used to suffocate the peace that was promised for our partnership. So when exhaustion eclipsed the feet's feat, we realize we are no closer to that ego want and now again the need is for the mind's meed, to once again condone finding meaning wherever you be, whatever has you captive. After that which is after you, even when you hide. After that which is after you, even when you chide the concept of it and feel beguiled by that guide we call blemishless, blameless and blessed.

Breathe life into your dry intellect and find wisdom, sprouting from your soul. Breathe life into your affection and find love, germinating in that area you also called barren. Breathe life into your ways and find freedom, that recompense for the perserverance you placed in that karmic wheel. Good is done to you - invariably - the recognition atop of the print you call victimhood. When we are wronged, it is doubly done when we let it lynch our free will of peaceful offerings. We are not that which was done to us.

now: finding no fault

I can see to the tip of my nose, if I am ever committed to the present. I can count the freckles and frown lines on my skin if I willingly and selectively forgo unnecessary trips to the past or future and stay put in the now. To toast the tea I taste is best in light of the experience at hand, not a memory of it yesterday. No one is as beautiful then as they are now because are we not introduced to the revolutionary moment of their new birth, right now, right here? We often create identity in the inept idols of insufficiency. I am my pain because I need an identity. I need to feel secure. Proving myself right has become a favored flavor in my life. It is unsatisfactory in the sense that I base my foundations and beliefs on poor proceedings of the past. Smug I become because I knew it all along but saddened yet again because I have arrived no further in the path of overcoming tumults. It may be that I only have one pair of looking glasses. Perhaps the past becomes the future's present because I automatically look that direction when interpreting the facts at hand (or beyond the hand).

So then, of course, I will suffer just like I suffer. And no one will ever understand me enough because it functions outside the commonality of shared experience. Who told me it was okay? Who didn't tell me is was a sham, a shameful smattering of smut? But since I can now recognize that no one told me the truth, I have arrived at a place where the space has been made to make that distinction. Who holds me back then? Only me, only my addiction to abstraction of God. Blame is a menacing falsity. If we have arrived at a place where blame can sprout, we also are present to a situation where we choose our reaction to it. We oft forget how often we are accomplices to the very adversaries we point fault.

Rightly unraveled

To answer, I am labile and the litany of labels is only security when scrutiny is second best. This examining eye is happy to report a purport of expansion unseen at the seams, forsaken of the mistaken, and indwelling of the indigent of my own. The celebration of desperation is simple release when the direction is within. Yet its counterpart bought nothing but a broken line of communication and an asphyxiation that pushed two into none. The labyrinth of late is a version of the vision not undone by the downward, inside we create a secrete of disbelief and indiscreet imaginations but I love it so, for only to me of me is the desperation a destination of fortitude. Beside you, I seem perfectly unraveled and together we watch and match the which of what that comes together, just You and I. And this I love ever so true. For nothing would the sacrifice be appropriate to give approbation above your unexplainable alliance to me. So this allegiance is not an allegory of unthinking merit but rather a unending pursuit to persuade the sky to fall to the rising ground. When they meet, we meet and my body is embodied as my mind sees it. In a way of a world that works so hard to hold us down, derelict and doomed, I am emblazoned to resist it all.