Of course, this takes courage, for it is often the road not taken, and yet it’s the only way to go. In that spirit, my writing journey continues, the essence of my being made manifest in stories far beyond all comprehension until they’re processed here or with a guitar and a pen.
Truth well told peels back the layer of superficiality of our day-to-day existence, separating you from me and everybody, as if breakers on the ocean with crests and troughs like the ups and downs of life.
It comes down to forgiveness I believe for we are living under grace as opposed to the law when we choose to believe each moment is holy. We tread along sacred ground following in the footsteps of our forebears not to be forgotten or forsaken.
Wait a minute, that sounds stranger than fiction like in a spaghetti western where gauchos have Asian eyes and conquistadors chart their course under constellation skies until they are stranded in the horse latitudes searching the Beatitudes for the way back home.
To know the truth, read between the lines, where my mind takes flight til the morning comes as shotgun blasts ring out from hunters across the bay stirring me from golden slumbers reminding me to be giving as a Magi each and everyday.
Truth well told peels back the layer of superficiality of our day-to-day existence, separating you from me and everybody, as if breakers on the ocean with crests and troughs like the ups and downs of life.
It comes down to forgiveness I believe for we are living under grace as opposed to the law when we choose to believe each moment is holy. We tread along sacred ground following in the footsteps of our forebears not to be forgotten or forsaken.
All these epiphanies of the day, transporting me to another time and place, before the fall, last night when we were young or so it goes in a song.
Remembering things in the corner of my mind, a dark hollow in forests of azure where songbirds sing a melody in a minor key, off beat is the way to be for I am bored by predictability; it dulls my senses which interferes with my empathic energy and stifles my creativity.
Remembering things in the corner of my mind, a dark hollow in forests of azure where songbirds sing a melody in a minor key, off beat is the way to be for I am bored by predictability; it dulls my senses which interferes with my empathic energy and stifles my creativity.
Ergo it is often necessary to shake things up let it rattle and roll as it were. The question remains as to whether we can withstand the inevitable blow back from the misfits and malcontents who show up like rainy days.
Where this is all going is unclear to me, for I am merely freestyling, writing with abandon past the point of oblivion where seldom is heard from the herd, the poor huddled masses contemplating carcasses of the past when the future is at hand.
In the grand scheme of things, I have no agenda, but then that’s a family trait, a fatal flaw if you will. Plans are another matter, however, and working my plan is taking more time than originally anticipated, God only knows how much time is left.
What I really want to know is what’s going on which means questioning nearly everything, why and what for even though it’s nearly impossible to truly know the score, but don’t the deal go down just the same.
And who was it that said, “Cool is a rumor?”
Where this is all going is unclear to me, for I am merely freestyling, writing with abandon past the point of oblivion where seldom is heard from the herd, the poor huddled masses contemplating carcasses of the past when the future is at hand.
In the grand scheme of things, I have no agenda, but then that’s a family trait, a fatal flaw if you will. Plans are another matter, however, and working my plan is taking more time than originally anticipated, God only knows how much time is left.
What I really want to know is what’s going on which means questioning nearly everything, why and what for even though it’s nearly impossible to truly know the score, but don’t the deal go down just the same.
And who was it that said, “Cool is a rumor?”
It might’ve been some far flung character in a dive bar opining about the passing scene, saying something like “arguments over taste are no arguments at all,” before sailing through heaven's gates where the keeper waits to lead us to paths of milk and honey like a holy goof.
Wait a minute, that sounds stranger than fiction like in a spaghetti western where gauchos have Asian eyes and conquistadors chart their course under constellation skies until they are stranded in the horse latitudes searching the Beatitudes for the way back home.
To know the truth, read between the lines, where my mind takes flight til the morning comes as shotgun blasts ring out from hunters across the bay stirring me from golden slumbers reminding me to be giving as a Magi each and everyday.
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