Lightning strikes somewhere,
always does
strike
but chance, that long awaited anticipation,
always destructs. Darkness, 
on the other hand, lays its weary head 
across continents bracing for the worst.
Will we look up and see the drift
or hang helplessly and oblivious?
There are things to do
like nothingness. 
Just to know the silence, 
the sound of time passing by.

line by line
i move through day and night
in foreign tongue
the suggestion of,
the possibility,
the inevitable outcome.

flashing in time
with the past,
the unexpected
resurrected.

with the longing
of endless nights
and lost days in your arms,
future past,
imperfect,
imperative and 
present tense.

rescue us from transparency
and thin disguise
wandering aimlessly,
unavoidably exposed.

over words and broken dreams the new emerges
tattered and worn as the last forgotten scene
played out but never ending
time elastic
dates irrelevant
the slow progression imperceptible but apparent.
resistance a futile exercise in self flagellation
whipping boy of desperate measures
wild abandon, cognitive interruptus, coitus excess
fading into oblivion, the weight lifting
interior by design.  

lost in the sea of attitude and meaninglessness
sweeping around like a tidal wave,
drowning in confusion we are
but a universe filled with dark matter.
masses of opacity, entrenched, deep and infinite
cloaking the transparent.
if only the imagination could take us that far.
so busy adding up to the point of no return.

the embodiment
the presence
the essence of love as it expands and contracts
as familiar as the haircut you gave your baby brother before you pushed him off the porch
as foreign as a language, beautiful and incomprehensible
looking for gesture and nuance as the years add up
mining deeper even though depth is always risky as any miner will tell you when he descends into the darkness

blood rushing in vain as brush licks at cool gray

thick and smooth, resistant

onyx, ebony, rich, insistent 

gesso recedes imprisoned and repentant, released by a single stroke.

raven pool, dark in light and out of reach,

deep and intransigent but capable of influence.

chromatic whorls in monochromatic space,

the yearning, the slash and scrape, the scratch

submerged, the churning, convulsing

before the turbulence subsides and

fades to black. expanding universe

of light and frequency, electromagnetic

radiation, photons of acrylic, oil

and gouache, oscillate in transverse waves of chroma.

harmonic disturbance, evanescent dissonance,

gravitational collapse, complete surrender.

 

as long as the lead is compelling
the prospect uncertain
as long as the logic holds up
the line is never drawn
so the line is never crossed. 

slithering under the fence,  
coiling without shedding a skin
seems almost criminal.
loss has no meaning in a timeless universe
where life and death fall some where 
along the spectrum of infinity 
and no one is waiting on the other end.

The Prophet Motive
Prophet: The Motive
Soul, the collective angst.
Prophet, the Movie
To believe is selective.
Who do we leave out? 

Speechless, listless, confused.
No Birdy under my desk warming herself by the baseboard.
No Birdy waiting on the mat by the front door ready to inform us.
No Birdy kissing, leaning, staring into our eyes. 
No Birdy humming every time we walk by. 
Birdy, our love, our big love, we are without compass
to navigate this merciless road. With a heavy heart, we liberate you
incapable of saying goodbye.