CONFESSION ZERO (The Weaver's Song)

My voice can serve a grander purpose! Love. Feed the hungry, clothe the exposed, give dwelling to the homeless, help the sick and dying and commune with the living spirit(s) or my voice can merely be self-seeking and fall away as if the words never pursed my lips.

Prayers, to me, aren’t merely verbalized, they're acted upon by my own works of compassion, and, if they are not acted upon, they cannot soar and are nothing more than vacant words. If I give my voice to the multitude of the deprived and downtrodden, there’s more Love in it. Give my voice to action, don’t allow it to be self-interested or have anything to be gained from it other than the call of my selfless duty, my obligation to help my fellow brothers and sisters. Do this and goodness will surely follow. It will follow that which is given, given without regard to what any group or particular ego might imagine that it knows.

I cannot know. I can only believe.

It’s simple really, I'll pray while I'm in motion because motion creates… Prayers, according to my belief, must become universal in their subject matter and appeal, they must breathe with a loving and selfless consciousness. If my prayers become the tools of division and separation, they’ll be nothing more and nothing less than the antithesis to goodness, and they will fall short of their purpose; love.

I conjure my own way, my own path. Even as I hobble upon pathways lined in thorns, I can, and eventually will, arrive Home. I must end division and separation of all types; pinch off the buds of brooding partitions, dismantle my own wish in order that I might congregate with pure unadulterated Love, love for Love’s sake. After all, love is my purpose. I must be a proud steward of the garden, of that which gives without asking in return, of that which continues to provide despite any caustic influence, of that which is, according to my belief and to my burgeoning delight, Heaven…

Rev the engines! Curse and scream! The world needn't any more hate, none that wraps arms around death, slips the nuthouse into heaven, then bleeds itself into the church of man.

It’s evident in the orange night sky, visible in the night’s chandeliers, swaying from what they’ve seen, from what they now witness. Stars aren't blind, save for their past and future sufferings. They see troubles on eartH for it is Heaven. A prayer? A curse? Or could it be word; reflection, nightmares and dreams, pushing forth their breathless story of fire, brimming with the dank cloth of certainty, spitting out heirlooms of teeth and bone as dust?

Knowledge is blind. It’s unaware of its own girth as it packs up supplies for the next fresh hunt. The pursuit of Love, for the creator of all things, and the search for that which my flesh can never know. Let love be my God! Allow my eyes to see what’s before them. Bring my senses around to remembering where I live, to recognizing my surroundings one heartbeat at a time. Urge the rhythm to encase my suffering, bring it full force, I've enough of it to spare.

If I still have my Love I’ll not have wasted my belief after wars have broken through the stars like thieves. I’ll not have wasted my belief on words, I’ll have found love through my willing hands.

That’s what I started by propping up my storm in the midst of Love which gives without asking for anything in return, that which delivers my thoughts and dreams without restraint, my pleas without want, without instruction, without the harness of murder, rape and god-fouled war.

Through my hands, through my heart, through Love, I must still believe enough to wrestle deceit to its knees and embrace the Spirit of Love that’s within arms reach.

Oh! Reach out! They are there! Reach out! Let them nestle their imperceptible wings into your spleen, cuddle up inside of the fearful belly and dream.

All of the cities are ablaze with celebration. The ragged and homeless Saint Labre nods as I, the inflexible spectator, look sideways to avoid his tattered gaze of expectation.

The streets of the world still come alive at sundown, laugh and laugh and circle round and round without a care or vital thought piercing the ragged spirit. The tables are set, no time for regret. The lawns are cut, no time for rain. The streets are full, no time for silence. The children are dead, no time for pain.

Parents of this racket wail their consent with their indifference to murderous war. I've the blood of children on my hands and must put an end to murder evermore or the ground will certainly swallow me up and the sky will collapse upon the reception. Prospering from murder, greed and deception will relinquish my solemn vow with creation.

I declare to you that these things I do not know. I’m not supposed to know. I’m meant to believe. If I knew, faith would cease to have meaning and creation wouldn’t be a god and pony show! This day and age is not mine to devour, not mine to consume. The banquet of horrid lies assembled before me is heaped with greed, with the murder found in equally horrid and complicit eyes.

Many lifetimes ago you and I held hands.
I let go first that I might come around again.
Creation’s been waiting a long time for Love;
Hope now holding for hope, lips pursed upon joy,
Each affection kissing creation’s lovely neck,
Loving smiles upon your waiting self.
Let me enter your kingdom, your arms of Love,
Every lifetime, not just the one we know…

I am humbled by your grace, your undying smile

Leaving me breathless with an undeserved joy.
Of destiny, of Love, of joy, with an exactness
Vibrating noiselessly without end or question,
Even as you yearned for my return to Love.

You proved yourself a healer with your remedy
Of acceptance permeating without deliberation
Until I journeyed back to you, howling of belief.

As many as 17 pyramids, more than 1,000 tombs and 3,000 settlements were uncovered using infrared technology. Archaeologists have uncovered as many as 17 buried pyramids in Egypt with the help of NASA satellite imagery, according to a documentary to be aired by the BBC on Monday.

The sand is old. The crypts number one thousand. The imagery is new. Scores of pyramid and settlement covered by shameless flood or time’s scratching wind. They reappeared the same way they vanished, devotion.

Technology’s come a long way, but what of me? Have I grown, or shrank of my plan like a coward? From beneath the ascending stone I have risen, yet not high enough for dreaming of time without end. Clocks tick like time bombs above the granite vaults that are used to conceal such shame, my love’s dullness. Nature will lay to rest all the eyesores built upon the (H)eartH with the same swiftness as my flight from peace. Nature will find me begging on my human knees like the first and last hostage of a dreadful deceit locked tightly within the chambers of mortal kings. There is no escape. No relinquishing the eartH's lessons.

The sand is old. The crypts number one thousand. The imagery is new. Life returns with Love’s release, as death, resurrected, is flanked by the dancing spirit. It is I who held death sacred over Love and Peace.

A federal judge ruled Wednesday that the suspect in the Tucson shooting rampage that wounded U.S. Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords is mentally incompetent to stand trial, putting the criminal case against him on hold indefinitely.


Who am I? Why have I come to this? I’m many. I’m few. I’m me. I’m you. Take my hand and I’ll give you a tour through the circus I've built of a sour wish.

Surrounded by barbed wire, see all the politicians, notice how they’re howling their own perception, snorting and sniffing themselves like foul beasts buying up, drying up and slaughtering Heaven? To the left and the right of this hellish carnage are a twin pack of jackals whom imagine diversity where there is none, scratching and sniveling their cheerless way to the grinning gallows. There is no lion tamer. The cats are declawed and docile, tails drooping like broken flowers, stems no longer able, breath pinched from the weariness of indifference wedged between Heaven and the barricades of madness!

The bale ringe has dropped into the donicker. Hey Rube! Roustabouts have fallen brow deep into the waste! I can’t swim the thickness! Windjammer, blow your bugle! My straw house is without its rigging! O what a hideous taste! The pie car’s bare and the grizzly growls of a misuse come charging with the gait of my drunken anguish. Stepping around and over all of the bloated corpses, arrow’s, faintly painted, usher in the Big Top finish.

Who am I, murderer, executioner, lion, corpse or bear? I’m many. I’m he, he’s me, you’re him and I’m you. The gatekeeper’s fled the carnage! Admission is free! Take my culpable paw and I'll lead you through.

Peace is my prayer. Peace is my worship. Peace.
Peace is my flower. Peace is my stone. Peace.
Peace is my child. Peace is my master. Peace.
Peace is my mother. Peace is my drone. Peace.

War is my priest. War is my beast. War.
War is my corpse. War is my grave. War.
War is my skin. War is my grin. War.
War is my tyrant. War is my knave. War.

O! Disparity’s the noose around peace,
the guillotine’s blade falls upon me!
Must I lie to myself of my sworn duties,
hoodwink my eyes into their blindness?

My tears soak up indifference with truth.
My lips point down in a disfigured grimace.
My love feels my wrist for a living rhythm.
I’m the battlefront inside/outside my head.

War is my scar. War is my wound. War.
War is my tornado. War is my flame. War.
War is my shadow. War is my blight. War.
War is my weakness. War is my shame. War.

Peace is the air. Peace is the wave. Peace.
Peace is the wind. Peace is the stream. Peace.
Peace is the puppy. Peace is the sand. Peace.
Peace is the laughter. Peace is the dream. Peace.

Swath of New Tornadoes Strikes Central U.S.
Afterward, the geese trilled their song for me. Curving eastward, the pointed flight rode the squall, a trance of sorts, a column of meditation lifting my thoughts skyward, my escape moving just ahead of my baffled wits. I could sink or swim, do or die, remain powerless, or begin to fly...

Comet Chunk Slams Into Earth’s Atmosphere
The rumble seems commonplace now. Eerie and shrill, with impending misfortune imprinted on unfilled temples, buckshot discharging nature’s objection into the tapering air, above my prayer, exploding like confetti formed of sorrow.

Search to Resume for 4 People Missing After Flashflood in NW Arkansas
Is anybody out there? The dark and wind hide me from view, me from me, from love, from you. Is there anyone out there? Death comes too soon!

(The water told me I need remember her influence, understand that her breath laughs within my animal, twists up inside me like a party balloon.)

Holes Feared in Two Japan Nuclear Reactors
I suppose don’t get it. I choose not to see my own senselessness, instead, I spin the farce together like a long rubber band, then wait for life’s swift unraveling to splinter my hands.

Storms in Northwest Arkansas Kill at Least Three
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! The count rises with the morning sun. Traced from the tempest’s collection, nature’s watercolor canvas of heaven stands tall, only asking that I remember.

Storms kill 13 as They Tear Through Midwest
Thirteen spirits set loose that I might listen, heed the cry of Love, The Mother’s requiem moving my soul to again worship the original gift.

Home is where my heart thumps in kindness.

Resurrecting the Dead Sea
Breathing new life into what is not dead seems meaningless to that which has been dead or seems futile to that which is near its death, to that which reaches out with hope, which calls out to human affections and only asks that I brandish a useful love.

All of this waiting that stands between, swimming against belligerence, is the living spirit of that which came before. Before the birthday, the holiday, the week, when my kind knew the earth held secrets; valleys wielded something greater than consumption. The Great Grandmother takes my hand and walks me to me. She wrestles my ego, rage and hate and sightlessness from my stale grip and lifts my eyes to grasp where I am.

I know nothing. Nothing of who I thought I was. Nothing of who I imagined I had become. But the waiting, the hesitation for no real cause, bares nothing fruitful, nothing green or living. Love’s missing from the skies. It's shriveled up, blooming no more its admiration, its goodness. All of this waiting like a mannequin in a storefront window, eyes wide hopeless, missing the call for tranquility, now ushers in a most hurried and depraved war as substitute. Peace cannot be defeated by the bloodiest of wars and only instructs to see that I haven’t the will to finish the deed and slay all the remaining Love.

The Mother, The Grandmother, The Great Grandmother, is the eartH and everything in between. She brushes against my thoughts and lodges her truth into me like a kitten playing at my feet. She is waiting for my answer, holding out for my love to come flooding the dry bones. Her mouth licks the air, my hands reach out and embraces her limbs as children.

Dead was the rain. Dead was the wind. Dead.
Dead was the forest. Dead was the stream. Dead.
Dead was the soil. Dead was the mountain. Dead.
Dead was the hound. Dead was the dream. Dead.

Living I'd not have grown to want. Living.
Living  I'd not have grown to greed. Living.
Living  I'd not have grown to steal. Living.
I'd not have grown to murder, rape and war. Living.

Oh! This rage is too much! Not hers… mine! The sickle twists its frown down to face me. Must I extend my hands only to touch a lifeless screen? Must I line my path only in barbs of glass?

My melancholy eyes drain indifference inside tears. My cheerless, screened in face glimmers without hope. My dead heart is in all of my charity and cannot weep enough, they’re the tornado standing ankle high to my lovelessness.

Dead was the bloom. Dead was the child. Dead.
Dead was the honor. Dead was the truth. Dead.
Dead was the river. Dead was the eagle. Dead.
Dead was the canyon. Dead was the pew. Dead.

Living  I'd not have grown nearer to death. Living.
Living  I'd not have grown to dust. Living.
Living  I'd not have grown to lies. Living.
I should have grown to cherish, honor and love. Living.

The tornado that touched down in Missouri last night struck a town that I’m quite familiar with… Joplin. I live just forty-five minutes south and have several friends and relatives that live there.
With that in mind, I began to write...


The storm screeched its merriment over my eyes as the hail beat on its drum and the lightening flashed its grin northward. The wind exited center stage with its opus incomplete. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Her aria commenced again upstage, her lungs unfastening their violent breath down upon strangers, people known to me by their proximity to bereavement, by their plea for help, rising with a collective voice! Nature called down her trumpet, my kind, their neglect. Peering inward, hunger infects the air and soil as rage compresses flesh, weaves bone into dust and points skyward and calls it murder; sacrificial blood.

It’s the eartH’s prayer that brings me to mourn, not some divine plan, save for the one of my kind's caustic use, a raging death contraption rumbling over the loam with self-fulfilled calculation. Oh! Monstrous storm! My knees wobble their frailty beneath your raging hold, the news of death comes screaming in ahead of your full aggravation, train cars of coal and beam derailing their swift rebellion.

Amid the thunder and lightening and the pounding rain I thought, there’ll be enough blame to go around soon enough. Come to think of it; the images above seem familiar, reminding me of the devastation of war...

Volcano eruption forces closure of Iceland airspace

Oh! Cry your magma! Eject your lava, I’ve better things to come than your shattered escape. Your sky of soil can’t sway the vow locked inside of me; the bend of my tectonic pate, a brow of coiled wishes oozing forth, whispering of a serenity and crimson Love. Congregating with humanity, diverging from what’s old, newly honoring the earth, escaping the scabs of battle, my plumes of affection erupt across rifts of doubt, spoke I.

Howl allegiance with the mountain and the tree, sing the universe with praise and burst forth your care, divide them among my brethren of blood and affection that waits on a merry Love.

Remember the eruption when it flees my torrid mouth. Hold off any deceit that gushes like magma from you, instead, join with the surface calling out for kindness, spoke the coiled prayer.

These tall rifts speaking in a natural dialogue cry their speech in a familiar tongue of unspoken language stirring the truth of me; animal first, love second, spirit, kinship and affection blending into the scaffolds of horizon. Oh! Cry out thy speech atop heaven, expel thy molten coil! I’ve better things to commit to memory than my escape, spoke I.

It comes into me with the wind. The door, having closed after me, stands now as my entrance to escape with me nestled safely behind it.

Behind my door I sense angers loss, unhappy chains rattling like a Kai-chilampu, fists pounding out their truth upon the skin like a drum with taut flesh for cover. I know I'm ready. I know I'm all set, waiting on the procession to finish throbbing. Her arms reach for the door with questions, I remind her that I’m here, my vault of tears. She stands with me in her great silence like a statue, her eyes filled with old spirits, hands reaching down to touch the path she knows I cannot walk alone.

Her answer spoke in the gust of air. The question no longer seemed relevant. We took the other’s hand with great care, her silence moved through me like worship. Her spirit comes into me with the breeze. The door handle begins to shudder, beckoning me through the unknowable veil where the lessons of love echo their flesh.

Was Roswell 'Flying Saucer' Mystery a Soviet Plot?
There are limits to a thickening plot even where aliens rise.

Their skin had my attention as it glided by my befuddled gaze, passed by in solemnity, large eyes, without panic. They landed with a warning, a kind message for a self-destructing world.

Doomsdays: Dubious and Deferred
The endurance of the tick tock grumbles near me, marking off a cautionary demise. Three, two… One minute out. The racket of the car horn, the driver crashing fists through time.

Mummy Had Earliest Case of Heart Disease
Kings wrapped in golden hearts called out to sleepy sentinels nodding their walk along the turret, “Be vigilant! Protect your king!”

Silence…

Syrian troops 'kill 30 protesters after Friday prayers’
Love untaken still floats with fondness. Lethal bullets pierce proper affections. Prayers not flown, sink in sorrow. Murder given away flies deeper.

Israel's Netanyahu rejects Obama proposal on borders
Proposals are meant to be broken like the glass that holds the ax. They know rejection more than I. Desire. Dread. Deceit. Genocide.

Laugh child and skip on home now. Forget the clang of the tin can echoing down the alleyway, you’ve joy, school’s out soon and you're tired of lies.

You run to the corner and steady yourself on the concrete path, the programmed route where your kind and dog walk with hints of madness. Let the sea hold your limbs, your spleen. Tall shadows crumple in exhaustion over whistling gutters in an obscure baptism as you move alongside them. Mom’s waiting. Forget the bogeyman, he’s dead. Don’t you know that war sent him seaward with steel shoes that sank like a mother’s heart? Dread has vanished along with affection and truth. Love’s more like the tin can than the bogeyman.

Nature, if I'll but listen, calls to me with love. She implores that I make a vow with the song of kinship, the incantation of peace and goodness. The sky, the mountain, the stream, the forest and ocean wait on me to implement my inherent love upon another, my caress of all things that whisper of serenity. Nature is patient, much like Love, and looks to me for wisdom, for reason to counter the destruction and agony found in cruelty, in murderous rage, greed and indifference.

Why I was unable to see the endgame of ruin found in war is beyond my reach, yet the path to peace rests within me. The answers dream the question that I must ask myself, is my purpose love or is my function to hate? If I conclude that my reason for being is hatred, then I must convince the instinct for survival of its hopelessness, then encourage war to end all suffering, to come swift with horror in its fists like the birds of Ares. If I conclude that my reason for being is love, then I must persuade war that it has no value. War’s cruelty and murder and theft of spirit are counter to my very existence, opposed to my purpose and a detrimental and insensible contamination!

Nature, if I'll but listen, pleads to me with an imperative love, a love that implores I declare with great urgency my kinship, that I sing the song of love, the incantation of peace.

When the night took post along the skyline it waved me in with its beams like a plane handler signaling my craft’s slope. Tall, and diving like a hawk, she fluttered inside the clouds, clattering of sadness. At her emergence, the moon unwrapped its wings and stood alongside the bright symphony of wonder, a gathering ballet, elegant stars and devoted spirits pirouetting their worship across the squalling runway. I whirled within the telling shadow left by my awakening (I’ve flown this pattern before). I lifted her song ahead of my appearance and engaged her blazing gear with wheels inside the lines of a burnished devotion.

I prayed the night beams resurrect their tender opus as a pair of hands guided me home with their slanting nod like angels touring Eden, grasping the rapturous scene, crying of truth over the rumble of my former self's hoodwinked perception.

O! Let me stir her happiness with confidence and urgent need! Allow me to see the bursts of light, the beams of expectation and elegance flickering, night by night, with melodies of decency hovering nearest my anticipation, flanking my love with her trust.

War denies the earth’s grave rumble, her plea within my ear, an inescapable aria shattering the selfish walls of separation, thundering vociferously like a shot across my brow, eyelevel warnings of my use of her as creation’s tomb, my dumping depravity and brutality upon her affections. O! Can’t I cease this; my ceremony of bereavement? Bring an end to my marauding bravery before she weeps again, before I'm sent cowering, groveling for mercy and Love? It is of a most momentous weight that I conformed! I must join my bloodstained hands and begin to cleanse the dark spirit!

Syria, Afghanistan, Egypt, Israel, Darfur, Côte d'Ivoire, America, one seed, one family, searching for what’s been buried from view, pinched, squashed and hidden beneath the eyes, within the self-dug grave beneath a solemn verdict.

I, with my thoughts hovering in prayerless ignorance, lowering mass indifference to love underneath the loam, mourn of my self-blindness sunk inside my self-despair; peace and war colliding into the hovering spirits, never to realize the shame in annihilation. War is terrified of peace’s authority and fortification; parallel arms brought together, fists smashing in concert like a battering ram. They are meant to knock down my graveness, remove smirking war from my smiling thoughts, strip it naked that I might again allow peace to take Love’s hand and, like an animal, be content and indebted to simply being…

The mission, at least for me, is not an accomplished art. Its message flies in the face, opposite any impending action with its trembling meander of what cannot be known, of what might be appreciated as a good and merry Love. If it’s just for my own consumption, my own journey, so be it. If it’s more than that, I still plan to seize upon it like a servant whose brimming confidence totes love with a hidden pleasure.

I understand the dilemma. I see the greenness of my journey, the wind and chill and starlit diversions upon my course to love, the storm and dust and fluttering fears warning me of private snares that may await me on my road toward the unknowable unknown. Roadblocks can be removed- find a clear way around them. Believing is nothing more than a waiting doorway. A door, taken or untaken, is still a door to more of the unknown, a conduit on the way, propped up for my dreams.

I shouldn’t write of love while I’m angry, but I am powerless says the muse of muses, the un-masterful master eating from an empty dish. I imagine one thing, told another, and shown nothing! Could it be that I’m oblivious to the half-love that boils beneath the skin as if it’s a cauldron, a vat filled with the grins of conjurers gnashing their despair?

It isn’t rocket-science! Its innate discipline! It's basic math! But also lunacy, impure insanity lodged inside a gravely infected folly; nightmares lined with the mutilated skins of the children of war!

Have I gone mad? Has all of this change, this hope, been a test meant for me to see even more of the unhappy rage, the world off her edge, children coloring outside the lines of white noise?

Truth and untruthfulness are counter to one another, yet belief and disbelief are lovers, sightless and deaf, sharing their tired and crimson wretchedness with the other! Lies are devouring truth like vultures pecking and pulling at flesh; one layer becomes the gateway to the faithfully beating heart, another to the spirits digging inside my bones for their escape. I’d get off of this dizzying ride right now if I could imagine another! I’d saunter my happy face across the distance and into the void if I thought for one jolly second that I could flee the compound!

Oh, Creation! Oh, Love! Lend me your noiseless ears and wordless tongue that I might know your heartache, envision your sideways sorrow! Speak dust! Speak wind! Speak from your trough of pitiless sorrow!

Like I said, I shouldn’t write of love while I’m angry…

Countdown to Shuttle Launch -- and Layoffs – Underway
Three- My grinning desire to reach the heavens highlights my hunger to explore, my desirous aspiration to possess what I see, own what is not mine to own…

Two- Wonder needs remain in my greenness.

One- (Houston, we have layoff!)

Former Pop-Star Sworn in as Haiti’s New President
Remember, my needs come last, captain Martelly, first I must lift the spirit of Haiti to its original tallness! Permit her peoples to conquer their pale quaking, shine my quivering song upon them, then myself.

US Charges Six with Aiding Pakistani Taliban
Bring down the gavel upon me if I blast Love with the tools of battle! The hellhounds feast upon love, gorge upon the tender flesh of peace.

Indict me, then raise a new flag, a fresh banner, ‘Love Before Bombs’. Make no motto of love that worships war…

Obama Seeks More Drilling in Alaska and Gulf of Mexico
Seek to drain the earth of oil, that her machine may rust of use, crack of my potent thirst and gush forth like the rivers of language without end.

Let me dig for Love like gold. Tunnel for it like an oil-rig; the deeper it goes, the more I'll receive in turn

The will is spirit and belief, of which I’ve free rein, therefore, life must be imperfect inside of a perfectly flawed creation, the stone-silent flame.

Paradise is my long road and one I chose in order that I could believe. If the path along the way to my seeking was littered with flesh and bone, piled of horrible things instead of Love’s recollection, I would not have succumbed to creation’s Love. I might imagine a heaven and find myself in fear of its quickening wrath… Isn’t it true that I must believe in something before allowing myself to believe in anything?

I had lost my way in this; the immortal coil. I had forgotten Love and Peace because I had no belief. And without belief, I could not reckon with my own kinship, from the innate and the cognate to the primate and the incarnate. I must reconcile the suffering within me and make amends to those I've hurt and make amends of that which is not mine, outside of self and the machinations of me.

In order for my love to subsist, in all of its forms and in all things, I must surrender to that which I cannot know. Surrender, not to the “knowledge” garnered from my human mind, but from that which grows out of seeking for that which is unknowable.

I’ve done just that and I am reaping what I alone have sewn, what I alone have caused through my non-belief. Call it disbelief or dis-ease, but I have, for far too long, greeted another’s belief with self-erected flags, walls that shroud the idea that I seek truth in my own way, believe for my self, free will. Therefore I will deal with any destruction of the individual spirit that I may have caused when I could not believe what I was hearing with my ears of disbelief. I will reckon with the damage I personally have done to my fellow kin, my brothers and sisters, the family of man, that which I caused when I brought down fists upon their doctrines of fear.

Indifference chokes on its own heavy air. I cannot be without belief and Love, they are the sustenance of eternal life. My own rage, my own pride and greed and want pushes the seeing of my heart down into the void of sightlessness. I want my spirit to dance with the spirits of those I've affected, of those I’ve hurt and those I've touched in kindness. I’ll make sure that my love honors peace, like noise honors war.

Belief needs to dance with love in order that my animal not succumb to idleness, both in thought and in motion, thinking and doing, being and believing, dancing and searching for my own individual truth and the shared spirit of Love.

Truth might in the end be unknowable, but, if I can engage the spirits that swims all around me, around the world, then I must do so without disbelief. If I focus only on the flames flickering before me and ignore the myriad of nuance within its dance (the flame of the flame), then I will do so without belief and without Love. If I truly see the stone-silent flame glistening before me, small to my corporeal eyes, yet large to my spirit, and if I engage the spirits of my fellow traveler’s, engage the soul in all living things, I can then realize that my personal anger (disbelief) cannot teach… it can only instruct.

I have my own personal weather, the space between the clouds. Might my storm give back greedily as not to take that which isn't mine? The dead ancestors; the spirit of my kind, can no more their collective howling! I must return to my quiet seeking; my footprint small, my Love enormous! My finality has surged ahead of my living, holding my hand over the mouth of creation, the breath of spirit, more like death, less than Love.

This is not new. This is not old. It is now! An inhalation beyond knowing, unknowable and laughing within the ventilator of my worship, inhaling fury with my grave and loveless cuff. My rage has settled its dust upon my spirit. Rage, which is nothing more, and nothing less, than the immense fear of that which I cannot know, of that which is not mine to bend or repeat. O! Let it come weeping with my disgrace. Bring my beast to its knees! Settle my redness with belief in Love upon the tongue of my seeking. Invoke what needs be spoken, desirous of my grasp, not that which needn't be summoned, or thought.

Let creation rise before me, ahead of my fears, and stand at the frontline of Love’s coming army, brigades free of greed, loathing and lifeless noise. Truth, which can’t or needn't be known, slings my belief into the air, falling at the foot of Heaven and with Love’s smiling pace beneath my weary feet. I must act, bring my belief to its arrogant surface, that it might breathe the whole of my conviction. Let this; my surrender, usher in creation’s waiting Love.

What the mind of man can conceive and believe, the mind of man can achieve.
__Napoleon Hill

Belief suffers at my own hand. It grips the trigger of my demise with the brace of the jackal’s maw that stalks Love’s affection. My mind, the one of my kind, with its wide storm puncturing the veins of an arid blood, cannot imagine a truth that bows to Love or that dreams of joy laughing with the wind.

My spirit yearns of liberty from this empty toiling, longs for escape from all of self isolation. My spirit prays that I merrily dance with the whole so that I may recall the soul's unspoken kinship. Pride, greed, hatred, cruelty, envy and deceit are the skilled assassins with their crosses aimed at Love and it is only belief that can conquer the will. The rigid ego's howling is nothing more than the talons of selfish doctrines enslaving the whole of spirit.

I can summon the belated sorrow from my bones and struggle to weep for the spirit’s arid demise as the spirit longs only to be loved and received for its private music, its uniqueness, its freedom.

It is the belief in a power larger than myself and other than myself which allows me to venture into the unknown and even the unknowable. -Maya Angelou

Again, if I’m sightless to the inherent disbelief found in the unknowable conclusion of truth, then what I imagine I know, without further seeking, can neither be love nor creation.

What of that? Might reason acknowledge it as truth? Is it exactness, as far as any truth might be known? And is it mine to share with the world, mine to give away without the barbs of intolerance or the burden of pride to those seeking?

It is yours...

Perhaps I can if I’ll but empty it of any words or ideas that act as chains upon the collective spirit, if I’ll avoid any influence that pins down my thoughts or attempts to choke out Love with the ego’s dim-grown intolerance. The deafness found stirring inside of the noise-making, screeching it’s putrid grimness lined in shrill deceit, is simply a numbness to the natural rhythms of sound.

If I could but just be, instead of meandering in the ether and usher in the exchange of spirit so I can begin the waltz of Love with a newness, with purpose as partner, then I may not be as exhausted by the mad work of giving my mind away.

Preamble:
When the sky had felled its rainbow my mind’s eye could then see, what a moment before, it could not…

The beams of light that danced of this, drained the ego and revealed my truth; the spirit and life of creation; Love…

As this thought reared in turn another, I pushed against it, that it might wait, allow me time to catch my breath…

Chorus:
“Do not imagine an outcome! Act! Your thoughts are strangling Love! Belief is all you’ll ever know.”

But my thoughts are my belief…

“Your thoughts are merely noise, it’s your belief that uncovers Love! If it were only your thoughts that made belief, you and you alone would be Love.”

But we’re all a part of Love...

"Yes, but not without the whole, for Love cannot be divided as land. Creation cannot be at odds with itself, it breathes as one, all, not some or none, but every part, all things, pure Love."

I pray every day!

“Wonderful! But when you pray in honesty to creation, to Love, without want or control (which you’ve none), then, and only then, might your eyes begin to see.”

Books tell me otherwise!

“Do not toy with Love as if it’s yours to spin, it isn’t and never will be, not until you love without thought…”

~

One:
Last night I had a conversation with a kindred spirit, and the night before and the night before that, as it’s been now for many days. I prayed for the answers to my exhausting riddle, just as I had the previous night and each time I was greeted by silence. I concluded that I needn't know what I couldn’t know. Then the light flickered long and bright and I realized that I was wrong. I must know Love. Creation requires it of me, demands that I seek it, that I search for answers, otherwise, I’m empty and unknown…

“You must yearn before you learn.”

Yes! I must attempt to discern Love to its very fullness, doing so will make my seeking and my purpose true.

Two:
My journey to belief began at birth. If anyone’s hindered the growth of my precious spirit, they've hindered the fullness of Love. If I do not embrace Love, I will never know that Heaven is indeed where I am…

“Sightlessness is an abomination to love.”

Three:
Do I really long to leave life’s dominion? Why? Could it be that I am trying to escape the collective truth, flee from the spirit as if it were flawed at inception? If the original gift, creation’s masterpiece, Love, is what I've concluded I've need of escaping, imagine what waits upon my lovelessness? That, my brothers and sisters, is the one question I’ll not pray to know…

“Pray you never.”

Four:
If belief, the most precious of journeys, begins at birth’s inception and then, if I feel I can cease my walk because I imagine I’ve figured it all out, or I attempt to make a doctrine of my thought, then I’ll know neither belief nor myself and Love will forsake me...

Chorus:
“If you think you have belief pegged, you’ll soon find that you’re blind. If you’re sightless to the inherent disbelief found in the unknowable conclusion of truth, then what you imagine you know, without further seeking, is neither creation... nor Love.”

Most loving, I would say of you,
And goodness and divine spirit,
Mother, friend and healer,
An inner peace in full bloom!

I traced my steps and fell into you

Like a cavern fashioned of joy.
Old medicine held by your heart
Vibrated blooms from every side,
Each intended to be given away,

Yet returned with the breath of Love.
Oh, Mama, I’ve loved you for eternity
Undulating delight at your creation…

If I come into a belief, which is only mine, not theirs, nor yours, but a private diary, and cross the threshold with great passion, will I still believe when the sword’s are drawn? Might grace enter downstage and speak, or will rage stumble on and pierce the air? Might Love’s aria wag her tender tongue, or will she draw her breath from selfish prayer? If I come to faith pleading upon my knees, might I witness humility groveling before me? O! I cannot know! I can only begin my walk…

Muslim group: two imams pulled from plane bound for North Carolina
Thump, thump, thump stays my green rhythm as the wits usher in my red and howling belief.

Haven’t I the growling stomach as fear’s signal? When did my empathy cease the thump of Love?

My laughter too must have been ushered away as a terrorist in wait, slumped over aisles of fear.

Bin Laden "may have lived in Pakistan for over 7 years"
Seventh heaven and its virgin escape was thwarted by my assassin’s grip; finger firm, eye on death, wits delayed, my vow with the living’s undying death, a grand wedding befitting a mortal king…

Mississippi River reaching record levels
Higher! O! Higher still! Up, up and away! Dampen my Love, but do not wash it out or measure its depth, for I am afraid these, my words, might miss their mark. Come muse! Flow tenderly over my worship, not as a foul curse, but a curving stream with my heart and death between.

Military families have paid in hunt for bin Laden
The price was steep for all. Death, not being the end, has been held nearest my decay, nearest my trust in imagination.

The hunt’s been on for Love. Fears most-wanted poster seeking out a most-wanted certainty that, in my aim, will dearly pay.

I am flawed, like he, like she, like we, an ancient plan, a map meant for me. My walk, my embrace of creation, of Love, has led me here, to me, to I, to self. O might I see! Might I sense the moment my curtain begins to drop upon this; my final act? Only my actions can conclude this tragicomedy that’s raging center stage.

Then what should I do? How should I begin? Will it arrive in me like an old and familiar song that swims in the spirit of all living things or might it come as a flood that tears down walls? The how, when, where, what, why and who truly matters least to my affections, to creation. I must embrace the darkness as well as the light and weave them into my waiting Love.

Truth, to me, can only be found when I accept my fellow travelers and their particular faith. Without individual belief I'd cease to be, no longer rising with joy as I move among my kith and kin. Let my embrace be free of any insecurity or greed. Instead, permit it breathe with an untainted kindness like a newborn’s purity and with laughter at play in my heart. Yes! I have realized my truth and carved out deceit!

Goodness is permeating across the globe. Love as a collective consciousness is in full bloom. It's up to me what I permeate, what I put out, what I give. If my belief permeates noise and suffering and fear and anguish, then I will surely reap what I alone have sewn.

Today it is evident, if I choose to see, and I have, that hard on the heels of all unrest is an illuminating resurgence of pure Love. If I’ll embrace this mystifying affection, accept it as a personal truth and begin my walk with Love, without prejudice, without judgment, I’ll begin to see this; my newfound purpose, my freshly risen consciousness, an innate and inextinguishable Love resonating and returning tenfold carrying the familiar blooms of goodness.

Love blossoms no less than a carefully tended houseplant or a child wrapped in a mother and father’s embrace. Love is a natural growth, stunted only by disbelief, by arrogance, by following without truly joining its affection. The inheritors of Heaven must love... without end...

I’m being called to write this. It is not mine to keep. I would prove a coward and a hypocrite if I held it only for me.

The veil has been lifted and now I see. Noise, that I alone placed upon my cherished mask, proved too heavy to lift in my blindness. This plane of existence freely breathes with Love and Life and I can realize it if I but recognize my purpose. My motive should be love, the love of all singular belief and the love for all brothers and sisters, for kinship. I will love all and I will be a thoughtful steward, that eternal life might persist with me at hand. I cherish my individual thought, as it should be, so the collective spirit might thrive in my absence and, in turn, assure the communal spirit’s eternity.

I’m being called to write this. It is not mine to keep, it belongs to me, but is not of me, it is mine, but it is also the mountains, the trees, the animals and the spirits. It is mine to shape, mine to hold, to share, but not mine to demand. We’ve each our own faith to freely shape as we alone believe.

Chimpanzees are self-aware and can anticipate the impact of their actions on the environment around them, an ability once thought to be uniquely human, according to a study released Wednesday.

The findings, reported in the Proceedings of the Royal Society B, challenge assumptions about the boundary between human and non-human, and shed light on the evolutionary origins of consciousness, the researchers said.

Earlier research had demonstrated the capacity of several species of primates, as well as dolphins, to recognize themselves in a mirror, suggesting a fairly sophisticated sense of self. (More at Discovery News...)

I am primate!
My footprint shrinks as my mind expands without the consent of my opposing thumbs. A most welcome relent.

I am primate!
My love for you and you and you and they and we and the multitude of spirit dancing under Love’s ovation comes with an unspoken certainty.

I am primate!
A strobe light of perception, the sun’s on hold with my affection calling for Love’s fervent reception and the Great Grandmother’s conception of life’s incredible misdirection.

I am primate!
The Grandmother’s singular nature, my music lesson upon the mantle, shared tides shaping an unknown likeness behind my mask, ready in spite of me, animal and Love known to my stride.

I am primate!
O! The Mother! The audacity of my nakedness inside my thread barren words. Yes, truth! Yes, kinship! Yes, love! It's the dance I’ve been preparing for, a oneness upon a selfless stage.

After hearing the news of Usama bin Laden's death a child asks: Does this mean the wars are over? 


No, my child. No.

War has not been murdered, only agitated next to its grief. War needs its clatter of heaping death; a permanence feeding off the fresh fears held dear by a quivering flock.

War dresses as if it’s a great lover; a Don Juan looking for its next victim, wishing to remain the world’s top assassin, purged only as Love hauls it away. War, my dear child, aimlessly hordes flesh and bone; a marriage in disarray, bodies strewn about as if the sacred ground were an over-sized and filth-ridden couch, destruction, its violent spouse.

Enough! Cease thy celebration of defeat! Bring around the desiccated love-blooms, sentiments of a shadowy reverence, carting in more darkness than illumination…

Enough! Cease thy celebration of defeat! Usher in the loud wounds and thoughts, exhale narrow prayers within the sky, like war-games strafing the surface of the sun…

Enough! Cease thy celebration of defeat! Draw out the defamed blood from the veins of steel and warfare, allow it to inhale no more, to finish its ache and ashen rhyme…

Enough! Cease thy celebration of defeat! Summon the dogs of war from their musty grotto, prop their rigid hands up to surrender, in recognition of kinship to one another…

Enough! Cease thy celebration of defeat! Down, long before the count, one, two- Time’s up! Stumble now for meaning, for reason, for truth to wrap me safely away before collapse…

Tick tock, “USA”! Thunder rumble, boom boom!

As I sauntered amid the ruins of war, one eye on my back, the other under the bed, my child cried its colors, “Nevermore!”. Horror sent legions of the angry up into the sky, then sandward fell the fear-tipped beams of dread upon a whole host of hands wearing peace like a ring.

From a shadowy crag and through the head the deed’s been done; a casualty of the countless rings out! The bogeyman sleeps! Death reigns supreme! Noise trumped sound, hatred more than Love, battle before breath, madness, reason, deceit smothered truth. Bitter revenge plummeted sandward, another death among the half-living... O breathe creation’s mist into these; my tainted lungs, cloaks of complicity settling a bar tab made of flesh…

Buried beneath my observance lies a most improbable spirit, tightly masked with goodness, seeds sown in the eager ground, yet drained of a verdict.

The raw soil expects my naked descent, true kinship above all else and free of the unyielding crypt, that I might befall eternal life.

South mourns victims of deadly tornadoes
Growl and rumble! Carry away the shells to join this; the song of life; melodic sprouts to water and feed, nourish with Love over belief…

Libya says Gaddafi survives air strikes, but son killed
Let me howl and roar above the falling metal, scream and cry over such mortal loathing that infinite voices might join with me, wed with my brothers and sisters, and unite in reason the cause of one…

Super-Civilization Might Live Off Black Holes
As a child, I imagined myself a Superman with cape and glove, an alien saving man from himself, me from me, from man’s want to split, divide and murder Love. But, might I live upon the cusp of imagination and cease my account with any certainty?