Inner Chant...

 Initiative needs no audience, in fact, it needs nothing but itself.

Distraction is a contemptuous sea where indulgence has no shortage of swimmers.

Which of the two will occupy and determine the course of life?

To be aware of both is half the game. To stay put the tentacles of inaction

Is often not a goal for the mind built of entitlement, built of sloth, built of the weak.

I see no strength in weakness. I do not associate the necessity of such to get ahead.

To be weak is to give up. To be weak is to complain. To be weak is to accept defeat.

Defeated people eat gobs of their misery, they cannot get enough of it.

They will offer it up, of this - they will love to share. To be heard is to be loved.

To be listened to- is care. To listen without prejudice and hear without helpful advising

Is equally weak. 

Love and care contain constructive aids that are to be distributed as needed.

"Who am I, Darlin, to ya? Who am I...?" - BH

What constitutes these thoughts? That comprise who I am into the toughness that I understand?

By which design and whose measure did I come to be this way? The spirit dictates?

The Soul? Are they one in the same? Are they separate? Do they deliberate?

These facets of being, they have been with me, built into me- existed from the start.

I think far back and can still conjure early feelings and the notion of 'why?'

Young in California, yet able to remember the purposeful finagling of internal fear.

Seeds planted to a core that was unsure. To take the 'why' and analyze it, quietly.

Keeping love and care at the center of all focus, regardless of how confused I became.

The years have laid upon themselves in succession in such a way that I can look back now

Proud of the avenues traveled and able to rationalize the 'how and why'. 

The grip of the grist and the trimming of juicy fat have been taught to know their place.

To be given due is the best and perhaps only way to get past 'uncomfortable'

Heated beings that spend time listening to their core become better managers of their life.

I hear the noise and recognize the chaos of everythingtryingtodistractandimpugnme

And I leave it where it is- outside the perimeter of my vulnerability. 

After nearly 49 years of existence, I am a strong, capable, caring, intelligent and honest fighter.

Life IS strategy. There are hurdles that arise both naturally and planted.

If I lack the wherewithal to fight, how will I get to the other side to love and care for anyone?

Least of all - myself?

The skin is thick, the sensitivities are protected, the lessons learned are respected.

I suit up each day, in varying degrees of priority, ready to tackle the now and the future.

I want this life. I want it all. I will earn the inner and outer bruising that comes with territory.

If we don't understand the balance, we are only half alive.

Chosen Hues...

 Heated Thursday, with appropriate amounts of strain and pressure.

How do we live well if there is no path worth learning?

It is more than resistance; it is the ease with which to fall back

And languish in the lax of 'nothing' that entices too many into inactivity.

Days pass, I look out the window, and see the sky, thankful for its consistency.

It is my job to do the changing, to recognize the beauty and MOVE towards 'worth'.

That future windowsill, I imagined her again this morning, 

And how intuitively great it already feels to know that in the future, she will be mine. 

Mine to arrange and dust when needed, and to look out of, into that vast Southwest Glory

To see future skies from her glazed gaze, and smile in gratitude

At the whim of a dream and the action taken- to grasp and control enough

To make what I wanted - mine.

Tabletop Possessions

 Pinch of iniquities, cramp the days

The torment of shallow beliefs clings thickly to impressionable ignorance.

This, the reason for 'off the grid' living.

These inanimate objects that crowd around me

Hold varying degrees of value as I conceptualize my future.

Pruning of memories is inevitable, while I gauge the worth of attachments

That may or may not, make it through this transition.

Taos, firmly planted into my psyche, perpetually enticed 

To return there and traipse the land long enough to pick over trails

And commit them to memory.

The washing of slate has begun.

As that action performs its magic, mental limbo twists and turns

Bound by the need to chase inertia into safe corners

To breed more doubt and insecurity. I feel the resistance to change

And ante up my resilience. Fuck monotony and the hamster wheel it cruises in.

My dreams demand much of me and I honor that call.

There were sacrifices that came before my name was first spoken,

And to their due, I will not be remiss in their payment.

This life is built for creation.

Soul Shitter

 Gall. Your gall, it behooves me.

The mud of your own incandescence emits misery.

Shame rides high but hides poorly, you, smoked out of your comfy hole.

I would say "How dare you?" But I am aware of your dare.

Cultivating resentment for the recognition you assign to others

When the results you seek are theirs. Blech.

Shame too, as such a statuesque being could still, reconfigure his course

But no, not you, you clutch too closely, to the malignancy of your making.

Years of regard for you, discarded to the shitter.

What you really crave, I suspect, is to be slapped for all your smugness.

I used to desire time alone with you, to open and welcome the whole of your mind

The blowhole of your bitterness has replaced the idea of you and the muse in you.

You, my friend, scream silently of an urgency to be cracked. 

Cracked from the caked on lethargy that you alone, have slopped on thick. 

From rebellion to resignation, where did the gorgeous fire in you - go wrong?

For more than 20 years I contemplated that talk between us. How little I knew you.

Open your carcass wholly; expose the desiccant of regrets that you harbor

In exchange for some moisture, to lubricate and sweeten your soul.

You have been  a monolith of consideration in my life from the time we first met.

The intoxicating inhalation of the young you - I could not get enough of.

And your lack of risk for worthier outcomes has destroyed the man in you.

I have no interest anymore to engage you as you navigate your case through bared teeth

That shit gets old, repugnant, putrid. Your ping into the atmosphere is expiring

Lacking all effort which will lead to the eventual outcome of zilch.

To have loved you so long and unfortunately, long enough to see you rot

I debate within as to whether or not I should give a fuck about the status of our friendship.

Or perhaps I would be better off utilizing you as a powerful lump to launch off

Into greater positioning where I can claim that the "mercy" of your back has afforded me opportunity?

Your patronization of powerful females that keep their eyes on the prize, needs muting.

And for the record, that exceptional being that you so carefully continue to 'remind' me of

Would die a second time - if she knew of your willingness to use her tenderness to demean strength.

Until next time, fuck you. Your 'wolf in sheep's clothing' attire is grossly ill-fitting.

Bulky Pages

 The repetition has begun to denounce nearly all former points.

Tis a sin to read, and reread of years past and their resolute points..

A-ha! Here I am again, beginning with an intro to open again that door

That spells the same message. The trade, the worth, the wait - but wait!?

Show me the twist! Am I now catering to more of the same?

Or when, upon when, upon the when of fucking whens, will I build anew?

In the flux, the ease of known patterns continues to wrestle for the lead.

No. 

Dear red Moleskin, your intentions have held strong, your bulky pages

Do beckon for more seawater and gouache swirl. Your dried captions

Entertain me further. This time; this now; this outcome; structure loosely

A life of firm sound, built away from the bulk of these musings.

It is as if the ether has layers that are now exposed to me;

And the where to from here requires that I peel those layers apart

And climb right in - to the life that now presents itself.

50 soon. One last year for forty. To untie, unravel and eradicate monotony.

It is courageous to open this mouth and with fluid intention

Speak of the life I want. The life I am willing to build. The opening of 

Good futures. Grand canvases are touched and handled with care

Often, and again, and often even more. Pushed, adjusted, hung, examined.

I have catered to intensity my whole life. I have controlled what I could

To accentuate secure outcomes, and I have done this well.

This new Season is forming. This next phase is determined. 

Empowered enough to take the echo of all I have been exposed to

And rocket my way to something stronger, heartier, healthier, warmer

Loved in ways that are without limit, and felt with ease.

High

 Attempting to reconnect to that stream

Of consciousness that hits each time a pen is

Impossible.

Thinking hard to reclaim nodes that poked out freely

When once my mind lifts off and away from stationary noise.

Who I am when I sit away from myself,

JBP suggests to watch myself and see how it is I navigate

The life I am living. He is now my Muse.

Everything that pushes out from behind his blood and bones

Is the absolute stuff that Heavenly Dreams are made of.

His is ether talk made simple.

None to this point in time in my entire life

Has ever pierced through to the recess of what is deeply felt

In the manner that this man has.

Ethos, Pathos, Logos.

Smooth intensity. Aggressive confidence.

Intentional restraint, and deliciously persuasive.

It doesn't take much to listen and swoon and gel to the nines.

This man is The Highest High.

A Sampling

 Thursday has noise, and much of it is Beautiful.

My son walks to commemorate his graduation from high school.

A milestone event in his life that he accomplished a year early!

Jack Be Nimble! Jack Be Quick!! 

Jack follows dreams- And the results- They stick!!!

I am blessed to no end with my glorious brood.

We have among our ranks - 4 Artists: who operate 

At Fine Artist levels........ Ode to Joy for me, as their Mother!

We have 2 future bilinguals in our midst; Japanese is their choice!

We have a singer/songwriter who plays guitar and piano....

And on evenings rare, I have been witness to the beauty of her

Spontaneous instrumental creations!

The scholar in our midst has a mind in overdrive

It is a wonder her head can contain all that transpires there.

Art, in so many forms, practiced; Spiritual practitioner

Stones; Tarot; Meditation; Writing; Digital; Tactile... 

It seems to name all, a mass conceit would exist

But No. This is simply a sampling of who we are.

Independent thinkers. The world needs them to exist, and,

They need them to be backed by Accountability; Responsibility;

Empathy; Understanding; Confidence; and Willingness to 

Stand Up For What is Right. 

If we have learned anything, it is that Freedom must be

Practiced and pursued and not practiced from a place

Of submission.