Love

Love is granting another the space to be the way they are and the way they aren't.

Werner Erhard

Random Dung

Sitting here in this tepid room
trying to type, asking
where are all those
damn monkeys
when you need them?
104 keys, or more
and I don’t know
which to press first.

My muse, is she lost
or just hiding, watching
enjoying the antics and struggle.

I am sure by this my muse
must be sooo amused.

Ah the apes
give them only the letter keys.
Well also the comma and period.
Oh, and a space bar or two.

Would monkeys create
best on Qwerty
or Dvorak
Preferring one key
or it’s location to another?

Lighting sage smudge
smoke rising, dispersing
Langoliers eating away at a mindscape
of fading inspiration.

An open invitation inviting
the muses in.

Randomness,
even random number tables
are edited.

Order in our minds
found even in disorder
and chaos.

Nine muses
I want only ONE
one petit
gorgeous
lascivious
muse
coming up behind
her erect nipples grazing my shoulder
as her breathe whispers
inspiration
into my ear.

Typing in Google’s ear
“randomness”
ACCESS DENIED!
it screams, access denied.
Random acts of unkindness!
I think, even my oracle
has deserted me.

An infinite number of monkeys
typing away and out of the billions of billions of billions
Come a few words to titillate the erogenous zones
of the mind and soul.

All lost, buried under infinite piles of
monkey dung.

A few of the nine
Calliope, muse of epic poetry
Erato, of love poetry
or Polyhymnia, sacred poetry;
Ah but, today it must be
Melponene,
the muse of tragedy
who has visited my keyboard.
For the keys have wretchedly failed
to be moved by even thoughts
of hoards of defecating primates
pounding and pounding upon them.

So, wrapped in a moonless sky
of serenading stars
I take pause
exhaling passions void
as the cedars move in to
sit quietly beside me
waiting for the night’s Goddess
and her affectionate glow
to rise eagerly
over the conifer clad hills
joining us, sky clad as she is
in timeless reverie.

My Father’s God Beneath the Waves

by Jathan Gurr

Last night, among the blue dawning night,
I felt the tide coming in.
I left the warm, white-sheeted bed
and barefoot, went down to the sea.
At the water’s edge I stood,
with cold water washing my feet.
I felt watched and watching.
The moon made shapes on the dark rippling waves,
and I imagined I saw in them
the face of my father, and his father,
and out to the horizon, all the fathers before me,
who mingled their blood with the sea
and who drank salt tears,
and danced when no one was looking.
And I whispered to the god beneath the waves,
“Make me something else,…and still man.”

Turning Around Inside Myself

I don’t want to be here. I seem to remember another place. A place where what I said was understood and I could say anything I thought or felt and it was always understood as deeply as it was experienced. I remember a place where I heard what was said and it never hurt or angered me. There was no you and me, only us; we all knew each other there, deeply and completely. There were no hidden cracks and dark corners we couldn’t share. It was all a fantastic playground for us to explore and frolic in.

Some how this place is different; what I think is, never is or was. My thoughts hack away at themselves, till there is nothing recognizable anymore. My feelings always twisted and shredded remnants of what they felt themselves to be; the true, lost in chaos.

I am turning around inside myself; inside my thoughts and feelings; pulling away from them as I begin to break free and escape from my hardened cocoon; layers of thoughts and emotions, held pasted together with sweat and tears; a cocoon which has held me captive for as long as I can remember.

I can feel my wings unfurl, damp from the tears of endless sleepless nights; wings with uncertain shudders unfolding, reaching ever so slowly, hesitantly to cup tiny bits of sky. I can feel it, the butterfly, ever so faintly, fluttering inside, all the while a mirrored world still reflects the worm I felt myself to be.

A mirrored world whose mirrors are only the polished shell of, my soon to burst cocoon. I feel the wings of the butterfly; opening, butterfly wings with the strength of an eagle as it prepares to fly beyond the sky.

Slipping Away

I am falling inside myself
everything slipping away

Stars and trees
against the night sky
slipping through my eyes


Can’t hang on
crumbling grip
hands no longer mine


Everything falling up and away

Curling up into
what remains
curing into
oblivion.

Sucked into the void
awaiting rebirth

Nothing

To become nothing is to BE
To be anything is to fail
To say anything is to be misunderstood
To hear anything is to misunderstand
To do anything is to undo everything

Striving always to find
something
someplace
someone
Anything
Once found is empty

Emptiness filled
with nothing
consumed the everything
I thought I saw

A voice I heard
was nothing
there was no one there
it was nothing speaking
silence to no one
from nowhere
never ending
without beginning
no words
no voice
no song singing
nothing chiming
like silent bells
and singing lips
in a graveyard
on a moonless winters night

Nothingness
in her lightlessness
darklessness
caressed me without arms
without lips
or hips
eyes empty
empty sockets of nothingness
gazing into the urn of my soul

A sweet song sung
without music
or sound
even the silence
was swallowed

The deafening silence
was swallowed
in nothingness
and nothing remained

NOTHING of nothing
remained…

Touched by a Ghost

A video created by Chi_Shanay

Touched By A Ghost







There are those, whose only love and soulmate are not in or of this world. Who wander this world searching for those rarest of moments when they can feel their touch.

the dream of being

by Jack Haas

It would be despairing if you existed only as a character in another person’s dream, for the other would certainly want to be awakened. And yet to awaken them; would amount to your own dissolution. So you would not awaken them; you would rather exist in a dream than not exist at all. But what if this dream is a nightmare of your self? That is: would you keep them sleeping, if the dreamer dreaming your being…was you?

We dreamt that we were dreaming, and then that we were dreaming that we were dreaming, and then that the dreamer was not the dreamer but the dream. In the end there was no dreamer, only the dream of a dreamer; a dream dreaming a dreamer. We do not dream, we are dreamt. The Dream dreams the dreamer, then the dreamer dreams, and so on. The dream dreams the dreamer, the dreamer does not dream the dream.


Dream on dreamer.
You are but a dream-catcher.
And you are caught.