I am my own
eye sore for looking,
my own touch
returning as distain,
my own paradox of embrace.
What I breathe in,
never leaves me cleanly.
What I say as will
comes back to be haunt.
Where there is bother
I am bound as a listener.
What is cruel around
fills me with sacred nod.
Blasphemy prays without victims
from deep within me.
Deluge affirms me
by its inward calling.
Disaster is my sweet science
of sanctified regard.
God is a mind state
yet directly unrealized.
I am predicaments
yet without cause.
I am a broad wick
somehow constantly on fire,
burning away all of the wax
that keeps me sane.
Meaning for me
is as liquid exists
until the paint of it dries.
Then as flat face fixtures
these symbols do somehow transcend.
It is a hall of mirrors
that only reflects sheen.
Tears are my joyful slip n slide
down from these calamities.
Yet joy, simple joyless joy for me,
never has an outcome.
It just gives me a permission
to engage from the light within
with whatever these initial offerings
may give as appearances in dismay.
Such is the work of joyless joy . . .
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