Coma-passion

Passion is driving the goalie to unblock and let it pass
i have passion for writing and the net is open
but i still need a goalie to wave their arms in front of my face
directing me giving me a target to aim for
goalies in life's mind are gatekeepers
and we must feed them well or they wander off looking for something
to kick around, to stir us up
sometimes its inflammation we can not control
because we have not found the blade of grass torn by the goalies cleats

but i am aware of their presence 
but less so of their direction
as most people in life are
we walk, crawl, and moan about 
circling the infield
and sometimes wander 
into the outfield , outside the stadium 
where it is more treacherous
for there is no goal there
just empty concrete and steel 
holding forms of those things frozen in past

i walk today with head held high
and fingers on the keyboard 
 (yes it is possible to walk on your butt)
for my passion makers have guided me through my morning
rituals 

i admire those with the passion to continue on
those able to see past the obstacles
seeing that there is another path, while it is covered in fog and debris
hidden from them, they believe in the mind to create a path
draw in all the neurons to reconnect and disconnect
redirect the chemical processes to rebuild and destroy till it gets it right

its not pretty this jumbling of pursuit and the outcome may look dirty, disheartening
but it works 
in its mangles form others see as grotesques
we the gifted ones see as beauty
for we know the struggle to rebuild
and consider the rebuilding the greatest gift ever bestowed, next to that of the start of a new life
born or reborn into the world of existence 
outside of the heavens
where one is able to connect to the tangible
and not just the airiness of empty space
heaven's a lot of dark matter
dark is the description we give it here for we can not describe its beauty
since we are blinded when we become a new form

but it is still present in our heart
and about, it surges in the fingers as I type
it is there stirring up the passion
so small it can't be detected by modern machinery
and so it is written in the master plan
for if it was found , it would all have to be erased
and that would end civilization as we know it

Jasper

                                                                                                                                  
I lost a friend today
as I made my way down the highway
a fragile wing
a spinneret of mahogany and speckled cream
with the hue of a mushroom on the bark of a tree
fluttered in the wind from slowly passing cars 
little, small tufts of soft ear hairs waiting to be heard by the heavens above
the heavens cast in silver gray
holding back the tears
just as I did upon passing
Jasper was the name called out to me
Jasper the guide of the sparrows
the King to the flock of that which I belonged
Unseen to me in flesh but held in heart
now I wondered was it hawk or owl that he had taken for form
to young in his earthly body to have mastered the sail
the peril of vehicles 
that have no soul
thereby
unable to read 
cipher their position and motivation
he succumbed to the collision
of holy and none

The journal begins with a whisper

A study lesson 
In how to
Smell a flower
Immerse
Yourself  in the beam of light
That shines from the center point
Of its existence
some say this is
Where the stem meets the bud
To others its where the nectar starts to form
It does not matter 
On the precise
Location
Just focus your attention
Until you get lost
Into another world 
Where you are the bee
To the tea
Of a dew laden pot
Of shimmery gold
Quench your thirst
And drink in
Its vapors
Poured just for you 
At this moment
In time
For time stands still
For you alone
Have become one with the flower
And you bloom
And grow within the vicinity
Of its ever bursting bud
Until you become
The rain
Which brought forth
The flower
In your hand

© a, simply a