Zero requires no hero

To merge with nothing,
to clash with nothing,
to move with nothing,
to crash with nothing
-this is the way of nothing.

Nothing,
wounds and mends,
catalyses,terminates,
adores and abhors
the way is to embrace nothing.

Regard your reflection
and nothing reflects you.
Proclaim your doctrine
and nothing carries the sound.
Attend to me and I and thou
and together we render nothing.
For nothing is everything
while essentially nothing.

Nothing was dying and nothing
showed up for nothings last breath.
Nothing was born and nothing
showed up for nothings first breath.

Alas, nothing was nothing.
Hail, nothing is nothing.
Amen, nothing on nothing.

I shall pay no homage to any deity,
or submit to any me other than Thee
for the ultimate reality is nothing.

When you are marooned in time
quicksand space, without an ace
to play, reason and rhyme fled
remember nothing is the matter.

When you forgot that you forgot,
and revel to reject, completely drunk
slurring you no longer fucking care,
remember nothing was the imbibed spirit.

Nothing sows, nothing reaps,
and states –all that just passed
a mere lusting for significance.
Bon voyage my sometimes friend
see what you are not
and the more we can be.

BoUnCiNg

I recall the procession of my incarnation attempts to remake the self.

Hosting the past in the present I see significant spacetimes where peak panic points shook my definition of what is me. I see the attempts to manufacture a semblance of wholeness by covering the uncertainty with a reloaded incarnation.

As the Preacher said it was all vanity upon vanity, the remaking of the incarnation were desperate deflections from reality and the recognition of mortality.
Life I accept! Love I accept!

Seeing my significance loosens the past loop energy blockage that reinforced the past existence. Attending to my breath as I engage in the locked energy of the past I begin to awaken.

In tempo to the awakening a counter beat pulses reasons to escape from the engaging. To speak of these deeply embedded circuits catalyzes distractions to deflect the pilgrimage to Sublime.

“For god’s sake,” Pride shouts- “there is nothing wrong with us! Are we not made in the Maker’s image? Stop, this incessant looking everything is fine.”

If I listen and do not interrupt the sale pitch I hear the shaky voice, the dissonant breath, the sweating forehead and see that Pride is terrified!

Ah fear! That fear!

Ah that fear of fear!

THE END

Reluctant

I revolved away,
as I approached.
I revolted away,
as i embraced.

I gushed at
your presence,
pined over your
absence -
molecules melting
while feigning
indifference.

I waited idling
my time
with decore
and design,
spotted my why
and sighed.

I attended,
splendour and rage,
a pause
wonder and dismay,
another clause.

I stumbled
into the frigid eve
trekked the full moon
to the wine-seller's den.

Folding time
bending space,
shutting the ears
viewing the expo
within the whirling.

Once upon a time,
just yesterday
I fell in a trance
and though
so dearly
i adore
with you
I dare
not dance.

If I did not
already say
goodbye
to all that
there would have been
quite a spat between
me and me over thee.

The sun went down,
the moon trumped Saturn.

I turned
as I yearned,
but I did turn
so so
so so

reluctantly

Character Cafe

I pull from my satchel my story notebook and my poetry notebook and place them on the table. I then scan my pens and think which color would be optimal in this session. Green is the choice, no red- so red ink it shall be! My poetry book is green, my storybook is orange, and my sweater is green so I may as well go orange in leaf. A story it shall be, orange you excited.

I sip my coffee while contemplating a theme of this rite-ing riff. Toronto which to it’s’ citizen is the Metropolis, which is one of the most blah blah multicultural blah blah in the world. If it is Metropolis where is Superman? What about a tale about an immigrant coming to a big city from the small town somewhere and hating it or loving it. I am jesting, that theme does not work in this space. Valentine Day is coming up why not a love story? He meets a she and together they encountered …. Cut! Last time I attempted to create a story the characters were demanding physical features, personal quirks and stuff like that. Been there, done that, finding it quite trite. What about a tale about a menacing menace stalking a timid mouse? The mouse can not find refuge in the kindness of a stranger so the rodent is forced to become a roaring tiger and becomes a beacon of the community.
"Hey, what are you writing, writing guy," asks an annoying acquaintance?

I should be at home attempting to work on this, yet here I am in a coffee shop. If you were sitting in a cafe looking like you are doing something intently, I would not impinge on your personal space. If you were twirling a pen, or tapping to the cafe's music, or playing with your hair, or your eyes are flagging you need attention- I would say hey. Well long as you are not him! If you offer one word to him you get blasted with words until the next Big Bang. I am pretending to be absorbed in this creative act. Writing in spite of the fact that nothing is happening. If I persevere eventually he will exit from the suburbs of my space.

"Writing guy, what are you writing," annoying one asks annoyingly again?

"I am combining letters, with periods, with commas, and with space and run on sentences," I force out.

"It is like Sci-Fi, Cosmic! "

"Actually it is much more macabre! Fate farted on my protagonist, and he is being stalked by an underemployed irritant."

"Why are you writing in Second Cup, are you getting a sponsorship," he asks?

"Would you prefer Tim Horton's?"

"Well, whatever rolls up your rim, W.G.," he laughingly says with a drum roll of ha-ha’s
Sobering up he asks me, "Why are you so controlling?"

It is a time like this when having a dark complexion is a grand ally. I am quite pissed off now and if I were paler the red rage flush would be noted. "What do you mean controlling?"

"Well in your stories the characters have minimal dialogue. You spend most of the time telling us what they say but rarely do they speak for themselves. I have heard you speak outside of this story, and you are for the most part trying not to hear and trying not to speak. When you are you in a story you say the character felt this and that and all the nuances revolving around this and that. Why can't you say, the character said quote XYZ unquote? Even God is less controlling than you are."

"Listen, I am quite ungrateful for your faux insights! I have an issue with bantering, so stop bantering!" I want to shout but this being a corporate public space would make me a red-faced donkey.

"Am I going to be in our story?"

"Hell, No!"

"Good! Not only are you controlling, but you are alienating."

"What, labeled,"  I say getting angrier?
"Look - what are you doing right now? Have you given me a name yet or am I generic he? I am removing your man purse off the chair opposite you and we shall chat."

I look at him and scroll through my mind seeking its name. "Robert," I say, "your name which I do know is not in this story. It is all about me." I regally sip from my cardboard cup while giving him ’you are below me’ look.

"Can I look at your story about us?"

"No, you can not! You should consider wandering off, I am certain there is a paranoia symposium at Seekers Books! Come to think of it, how can you go all deconstructionalist on my writing when I never shared my fiction with you?"

"Here we go again, petty creator playing omniscient God. You create all manifestations on your pages and judge the terrain good or bad. What about the characters? Is the world but a stage? Perhaps you have god envy? On a bigger scale you are not even a flake of dandruff on a louse nested in the hair of an x-rated film extra. Do these characters give their permission to be used?"

"Hello, this is what we call fiction, so ease up on the friction. You do realize I have an impingement policy- if someone distracts me they must pay. The cost of the ticket is a cappuccino. Ante up or exit!"

"I have no problem with that - can you spot me a fiver?"

"You are not seeing what I am saying, umm Robert."

"How would I see what you are saying if you refuse to let me see what you are telling me to say?"

"You are not real!"

"And you believe you are?"

"I create, thus I have little time to believe! I am quite firm in this creed!"

"To create require belief, or you would have zero time for composing. You would be awe struck at every fresh moment and would not climb into time to capture something imaginary."

"What do you think you are doing Rob?"

"The question would have more clarity, if you say -Rob is now thinking..."

"You are deranged! Who do you think you are?"

"I am not certain who I may be? Where are you going to move me next? I may be able to respond if you provide me with a cheat sheet. "

"Robert, what are you saying?"

"You have been writing and because you are deprived of any real life observation - created me. Not only are you controlling but in denial, - abstractionalist guy. "

"If you are my character, why are you annoying me?"

"I guess you subscribed to an annoying stance and I became your manifestation," said my maybe Robert.

"Well Rob if this is case I quit! I am the character, you are the writer."

I, Rob pause, rub my beardless chin and decide the narrator is not my cardboard cup of green tea and switch to a poem.

Crystallized in space, there a life pretend
an unknown face - this façade should end.

What explanation?

“What can explain this diversity? Beauty of movement, of gesture, of feature, of expression, of voice, - all escape explanation, which is indeed but a limited thing.”

- Hazrat Inayat Khan

“Ideals are made by the diverse imagination of men, and therefore ideals differ; but to hold the ideal is the work of the heart – that unchanging heart which contains reason, and is greater than reason, even as a hand is greater than one of its fingers.”

- Hazrat Inayat Khan

collage poem, limited words for a wide yellow space

collage poem, limited words in a wide blue space