Monday, April 14, 2014

Guardian Angel

Half of my life is determined.
My guardian angel holds the other half in her gloved hands.
She wears white gloves. She holds the hand of the marvel child.
He makes the city shine like a baptism.
Our mission is to march into the undetermined half of my life.
The weeds of the city poke their head above the lullaby
of my existence.
They are like me asking my guardian angel for some truth.
The city is so clean that angels speak in the classrooms
when I walk the streets.
A plastic bag caught in the wind is a moving film.
I want only enough necessities to leave room for my spirit.

This clean city of driftwood is asking for some beach junk.
I know it's not the nicest name to call the soul,
but I am a man who needs to wash up on a strange
and unfamiliar shore.
The tidal pull of the moon finds me in love
with the little that has been given me.
I walk away from the throne with a fingerprint. Only you,
guardian spirit, reach down your gloved hand and identify me.
You hold my fate in your pure hands.

You are closer to the center when you enter the labyrinth
than at any other point inside the maze.
Plato said we choose our parents. Providence is adjusted.
We arrest our parents in the wake of their lives.
We greet each other with many teachers and few reservations.
A broken heart is our only proof that quality exists.

Our guardian angel has been with us since the beginning.
She lines up our destiny in times of doubt.
She sounds out our names so we can wear them more easily.
Character pastures down into our service
so we may experience all seasons of humanity.

I need to feel the grit of existence on a country road.
I still need to be handled gently, but I need some music
with a grungy beat.
I am checking onto a flight with grubby clothes
and unwashed cheeks.
I am landing in an over stimulated city unwashed in its character.
I am kneeling before a cow in the public space.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

The Inner Frontier

The treasure is stored up in what the world sees.
Now, doesn't that forecast something not so rosy
going on in the inside.
Let us look at the outward appearance as a handsome picture.
It is our only means to get at the heart. I travel a footstep
into the inner frontier by making a copy of the pleasant exterior.
This demands some painstaking observation.
I complete a fairly accurate rendition of the rosy exterior,
but I am still far from the heart. So I set myself up again to make
a copy of a copy.
I have heard of Walter Benjamin, but I'm striking out on
a new theory. A copy of a copy is movement from the exterior
going inward. In the latter half of this poem (or prose piece)
I talk about a movement in the opposite direction, from the essence
to the outer hallways of character.   
I hope to eventually lay the image you see me for onto the wall
of my inner chamber.
The copies deteriorate as I get closer to the heart.
They fade away from observation before even reaching the sanctuary.
This is what comes of painting the best work on the exterior.
We are busy grooming the appearance. I would otherwise
be a low-functioning self, much less adept than the character
who deals with reality. Now what if I begin at the other extreme?
Take no pride in appearance.
Reach out into the frontier without the necessity
of making one fake after another.
My bravery is rewarded. I do not need the copied pictures on the wall
to guide me into the center of the house.
I walk empty handed into the inner chamber. Much to my surprise,
a beautiful original hangs above the fireplace. It is the essence
I have so long tried to put into words. The fire crackles,
and finally I feel at home. I feel at peace in a huge building
as an imageless function. My image, which I know to be true,
is ever so slowly emitting light. It bathes the immediate exterior
with a soft illumination. Now that glow takes on a life of its own.
It advances through the characterless hallways, giving them color.
It is a hue with origins from a picture that was complete,
even while I was in search of it. Now that I have verified its existence,
it exerts its life on the museum that unfolds as I sit
before the crackling fireplace.