Tree||Tower

Every day I walk by,mind seemingly high,only really closed and tight,caught anxiously going rightright round and round.Circling a pool void of light,no matter my might,trapped in a panopticonof my psyche.Three walls enclosed,the fourth open to let insickly rays of thoughts from my jailer.He that I cannot see,only suspect in whispers of dreams,that present he may be, possibly,existing…conceivably.The possibility alone deterring mefrom reaching and expanding out,releasing the bars and walls captivating

Viśuddha

There exists a whirling vortex,found along a stem whose sole aspirationis to allow communication.This spiral extends the physical purposeinto a multi-dimensional function. Speak. Contact the world outside self,invite it into conversation.See, smell, hear, taste, touch; exchange these transmissions.A quantum presencecausing transformation by witnessing,attending this existence…this continuation.Grasping agency,generating revolution with process,deliberately conceiving and constructing reality. Utter yourself into being. Every syllable…becoming…

4 Counts to the Ledge

Roots brew, bones, and blues. Black Queen in white dress, Six-strings in a leather jacket. Four strings layin’ it down, right by the four beat settin’ the count. Murphy arranged the law, a twilight lockstep. Murphy’s son interpreted the law, revisiting implications of different vantage points. Musically structural thoughts leading to private manifestos of intention, retention, of self. Civil disobedience to social entanglements, internal conflictions with external contraptions. Circles of