fabric of space

they wore the black of night
they were dressed
in the blackness of space

within the firmament
of their clothing
the stars burned within the black

precious gems of fusion fyre
breathing forth
blessings and burning

like cosmic rhinestones bright
star studded
garments adorned with light

in their celestial eyes
glowed galaxies
resplendent irises delight

within the folds of fabric
their jewels shone
blessed black smiled back

as they danced both night and day
they were dressed
in the fabric of space

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Happy New Year 2017

Happy 2457754.5 ≤ t < 2458119.5!!! (i.e. Happy New Year 2017! (for the Gregorians))

With hopes that you have a healthful, happy, prosperous, productive, plentiful, bountiful, blessed, splendiferous, scrumdidliumptuous, super spectacular next orbit (year) ahead!

(NB: See http://www.nr.com/julian.html for a converter, or search for “Julian Day Number” if the date-time values don’t make sense. Or just ask.)

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let it rain

oh the weather out here is awesome
and some flowers are still in blossom
i shouldn’t have to explain
let it rain, let it rain, let it rain

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Why do you write?

A friend recently posted a question: “Why do you write?” Here is a copy of my reply. What about you? Why do you write?

When I meditate, I let go of my attachment to follow the would-be train of thoughts. But the sensations that could be thoughts do not cease, and are quelled not for long. 

I can relax my breathing a hold my breath for moments, but when I go about the day, my mind and breathing diverge. 

I can let my heart slow its tempo, but hopefully it does not stop for many years to come. 

I can hold my tongue for hours, or possibly be silent for days. But soon I will end up singing, or crying, or laughing, or speaking. 

When I cannot find a pen, pencil, or keyboard the words from my hands never cease for long. Writing is not merely a desire. It is a need. It is an inalienable duty of my mind and body to write, whether spelling words with my hands or feet in the air, forming written words and symbols within my mind. But before long I will caress any surface with letters and words, or write and draw in the dirt or sand. I forage for paper or cullable photons and search for a pen, pencil, or willing layer of light beneath the glass. It is an undeniable need. I must write, for the thoughts and stories, the code and poems, the software written in the wind, bubbles up from my very core and percolates through my soul. If I were to try not to write, the pressure would build up and drive me mad. 

I write because I must. To not write is a kind of death of the spirit and the mind. To write is an inalienable right. 

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i have a little window
in the corner of my room

i open it
and let its light shine through

the corner
with the window
is oft neglected
in want of mop or broom

my window is quite old
i think its glass
may be twisted
and cast a distorted hue

the window casing
may be warped
from years of weather
the frame may not be true

sometimes the things i see
are not quite what they seem
the days i open my window
are both seldom and few

i throw the window open
it’s jaded light shines through
i tilt my head to compensate
severely slanted view

the world is out of joint
the bard echoes in my mind
nay, ’tis merely my window
its perspective set askew

if only time could set it right
dispel phantom smoke and fumes
fight against the rising tide
nay, it is up to me and you

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the sixth row
simply had to go

it escaped
into the darkness
hidden in the brightness
dashed off to mission control
took off from the launchpad
the footlights went dark
the footlights went bright
back in time, it did rewind
no time to pause, there’s a game to play
it eagerly fast forwarded
into the deafening silence
just a little bit softer now
just a little bit louder now
and so it came to power

old row has been stripped
into pixie dust dipped
with beauty now is touched

let go of form and function
welcome the new era
like a cosmic conjunction

the sixth row
simply had to go
into darkness
behold the brightness
of the new highness

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all i am has been paid for
by things i have been given


all i have done
and all i have been
is my currency

but no
it is not all current

i have let go of things
left them in the past
all i have done
and all i have been
is my pastcy

my currency
does not include
wounds that have healed
all that has been forgiven
nor times i have changed my mind
lessons i have learned

all that is
ripples dissipated
on the pond of my being
my past is my pastcy

only my current
where i hold my tenancy
that is my true currency

my hopes
these dreams

all like culling credit
they are my futurecy

yet of these three
only currency truly exists

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