I trace the lines of sound becoming outer space.
I follow their paths and understand both meaning and message.
In this space that has grown with me
I am content.
Blessed is the curve at my hip as
blessed is every lonely soul.
Blessed, truly, is the addict
is the curious virgin
is the old soul moving past childhood
as the fold of the socio-cosmic sky:
blessed ye who are the drifting prophets.
Come, let us drift.
Spend on your journey nothing but the currency
of courtesy and wait for every blessing to be known you.
If there is storm, there will be comfort somewhere.
Let us not fear this task of survival.
I do not want to cripple before my body says goodbye.
Blessed is the preacher who has not taught
a single soul the lessons of god as blessed is
the one who does not Believe
though fellowship they have charmed.
Blessed, honestly, is the warlord! Our closest
human-type to god.
But blasted is the scientist.
Blasted is my intimate.
Blasted are the scorns of sleep: that my mind
is not strong enough
to stay awake.
Time is the slipperiest thing.
behind the windsheild i sit in the passengers seat and navigate.
click here to speak to me.