Fleeting thoughts
Allowing everything to blow away like morning wind
Man of few words, says the observer telling tales — inspiring others to see what not ought to stranglehold — taking us straight to the bottom of the sea. Visionary, he declared, judged by a jury and populous of unbeknownst words flowing without any gathered thought.
Trapped temporarily in black and white painted realities, a lifetime of climbing — Mt. Everest base camp is not high enough for reaching soul. Nearer and nearer, goals persistent draw to summits calling winds — of change inner and outer perceptual understanding’s golden stamp.
Chapters shorter, fusing various collective storylines — canvas breathing into an epic tale of nothingness and everything in between. Observer, observing the observer, becoming the observed — vast universal insufflation — filling lungs — the breath of life spilling words into one.
Nature’s nectar singing — roots digging deeper into the sand of time — no longer running out but gathering inwardly songs reverberation carried tunes. Pointed fingers — mirrored reflecting childhood bringing the observer inward yet again.
Single breath — pooling energies in solar plexus’ transmuting — gathered collective belief — releasing all there ever was and what may be — returning to emptiness — the vastness of thought ranging infinitely. Breathing out wounded souls — songs remaining battlefields, bloodstained kisses of naysayers and bell curves where others remain.
Johnny hour stomp’s, mistranslated Bron-Y-Aur clapping along to limited and country lanes, calling my name. Centered on self — higher purpose presenting — no longer messing around with those brick walls — singing a songbird’s song calling your name.
Infinite gratitude for lessons touch — passing through heavy pulls — releasing another ancient song of trickster’s playful disguise. Toe-tapping, the body, actively moving through another town shadowed by the ecliptic moon.
Attentive ear — man of few words, fleeting and passing winds escaping thee.
~Ani Po
Man of few words is recently heard from a friend describing me — what used to be a chatterbox of stories and being the center of attention. I smile, reflecting on the recent events, often described as collective thought, with accusations still flying my way — raising my voice far from it, just another finger-pointing at my re-evaluating inner knowing of who I am and where I ought to be. Right here, as always present in being.
Loop pedal activated for the first time in a while, Bron-Y-Aur stomp taking me into a world of knowing and unknowing. Regurgitating words or smiling — breathing life itself — creating a new galaxy of thought.
Telling my story or walking my talk — self-guided meditation in every step — a man of few words.
Here is a video of my loop pedal calling my name. I share this song, as the Mofo Bros have asked me to stomp and clap along.
