Purpose of Coming

There was everything and nothing in the void.

It was what Frank made it.

Do you know of this place?

                All that ever was, is, and will be of this place, I know.

                How did you come to find me?

Mind drifted.

                There is a purpose for you to have come,

                Wouldn’t you say?

Frank silently stood still.

Where do I move onto?

                Depends on where you are looking.

Well I am looking for a way out.

                There are all possible ways out.

                Your mind will escape when it can.

And my body?

                One in the same, you are made of movement.

And my soul?

                It remains yours to be, unless you have sold out. Though, the lost can be found 

                if they are in some way identifiable.

Suddenly,

Frank saw purpose in taking on the floating world

and being taken by it.

A re-vision not for change sake,

for our sake.

Rain Worms

Frank descends by the spiralling staircase to

the concrete pavement outside,

where pot holes fill with polluted rain.

Worms have gathered to splash

in shallow puddles on the sidewalk.

No one ever knew there were so many worms,

until it rained.

But, I suppose, anything can come through

all which is cracked.

Depending on the weather,

Frank is energized and exhausted by the city.

Urban disappointment has something to do with

tall buildings blocking

his natural line of horizon.

Confused by the buzz on the street,

Frank fleets

to his studio high as birds soar,

the 93^rd floor.

He dashes to the table and pulls out a blank

piece of printing paper.

He stares into the white abyss

as if he were bound for the void.

Who knows how much time

has passed just now?

The sun is shining in as bright

as the white sheet which allures him.

The warmth from the orange fiery ball

distracts his gaze from the paper

into the blaze

until the round blacks of his eyes

turn white with sun glitters.

Upon which instance,

Frank finds himself

in the void.

Tug of War

             Is there anything                  pushing in a tug of war,

 if there are two                  sides to a story

   and everyone is                  pulling for some?
Where the past has vanished                  and the future yet to come,

       is the present holding                  onto the rope of tension?

  Would a puller                  need a pusher?
                        If so, what pushes?                 If no, where are we stealing from?
Is anyone spared                  from the mud?  
Or is part of seduction               to build the strain!
       pulling to gain                pushing to drain.

An
ouroboros
wraps               around
the tree                    of life 

  gnawing on                      its own rope
pulling tail                      end closer
                  to its face               to see it is                
all just the same
circle. 

Gimmicks

They would have you be

A thousand and one things,

but that is all aside from

what you are.

As if they have somehow lost

the ability to see their own
blind to truth are those
who want to sell your dreams.

Perhaps a puppeteer is somehow a supreme god,

getting high off authority and low off the weight of others.

Others who, with out a master,

are not able to move themselves.

Gimmicks are a poor place

to start understanding

requiring the constant attraction

of fleeting attention.

So if time has you by strings,

one by one cut each lead

chained to the puppeteer’s granular hands— and see

there is no reason, martyr of time.

For you already have the occasion

the juncture, the stage,

to move in your world,

free of trap.

Greatness in the Gutters

Appearance and Speculation,

shallow ways of seeing and judging,

move on cold cement and stern faces.

Self-righteously stepping over

disintegrated gutters,

with noses held high.

Superficiality marches on bona fide means,

racing to an end that misses the point

of circles, of influence,

and of why people gather

in the first place.

Frustrated by what lies covered,

un perfumed noses see originality
passing through the drain to brittle pipelines

clogged of fruitful lovers.

There is greatness in the gutters,

accruing the undervalued,

under sung,

depth and dynamism

which noses racing to the top have forgotten. 

1572 Nostalgia

Cassiopeia remnants bursting
bittersweet symphonies
without a sound
outward for centuries,
while galaxies spiral
inward for centuries.
Bravo bold Brahé,
Renaissance relic,
catcher of a glimpse of glory.
Hurray humbling Hubble,
snapper of a shot of stardom.
Nostalgia even finds a supernova,
reminiscent icons of eons.
Fireworks attempting to emulate,
cosmic flashes of inspiration.