Feel Alive

There is a magnitude

a rushing water

where every heartbeat

is left unturned–

A flock of snowing flowers

find us there


in the cold shutters

of every hand

which was never desolate

to find rocks


upon every ground,

our ground,

the unsolid gaze

which never chanced


To rob oneself

of daylight

is forbidden

and the mystery

knows it

for it never hid

its face from your walls–

And until every stone

a memory

a thought

a pointless hour

to waste,

until every last stone


and remains,

you will never release


I, Me, Alone

Let me tell you about the people

who lived here before


they did not suffer the way you did

their stories were not as interesting

they did not have dire circumstances

they never faced hardships

they had never lost

anyone they loved

they never weeped

they never married

they never loved

they never been loved

they never died

they never died alone

they never regretted anything

they have no lessons for you

for they were never human

like you

they never opened their eyes

they never rose up

to the morning light

lost and confused about who they were

and where they were going

in fact, no one in your current world

suffers the way you do

or experiences life the way you do–

you are the pinnacle of all pain

your story is by far sadder

by far happier

than any story on the planet

no, the universe

because the universe is really

that small

and maybe everyone is far more interesting

and you live a boring existence

staring into a window of dreams

in the palm of your hand

your beautiful hand

so intricately made with every line

with purpose, yet with vacancy–

empty are the hands of humanity

for they lift nothing

point to nothing

and lay bare by our sides–

you use that empty hand

in the quiet of the black-star night

to pick up a book

a journal or memoir of one’s past

a life fitting into a two hundred page binding

the same way your life

could be bound

to summarize “you” in two hundred pages,

and as you read the first sentences

you hear the muffling sounds

of arctic foxes

laughing and chasing each other,

perhaps you hear

some people parking their cars

and carrying groceries into their houses

and you realize

you may not be alone after all.


Have you ever felt

like you were made

to make silver

rather than gold–

Out of depths of the earth

in a refinery eye

beholds all we want

all we do

all we see

“But is that it?”

We ask ourselves,

softly, in the ashes

“Am I just silver?”

“Am I only gold?”

We pour shiny liquid

into a box

and expect

the expected to happen

but what is it,

but the unexpected

“What then…?”

We whisper,

we question life

itself, flying

and soaring

like a gale of dust

with copper wings–

We are no longer birds

nor have we have ever been

human enough

to understand

how lava flows

into the sea

dissipating into smokeless


as our hearts beat


It is a star mist

molded by black magma

of only death’s matter

with fire hotter

than fire itself,

And all the jewels,

diamonds, gold plates

and silver coins

melt away

into feeling.