THE FUTURE OF HISTORY

A life is made of a moment, this and then another and then another.

To have one offers no guarantee of the other,

when we are enlightened we appreciate what we are given and enjoy,

free of strong disappointment and free of mislead connections...

something in time creates longing,

something in nature creates character,

something in distinction orients possibility 

and its invention

and reinvention. 

While the presence of a statement births love,

(for love as every poet knows, is a language that one feels)...

the utterance: I love you, means

I love you now, presently,

always may not be here, 

but my everpresent hope, that is where love is,

says the poet.

Words are mute, and themselves cannot speak...

they are something done to utterance,

directed like a river's carnivorous flow carved across the tattooed earth, 

And for the ultimate sense of what is,

love is not altogether lost on wanting,

perhaps, 

it represents a faith, a faith in duty and delight guiding evolution and connection.

Perhaps,

Our lives are small miracles, 

the things of mirth, 

and pain,

sorrow 

and bliss, 

and between this...

what are we?

Our meaning anything together

together is meaningless without presence, 

How unfortunate that dreams cannot always speak and tell you their mysteries,

but perhaps it is this way best,

it is what we do not know that shapes us as much as what we do not know,

and in that gap there is a world of speculation,

born of things we can ever be uncertain of indeed, in an emergent present moment,

in my dreams with you this lasts forever,

and so a moment is enough...

leave me if you want...

I have no self pity and wish you all the best...

but because the heart sometimes speaks another language than mere courage,

it's perhaps best to with some emphasis emphasize that...

The more you understand that being present TO each other is the foundation of love,

you seek out to put a priority IN that person, in being WITH that person.

Presence is a kind of protection, it has wants,

it judges it assesses, it determines and shapes decision and regret,

hope and yearning. 

Our lives are small miracles 

and great ones too,

what connects a person to another is part mystery... 

part fate,

our destinies speak a language both heart and reflex hear 

and respond to. 

The heart grows deepest in its resonance 

in the times alone 

and the destiny of a moment,

Stream carving mountains,

galacial drift,

palatial promises,

semantic shift...

I shall give my kingdom for a kiss, says the pauper,

the richest man in the world...

solitude is woven into the human condition,

it's the existential howl...

the wildness of memory,

the grunt shaped dictionary... 

deep in the grain of feral uncertainty...

the pulse of satori.

And in the face of ambiguity, there is a tempo to every memory,

the things we cannot let go, the redundant parts of us,

some mistake this stubborn leaf, as the root of the tree...

as distant distal forces dare to dream, 

the siphoned shores that stream along the scheming smiles,

that decorate our deeming trials,

AND in increment of the space between rhythms,

this is a sort of inclination of character,

it is who we are in virtue of who we become,

that we are filled with beauty, the charity of beauty, 

how it takes away our anonymity,

how it is known in virtue of being felt as a quality deep within the atom, 

that follows a moment, that follows a moment, as it grows,

testing loss, 

and the soul that like this moves from inclinations formed deep,

deep within the auspicious prediction of truth,

where our natures are given a fate in virtue of their nature,

if only Mother nature could lie she would be the final act on every stage at once,

the terror of emergent eventuality,

flowing into the inseperability of disinclination,

drawing us away from dreams,

and the moments between them we call life...

In youth I mistook passion for depth and the pain of loss for sincerity,

while each was related to its corresponding element, 

the pain of loss affecting one sincerely, the passion of life revealing depths,

the consequent was derivative, 

elements that were connected connected in virtue of something more substantial,

and the older I got the more I realized this.

I do love you, I know this and can no more value it than my knowing God exists,

my agnostic heart, yearns for affirmations that are at best elusive...

and yet, faith in God aside, in a caring way that I do not want you to soon forget,

I do want you,

and I do love you... 

and you may know this, or feel this, or both know it and feel it,

but for it to be relevant to you, 

one must see love as part of something that makes

one more substantial, 

more real...and in the unreality of the unwoken unspeak of unkept unearthed irrelevance,

destiny is woven upon the surface of time,

it's shallow veil, born in the anchors of custom and fever,

where our shadows meet are we more complete,

where dancing dreams dole deeper distant distal dirge,

in the dreams that even nightmares fail to purge.

How foolish are the wisest sages, filled with the lunacy of certainty...

I know nothing and I know this strengthens and weakens me at the same time,

often in featural aspects beyond a sense of things quite beyond me,

and indeed a part of my unspoken opus,

unworldly lingering in the staccato of recalled precision,

where the legato winds revise even anchor logic. 

In the shortest space between moments, I feel freedom sometime,

and keep busy to borrow some semblance of wisdom from an active mind...

and there is in me the impulse to be a force,

something that creates transformation,

a fusion of reflex and overt expression. 

Lives bind from the fever of a moment,

while our moment may have passed, 

we have a lifetime of movements into moments that like music capture

the space between moments that makes the note possible,

the long hum of wind whispering in the trees.

Silence contrary, Clashing noise, sounds of footsteps, the cadence of children playing,

fatherhood motherhood, the phases of life, evolution fruition, extinction, life toward death,

distress, anxiety, love, delight, the engines of uncertainty...

we are drawn into a drama where what we disclose and what we need to hear 

are both alien landscapes speaking a vernaculars as distinct as oil and water,

One instance cannot bring the other about,

one cannot invoke life from reciprocity alone,

The world is made of phases and passing from one state into another,

Moments distended in the sweet velvet wind fractal branch, whose green anchors fall in fall,

of every fiery hue...

in an eminence that shapes and sculpts a world's yearning pregnant with renewal.

Love is a lie we are told perhaps,

a bribe told to an innocent heart...

the last memory of eternity...

The root grows deeper when the light sings its song to all who can hear,

and sound, noise, the culmination of language, accident and intention,

shape who we become, all we who do not truly belong...

a lifetime of looking and never seeing,

a lifetime of being amongst yet never with. 

Society is driven by the madness of its own self-inclinations,

and the opposite indeed of selfishness is not selflessness, 

for even the selfless draw some delight from this state and are quite self inclined shall we say,

no, the opposite of selfishness is breathing...

a couple is in love when they can breath together,

in harmony, drawing in the most ancient elements of nature,

rekindled by the whim of the the immanent comfort of a sort of all pervasive patience, 

it's a miracle, a small miracle,

alive in the moment, to moment, to moment, to moment, 

to now...toward the soon, toward the future, toward the invention of the truest love,

tried tested and true,

toward the future of history. 

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