Magnetic attractors are swinging

I'm beginning to let go of the worry
as the sun enters my veiled corneas
in the full production set of the aries-mars
archetype who is midway between equinoxes.

There is a ripening effect of this year already,
the solar return to the galactic center
asking us if we want to pull on the door
that changes your mind or be pushed back
into that crowded room that spins
when you stand and try to focus your eyes.

Our fallen milk chocolate allegories
of where we originate are finally synthesizing
into a hardened story line written on kitchen-greased paper
with blood still on it from the butcher.

You can't lie about blood, clots, arteries.
Even rivers thrive on veins.
I'm surprised the water table isn't saturated
but then again you have fresh and salt water
running through your veins,
why wouldn't your water contain their blood?

A scenic substance is not the Ego

She has turned her head and made the choice
to use her turn-key switch located on the clock between winter and spring.


I just shuffle on the canyon cliff-side above the seasons.
I'm looking for an astounding reason to say, yes or no.
The view from above has more light and clarity on the scene.
Although I'm not sure where the separation between viewing and doing
happens on the stone spine
or if I have already slipped down
the shear wall face and this evaluation of myself IS just me looking
up to the boulders coming towards my skull
and hallucinating my own death.

Every new path can be and is like a rapid of orgasms,
un petite mort. You die and expand
your vibrating lungs into a flowing era that is succinct with the map
that you drew out before you entered this languid body.

But what did the map say about this intersection with her?
Can I force myself to remember
the detailed holograms carved in wax by Metatron?
No, this is what we meant about Risk, it's the catalyst
that serves to complete the karmic revolution
where choice meets fate, where divine threads come together
to battle and weave. This reality is an alpaca blanket.

This life that once was a dream.
I now am convinced of the power to manifest
But that Doesn't mean I am a master at harnessing it.

In the darkness of the dawn I could hear them whispering,
"Make sure it's something that you really want otherwise the circumstances
become wrought with good intentions but poor forethought."
They brought in paths from the past to question my motives,
lucid smoke screens to get me to agree that I should to
wonder and not wander.
And to see the present from all sides
means to be still
and not plan.

What if I don't move forward with the vision
that I've encompassed and colored in?
Will I be punished or rewarded?
Do I sail out to the edge of the sea
to see if staying this course
will lead me to the promise land?
or do I
jump ship and hope to find my new life
where I'm no longer a sailor?
No longer this pulsar
that hides part of the light
to keep the darkness happy.

I don't leave it up to the Zephyrs or Aeolians but I do try to listen.

In the forest of my youth there is a sycamore.
The roots are strong at the base
of this watery tree but some underground
limbs are now rotten and softened by the elements of time.

If the loggers come in to cut it down today they will find
legions of patterned heartwood
as delicate as an orb-weavers web.
The stump however will never be destroyed or wafted by gloved thumbs.
Its entangled root-system still will feed
the microbes and invertebrates that rely on its structure.