sweet nothings

nihilists are dreamers, no doubt

drawing upon blanks where input be constant and continuous and it seems we’ve lost pace of the cycles that hold us in stride

theres something about their appreciation for absence in the midst

of largely inconsequential abundance 

..where it matters most, anyway

unriled amongst frenzy, 

calm as the storms eye

stoic to the whiplash set for fickle folks –          

twisted necks with swollen heads, wrapped up and drowning in material things

the way of trade in manufactured currency and fear that we won’t fit it all onto the heavenly plane –

many of us pray the distortion is in our mirror

– stoics will remember, one never truly sees one’s self so perception be the low-lit lantern leading to another 

or did you ever think that the anarchists are saddest to see the state go

having spent lifetimes trying to say loudly and clearly, through dusty texts and encrypted messages:

‘it is [all of] ours to take. We could share and savor [with or without] it. Don’t you see?’

but with never enough means collected to prove such possible, let alone true, to those tied to the tangible

bearing witness well before tender hands raised and clenched to resistance yet

here we are, many with early eyes, shocked by the tragedy – a bubble, burst in the lukewarm bath, an uncaking of sweet sticky sleep about the creases 

we some have attuned to the waverings of your voice and the tears, your sweat –

vibrations of the air and salt of the earth

bearing the reality that all in all cannot be,

that smoke and mirrors be revealing 

we stay pupils, young, invisibly connecting that that we see to be drawn to. 

it’s familiar, the earnest call to company amidst chaos and somehow unrecognizable, the statement of natural born rights to resolution –

you know – commitments of our choosing, and the silver cloud clarity of conviction 

and the spirit seekers who chase down ghosts and illuminate phantoms of who we could be, what we could see with eyes soft, lids pressed upon each other, cleansed of false promises and pre-packaged hopes, in lieu of empty frames on a scrolling stage

who know that the little bits of divinity we are granted as humans being are never guaranteed to stay here – welcome , at times conjure , you are precious and fierce.

sit, be. whole in partiality. 

these statements are assured yours as well:

we are of this earth and air and much more 

we are of this world yet feel the cosmos beyond our bones

it is those/us/the seers, speakers, healers

whose sense of relation binds our words , wounds , and sentiments to entities beyond current comprehension , currency , or fortune-funded communications, no?

and if all we do is to turn this deep breath and heavy sigh – a last expulsion, together, into a meditative motion, a reverberation.. why not? how so? is it zealous exaggeration, mastery of illusion, basic distillation? “judged” so, perhaps. 

*note that no action is detailed in these declarations, hear these poems are my truth and I couldn’t bear misguiding. Any answers in this script lie with you

circumnavigate if you must to find who you are is right here and not and know that you know it so

let positivity ring out from your NO,

and every attempt to save your soul from the wretched self and it’s jealous lovers