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“Tessellate” 

on the surface
it’s easy to see
we tessellate

inadvertent 
decorative ostentatious
flirtatious lives taking risks 

with the other sides
planned strategic functional 
quantity rich quality lacking

Human

our words our ways
opposites 
like magnets attract, it all fits 

we think it doesn’t, yet
from the beginning of time 
it has been like this 

adam and eve
right and wrong
black and white

scales, 

like severed lizard tails grow
and overtake – the sweet taste
of those red apples

thin skin cuts deep, yet,
like a poet, 
we keep imagining

our large and small stories,
inside us the music of life
keeps beating like a dirge drum 

the distant beat 
nearing, closing in,
a promised requiem;

opposites

some of us give in,
rocks in pockets we 
dive full throttle in

some of us, 
rise from the great depths
we never give in

underneath 
the weight of scales, 
a little light slides in

our lives morph to change
the inescapable 
the karmic repeat;

like music scales
we sync together like a symphony
humming reptilian in our circadian dreams

our tales rattling 

like puzzle pieces, 
flight or fight again 
is setting in upon us, 

we’re bit, 
the poison takes,
we are overcome

in our words and deeds
we succumb, to some 
Milkwood good gentle night

some find a way to right it

we write new prescriptions 
for antidotes, like a drug 
we take it all in

the meaning of “It” all

we are all pre-determined
we are arranged into place
to meet the already unknown

in each the other;

in each the other
we want that - that,
which we do not possess -

it’s a catch-22;

mere unforseen adjustments, 
the primary puppet-master
considers us secondary

the peacock tails, 
like fables, 
are regrown;

without gaps?

oh there are gaps 
you state, 
clear cut

that suck you back in 
like a black hole
it’s a necessary sin, 

the transfiguring -

but in the grand review, 
still everything fits,
perfectly and absurd

the universe 
hears
everything

and it responds
gaps, or no gaps
and swallows us all back in 

holy unwhole

like we are two 
dimensional nothings
openings and closings 

like origami puzzles dancing
exploding and imploding 
shredding confetti, 

a marriage of sorts

something to chew on, 
and spit out,
papier-mâché,

we are all looking 

for ourselves -
each piece of us is found 
in the opposite of ourselves puzzle

the majority, 
to be arranged 
neatly back into place

like a torn photograph
with different people 
matrixed in time and place -

not that simple;

hidden in the abstract
we are priceless 
bent works of art

unable to be forged
to exist forever man-made
in our counterfeit lives -

there is still some time -

we are still in kindegarten,
we can see patterns forming
through the old-soul eyes of a child 

that take us away from the norm,
the expected maturity 
the constraining boundaries;

we are part of a great myth
that finds amusement and succour
in our existence, it is ever-watching 

our fragile selves
holding the signed contracts
somewhere imprinted deep within

we are consistent 
in our openings
and foldings 

breathing out and in
breathing out and in
breathing in and out ...

just as in a game of cards
the origami of our 
many sided vessels

clearly seen 
in a brief moment
for what we truly are,

our days are each numbered
we are all each numbered, 
eventually the roulette wheel stops 

on past tense, read,

Black Jack 21
we fold, 
we cave in

our souls turn our face upwards 
to the universe of all things
It hears everything, 

all seeing I that It is

and It throws Its bowling balls
and we, its pins, stand sentry 
patient and impatient collectables

watching others
trying to learn 
from their experience

waiting our turn,
some nervous
some begging

to be scooped up,
ushered in, and yet,
on grand review 

one piercing truth -
the World 
never stops for us;

on another level,
the World’s heart beat
escalates

The World
continues to spin


Candide Diderot. ‘25


inque tuo sedisti, Sisyphe, saxo
"and you sat, Sisyphus, on your rock"



"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light." 
(Excerpt: "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"/Dylan Thomas)
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