one million poems, number two
you know what I mean, being the middle child, even if you were an only child, you know what middle means.
half so much of everything is still, everything. what? no matter what.
don’t wait for an echo. everything ain’t coming back.
no matter how many times paired, half remains everything.
if it isn’t, then it was never everything to start with. this is recursive
truth. the truth inside truth. what’s so – is a less intimidating way to
say the same thing.
so in all the universe, this morning was the morning I got what love really means. how it lands, how it looks.
when I give myself to love – that means I get everything – happiness, sorrow, desire, fear – everything. it does not mean only happy times. it means all times, all feelings, all thoughts. we become transparent.
is this how it feels to be a window?
pardon my generous paraphrase. (thanks Ren)
resistance is a kind of love; it is. acceptance is also a kind of love.
we struggle, flailing, bouncing between the two. then a moment comes,
we see we are the middle.
we are the river. like water,
we are where the light flows. we all, all of us, we are light.
how’s that for gospel?
what’s this all mean? I’m not sure, but I’m sure it must mean
something, sometime, somehow.
maybe the smallest particle that makes existence exist is intention.
what do we intend? one million and two, counting.