When my heart is softened,
How quickly I move to tears
How quickly I move to laughter
How quickly I move to joy.

The Dead

It has come again –
The dead
It’s creeping in

I don’t mind it
It’s really not that bad
So, I let it in

It comes whether you want it to,
Or not
You can’t will it away

The dead doesn’t work like that
It is concentrated power
It’s consecrated too

The dead is a valley
In between two mountains
You must journey through

What is the difference,
Between the dead and winter?
Nothing.

Winter
Is a coat
The dead wears.

Articulate the Silence

Close your eyes if you want to.
The nothing is something.
Maybe just an absence or a state of mind.
Allow yourself to feel the nothing.
It might be black.
It might be white.
Maybe grey.

Allow yourself to feel it.
Let it pour in.
Let it fill up to the top.

It’s ok if it has a quiet sound.
Like a buzzing.
Or a watch ticking that’s wrapped in something soft.
Allow yourself to feel it.
It’s ok if it swells and grows louder.
There might even be a rhythm to it.
That’s alright.
It might invade a bit.
Happening more quickly than you expected.
Or it might take some time.
That’s also ok.

Are you there?
Has it happened?
Have you transcended this life and become a part of the nothing?
Good.
Be there.
For as long as you wish.
For as long as it takes.
Let it roll on top of you like warm waves.
Simply be.

The nothing and eternity have something in common.
Can you make the connection?
If you don’t want to, that’s alright.
Today, it might be enough to simply say that they do.

You are connected to it as well.
So am I.
So is everyone who has ever been.
And everyone who will be.

There is a great force.
Causing everything to spin.
Making continuous revolutions.

Maybe, the force is pulling you closer.
Can you feel that?
The warmth of contact?

Open your eyes,
and give a name to the most important thing in your world

Breathe

Should I keep writing?
I mean, I’ve never really made any money at it.
No one’s ever told me that something I wrote changed their life.
Or even changed their day.
Or changed anything at all.
Should I keep singing?
I mean I’ve never made any money at it.
No one’s ever told me that a song of mine made them pause and think.
Or inspired them to move.
Or inspired them at all.
Should I keep breathing?
I mean I’ve never been someone who makes things happen.
No one’s ever told me that I am confident.
Or seem driven.
Or drive women wild.
Should I keep going?
I mean, this list is starting to sound monotonous.
No one wants to hear you complain.
Or write or sing.

Or breathe.

Pigeon

Write a poem.
Sit down, get a notebook out and write a poem.
Then erase every fucking letter because it’s shit and so are you.
The last line was too deprecating, but the audience connects anyway.
Laugh. Throw your head back and laugh. Right at the beginning.
They have to believe you are crazy. You have to convince them of nothing.
There’s a hole in my shoes. There’s a hole in my soul. Which one can a department store fix?
Too few psychiatrist with too many patients with too little patients. I’ve written that line before.
I make a fine poet. Psych. Kidding. I just want to see if you’re still listening.
Make a list then sing all your problems. Out the window. What do birds know? About it.
Probably nothing. But then again, I’m no pigeon.
Cry for no reason in the middle. Break down and shake. Make them believe you are broken. You have to convince them of nothing.
I make a fine depressive. The only kind of person who can ever claim to be a poet.
Pause at the end.
Leave a big. blank. space.
Take a deep breath to make them believe that you are thoughtful.
Convince them you’re something.