Comments Posted By Drew

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checkmate

“ No, no checkmate. I’m the Queen, but that’s beside the point: this is not a game. My Beauty is very real and sacred and must be gracefully touched, not grabbed. If you move slowly, you’ll seduce me; move quickly and the only thing you’ll know is an empty struggle. Adopt the pace of Nature,” said the World “her secret is patience. Do not hurry into each new day. Open your eyes in the morning as gifts and may your first exhalation be exaltation. Stop to greet my four directions and ask them about the secret one: no, not north, south, east or west but the one inside your chest; yes, on your heart’s compass. And everyday, just for a day, may your hours be roses and may their thorns protect you from the hurried hands of human time that always touch but rarely feel — and may they guard the nests in the garden that grows in you. That and grow and grow until you will see an opening, a hatching. Until you hear a booming, a blooming. Until you feel a warmth, a ripening. Until the timekeeper in your hearts most accurate chamber feels the time has come to open your wings, show your flowers and share your fruits with those who skillfully reach. That is, strive to touch, not struggle to grab.”

» Posted By drew On 04.23.2013 @ 11:55 am

café

I sat near the entrance of the cafe with a stack of seven books at my elbow and all were about the Congo. A girl beside me asked if I was writing a research paper and if I was a student at the university around the block. The answer was no to both parts of her question and I went on to share with her how I am preparing to leave for the Congo. Her response was typical, an autonomic response to fear “But why, isn’t it super dangerous there?” I smiled and replied, “Yeah, it’s risky, maybe I’m crazy.” and left it at that. Now I write my real reason here: Because of this sedentary insanity. Because of the ontological crippling. Because of the cafes. Because of the cushions. Because of men playing video games. Because of men willing to put themselves in harms way for their country and not for their humanity, humanity, the world and love for the world. Because if not I, then who? Because of the easy answers, the predictability, the atrophy, the absurdity (at any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face), the infantile, the breast milk, the safety, the comfort (let me quote Huxley) “But I don’t want comfort. I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.” Yes. I don’t want comfort. I want the hard parts. The hardest part.

» Posted By drew On 04.22.2013 @ 2:56 pm

I sat near the entrance of the cafe with a stack of seven books at my elbow all about the Congo. A girl beside me asked if I was writing a research paper and if i was a student at the university around the block. The answer was no to both parts of her question and i went on to share with her how i am preparing to leave for the Congo. Her response was typical, an autonomic response to fear “But why, isn’t it super dangerous there?” I smiled and replied, “Yeah, it’s risky, maybe i’m crazy.” I write my real reason here: Because of this sedentary insanity. Because of the ontological crippling. Because of the cafes. Because of the cushions. Because of men playing video games. Because of men willing to put themselves in harms way for their country and not for their humanity, humanity, the world and love for the world. Because if not I, then who? Because of the easy answers, the predictability, the atrophy, the absurdity (at any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face) the infantile, breast milk, the safety, the comfort (let me quote Huxley) “But I don’t want comfort. I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.” Yes. I don’t want comfort. I want the hard parts. The hardest part.

» Posted By drew On 04.22.2013 @ 2:32 pm

burrow

The way they burrowed into my marrow and how they scratched a life-long, unceasing, unvarying itch that I could only tell I had after it had been scratched. I paused at the period marking the end of that sentence. It was a singularity. A point of no return. Punctuation that punctured my perception; a portal. It felt like I was being pulled through that period to another period, a past I once was, or even more perplexing — somehow still was. A far-out question struck as lightening off in the distance that formed in a greater semblance of silence that enveloped as I lowered the music volume that instead sounded far away: “What would a writer write who believed in reincarnation? Or better yet, a metaphysical poet who, writing a poem so enigmatical as to evade vulgar materialist apprehension entirely and baffle the most acute, could not finish it in her lifetime needed an extension and a way to find it again?” And so came the thunder that rolled across centuries: “Let your passages be passages and may they, if they are pressed on by the heart that pumped blood in the hand that once wrote them, clear of all dust, rid of all rust, and gust open as doors inside of you.

» Posted By drew On 04.21.2013 @ 7:09 am

The way they burrowed into my marrow and how they scratched a life-long, unceasing, unvarying itch that I could only tell I had after it had been scratched. I paused at the period marking the end of that sentence. It was a singularity. A point of no return. Punctuation that punctured my perception; a portal. It felt like I was being pulled through that period to another period, a past I once was, or even more perplexing — somehow still was. A far-out question struck as lightening off in the distance that formed in a greater semblance of silence that enveloped as I lowered the music volume that instead sounded far away: “What would a writer write who believed in reincarnation? Or better yet, a metaphysical poet who, writing a poem so enigmatical as to evade vulgar materialist apprehension entirely and baffle the most acute, could not finish it in her lifetime needed an extension and a way to find it again?” And so came the thunder that rolled across centuries: “Let your passages be passages and may they, if they are pressed on by the heart that pumped blood in the hand that once wrote them, clear of all dust, rid of all rust, and gust open as passageways.

» Posted By drew On 04.21.2013 @ 7:04 am

The way they burrowed into my marrow and how they scratched a life-long, unceasing, unvarying itch that I could only tell I had after it had been scratched. I paused at the period marking the end of that sentence. It was a singularity. A point of no return. Punctuation that punctured my perception; a portal. It felt like I was being pulled through that period to another period, a past I once was, or even more perplexing — somehow still was. A far-out question struck as lightening off into the distance that formed in a greater semblance of silence that enveloped as I lowered the music volume of which instead sounded far away: “What would a writer write who believed in reincarnation? Or better yet, a metaphysical poet who, writing a poem so enigmatical as to evade vulgar materialist apprehension entirely and baffle the most acute, could not finish it in her lifetime needed an extension and a way to find it again?” And so came the thunder that rolled across centuries: “Let your passages be passages and may they, if they are pressed on by the heart that pumped blood in the hand that once wrote them, clear of all dust, rid of all rust, and gust open as passageways in the winds of their origin.

» Posted By drew On 04.21.2013 @ 7:01 am

What gravity is warping the space time within the confines of this coffeeshop? Four second eye contact twenty times in the past twenty seconds? Who, who is this bold stranger who fiercely and with such confidence burrows her beautiful bunny eyes into the field of my vision, she who digs her eyes into my eyes every chance I give her, every time I look as I look up from my oneword of which her adorable face will not let me write? I can’t resist; I can’t type; my fingers swell with extra blood. All my meditation — allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll my meditation — cannot cease the temptation, tempt, tempt, tempt, temptation!! O Zen Master, master, I’m failing! O Desires, how you can turn a desert into a real oasis at the instance of your indulgence. How you hang grapes before my mouth — you, you best believe Eve never stood a chance. I surrender to the force of the season! O how brutal Springtime can be when one chooses solitude. Seeing the birds chase the birds, the squirrels chase the squirrels — it hurts to watch them. Even the blossoms leave bruises! Shall I test her with with a word to see if she can sing as beautiful as she is? I will, right…now.

» Posted By drew On 04.20.2013 @ 10:08 pm

Her gravity is warping space time. Four second eye contact twenty times in the past ten seconds? Who, who is this bold stranger who fiercely and with such confidence burrows her bunny eyes into the field of my vision, she who digs her eyes into my eyes every chance I give her, every time I look back after I look up from my oneword of which her adorable face will not let me write? I can’t resist; I can’t even type; my fingers swell with extra blood. All my meditation — allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll my meditation — cannot cease the temptation, temptation, tempt, tempt, tempt, temptation!! O Zen Master, master, I’m failing! O Desires, how you can turn a desert into a real oasis at the instance of your indulgence. I surrender to the force of the season! O how hard springtime is when one chooses solitude. Seeing the birds chase the birds, the squirrels chase the squirrels — it hurts to watch them. Even blossoms leave bruises! I should give her my oneword to see if she can sing as beautiful as she is. I will right…now.

» Posted By drew On 04.20.2013 @ 7:10 pm

Her gravity is warping space time. Four second eye contact twenty times in the past ten seconds? Who, who is this bold stranger who fiercely and with such confidence burrows her bunny eyes into the field of my vision, she who digs her eyes into my eyes every chance I give her, every time I look back after I look up from my oneword of which her adorable face will not let me write? I can’t resist; I can’t even type, my fingers swell with extra blood. All my meditation cannot cease the temptation! O Zen Master, I’m failing! O Desires, how you can turn a desert into a real oasis at the instance of your indulgence. I surrender to the force of the season! O how hard springtime is when one chooses solitude. Seeing the birds chase the birds, the squirrels chase the squirrels — it hurts to watch them. even blossoms leave bruises! I should give her my oneword to see if she can sing as beautiful as she is. I will right…now.

» Posted By drew On 04.20.2013 @ 6:57 pm

cliffs

“The world is our womb and all life begins at her cliffs. This is the rule, the way, the rite of passage. Nature loves courage. Nature loves courage. Nature loves courage. Nature loves cour…” — he jumped. He fell for months but no one could tell. When the cliff is invisible so is the fall, and after all, at times it felt like he was flying, not falling. But finally he hit. At last he crashed onto a featherbed while his fears shattered against the alchemical stone into the countless pieces they formed from over time, beginning long before he was born: from generation to generation we pass down not just what is in our genes, but also what is in our hearts…and what is not in our hearts.

» Posted By drew On 04.19.2013 @ 7:57 pm

“The world is our womb and all life begins at her cliffs. This is the rule, the way, this is the rite of passage. Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves cour…” — he jumped. He fell for months but no one could tell. When the cliff is invisible so is the fall, and after all, at times it felt like he was flying, not falling. But finally he hit. At last he crashed onto a featherbed while his fears shattered against the alchemical stone into the countless pieces they formed from over time, beginning long before he was born: from generation to generation we pass down not just what is in our genes, but also what is in our hearts…and what is not in our hearts.

» Posted By drew On 04.19.2013 @ 7:54 pm

“The world is our womb and all life begins at her cliffs. This is the rule. Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves cour…” — he jumped. He fell for months but no one could tell. When the cliff is invisible so is the fall, and after all, at times it felt like he was flying, not falling. But finally he hit. At last he crashed onto a featherbed while his fears shattered against the alchemical stone into the countless pieces they formed from over time, beginning long before he was born: from generation to generation we pass down not just what is in our genes, but also what is in our hearts…and what is not in our hearts.

» Posted By drew On 04.19.2013 @ 7:38 pm

“The world is our womb and all life begins at its cliffs. This is the rule. Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves cour…” — he jumped. He fell for months but no one could tell. When the cliff is invisible so is the fall, and after all, at times it felt like he was flying, not falling. But finally he hit. At last he crashed onto a featherbed while his fears shattered in against the alchemical stone into the countless pieces they formed from over time, beginning long before he was born: from generation to generation we pass down not just what is in our genes, but also what is in our hearts…and what is not in our hearts.

» Posted By drew On 04.19.2013 @ 7:13 pm

“The world is our womb and all life begins at its cliff. This is the rule. It has to be earned. Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves cour…” — he jumped. He fell for five months but no one could tell. When the cliff is invisible so is the fall, and after all, at times it felt like he was flying, not falling. But finally he hit. At last he crashed onto a featherbed while his fears shattered in grace against the alchemical stone into the countless pieces they formed from over time, beginning long before he was born: from generation to generation we pass down not just what is in our genes, but also what is in our hearts…and what is not in our hearts.

» Posted By drew On 04.19.2013 @ 6:45 pm

“The world is our womb and all life begins at its cliff. This is the rule. It has to be earned. Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves cour…” — he jumped. He fell for five months but no one could tell. When the cliff is invisible so is the fall, and after all, at times it felt like he was flying, not falling. But finally, he hit. At last he crashed onto a featherbed while his fears shattered in grace against the alchemical stone into the countless pieces they formed from over time, beginning long before he was born: from generation to generation we pass down not just what is in our genes, but also what is in our hearts…and what is not in our hearts.”

» Posted By drew On 04.19.2013 @ 6:44 pm

“Life begin at the cliff. This is the rule. It has to be earned. Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves courage, Nature loves cour…” — he jumped. He fell for four months but no one could tell. When the cliff is invisible so is the fall, and after all, at times it felt like he was flying, not falling. But finally, he hit. At last he crashed onto a featherbed while his fears shattered in grace against the alchemical stone into the countless pieces they formed from over time, beginning long before he was born; we pass down not just what is in our genes, but what is in our hearts.

» Posted By drew On 04.19.2013 @ 6:35 pm

metro

you take a cab
and i’ll take the sub
and we’ll travel together
as long as you take this
thought with you: great spirits
travel at great speed, you and I
already are together,
you and I are waiting
for us, waiting
for the wine.

» Posted By drew On 04.18.2013 @ 7:11 pm

you take a cab
and i’ll take the sub,
and we’ll travel together
as long as you take this
thought with you: great spirits
travel at great speed, you and I
already are together,
you an I are waiting
for us to, waiting
for the wine.

» Posted By drew On 04.18.2013 @ 7:09 pm

Every time I take the metro, a line from Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” comes to mind: “Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?”

» Posted By drew On 04.18.2013 @ 12:47 pm

creature

Interesting it is to find the creatures of myth manifest themselves into the material realm, in archetypal form at least. it’s quite obvious that the mythological dragon is the military jet. have you been to the middle east lately? it resembles more of middle earth. have you witnessed an airstrike in syria? did you see the way the rebels and refugees look to the sky in horror as widowed women grab their kin and cry-out to god when they spot the jet flying towards their village? It fits the description of everything you read in folklore once upon a time: this roaring winged thing coming out of the sky to unleash fire — there’s nowhere for them to take cover and they know it, that’s why they don’t run. homes become tombs under a bombblast. refugees enter buildings to die just as the dwarves that fled from the dragon into their dry wheat fields could not escape its flames…

» Posted By drew On 04.17.2013 @ 12:24 pm

Interesting it is to find the creatures of myth manifest themselves into the material realm, in archetypal form at least. it’s quite obvious that the mythological dragon is the military jet. have you been to the middle east lately? it resembles more of middle earth. have you witnessed a airstrike in syria? did you see the way the rebels and refugees look to the sky in horror as widowed women grab their kin and cry-out to god when they spot the jet flying towards their village? It fits the description of everything you read in folklore. This roaring winged thing coming out of the sky to unleash fire: there’s nowhere for them to take cover and they know it, that’s why they don’t run; homes become tombs under a bombblast, refugees enter buildings to die just as the dwarves that fled from the dragon into their dry wheat fields could not escape its flames.

» Posted By drew On 04.17.2013 @ 12:18 pm

Interesting it is to find the creatures of myth manifest themselves into the material realm, in archetypal form at least. it’s quite obvious that the mythological dragon is the military jet. have you been to the middle east lately? it resembles more of middle earth. have you been at a bomb-strike in syria and seen the way the rebels and refugees look to the sky in horror as widowed women grab their kin and cry-out to god as they spot the jet flying towards their village? There is nowhere for them to take cover and they know it, that’s why they don’t run; homes become tombs under a bombblast, refugees enter buildings to die just as the dwarfs that fled from the dragon into their dry wheat fields could not escape the flames.

» Posted By drew On 04.17.2013 @ 12:04 pm

mumbling

“From the perspective of the Spirit,” said the Soul, “It is you who are the ghosts, because without us, you are sadder than dead; to be alive and not rejoice in life? Now silence the voice of your mindless mumbling. Hear the rumbling of mountains that have yet to rise beneath the bare feet of your spirit…the one’s that feel it in their toes that the miracle is not to walk on water, but to walk on the earth; yes, to simply make steps on the glorious earth.”

» Posted By drew On 04.16.2013 @ 4:47 pm

From the perspective of the Spirit, said the Soul, It is you who are the ghosts, because without us, you are worse than dead; to be alive and not rejoice in life? Now silence the voice your mumbling mindless mind. hear the rumbling of mountains that have yet to rise beneath the feet of your spirit…the one’s that know the miracle is not to walk on water, but to walk on the earth; yes, to simply walk on the glorious earth.

» Posted By drew On 04.16.2013 @ 4:35 pm

From the perspective of the Spirit, said the Soul, It is you who are the ghosts, because without us, you are worse than dead; to be alive and not rejoice in life? Now silence the voice your mumbling mindless mind. hear the rumbling of mountains that have yet to rise across beneath the feet of your spirit…the one’s that walk the land up to the sky.

» Posted By drew On 04.16.2013 @ 4:30 pm

attracted

No longer do i glance at the beautiful girl who walks by, instead i stare at all of the men staring at her on the hind legs of their raging eyes held sway by impulse. I feel free; it feels like freedom to not look, to have no desire to look, to not have my thoughts broken and my body activated without my consent by the power of attraction. I’m not an automaton.

» Posted By drew On 04.13.2013 @ 8:30 pm

No longer do i glance at the beautiful girl who walks by, instead i stare at all of the men staring at her on the hind legs of their raging eyes held sway by impulse. I feel free; it feels like freedom to not look, to have no desire to look, to not have my thoughts broken and my body activated without my consent by the power of attraction. I’m not an automaton.

» Posted By drew On 04.13.2013 @ 5:42 pm

anchor

everyday i want to anchor
somewhere in your oceanic spirit
that i feel passing through
the wings of my heart
that open into an air of love
when your mouth does.

» Posted By drew On 04.11.2013 @ 10:34 pm

trench

now even my weeks are weakening to the yearn of my years for your star to burn.

» Posted By drew On 04.08.2013 @ 12:29 pm

smudge

Naked woman after naked woman — I put them in the positions I like. Then things get real dirty. I smudge each one of them all over. I do it all night long. I leave exhausted but I leave very satisfied; my hands all covered in wine charcoal.

» Posted By drew On 04.02.2013 @ 6:40 pm

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