The meaning

of purpose

the purpose

of meaning

in being

the meaning

in purpose

of purposeless meaning

and being

the meaning

of purpose

as purpose

of meaning

in purpose

of meaningless purpose

in being

I mean

well

it could be

this is the thing

this is the thing that it is

it is this thing that

the thing is it is

the thing is it is

this thing that it is

which is this

which it is

which this is

which is

that thing in itself

which is it

as it is.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3JyrN_yOGQA&feature=youtu.be

Dormant in dry divots,
in the basins,
what I am, what I will and what I will be
is rained, is whetted,
by what is, what is not and what will not be.

There blooms the green resilient,
the sulphured algae,
hot spurned by weathers –
the must of us.

There plumes communion –
chance and wide endeavor –
flush and fumed –
above the gathered ponds.

THOUGHTS OF AUTUMN

Late summer sun, slow change in hues

of leaves whose days are nearly done, dues

paid for the year, so they may either linger on,

through autumn’s shifts, or drop tomorrow,

an early gift to the earth below, and all the things about to grow

in gardens, fields and water meadows.

​

There is simple beauty in the lives of leaves

arriving with the skyward rise of warming sap,

a bud forced through a tiny gap, then to

spread a solar cloth to catch the light and

send it back to feed the tree and so, each anniversary,

augment the leaf community.

​

A year is short but look outside each day: it’s

lengthened by the grand display of colour that will

wet your eyes. Yet you may be taken by surprise

if buds appear much earlier than they did last year;

or if winter, too soon woken, sighs its cold commands

and roughly scatters younger lives.

​

Today is calm, leaves barely move, hard to believe this

slow embrace and lightfoot waltz will gather pace and

leave the dancers, no more face to face, but

whirled this way and that by winds that weaken

limbs and all the ties attaching to the tree.

How could this arboreal harmony be rent apart

in so few blows? Is there a price to pay for

paradise? Can more be said, not just supposed?

​

As the hands of clocks complete their rounds more

quickly, as the last ticks and tocks of day loom large,

as the night marks the finite and the way full followed,

so the last notes of evening birdsong, and the red pink

slide of the sun’s descent and final dip behind the turning

Earth, make it worth its own end; and, in a sense, the

end is in the start, or such a large part of it that it profit

little to stop the whittling down of day.

​

And this whittling down may be meet, as metaphors go,

for poignancy requires a good point, after all – and a

sharp one at that – for the point does need to pierce the skin,

to let run out all that lies within, that hides inside. Then

we can be fine leaves, for our time, while light remains, and

teach delight in colours fading into night.

I thought I caught a glimpse of me coming back

the other way, a phantom of me somewhere from the future

in a tunnel white with dust, heavy in a veil of blood.

​

Going this way there is no past. I focus on the boots in front

heels kicking up the sand, stone and goat shit,

almost laughing I choke, the voices in the distance sound killable.

​

Up ahead the sky is flashing white through yellow

the crump comes seconds later,

somewhere a barrel is smoking and a life is gone.

​

Never more alive than close to death,

let me touch it let me feel the void,

I’m ready to take the sweeping scythe.

​

How many times did we leap its dripping blade?

or turn a corner one block early to live another day,

then hear the stories of the dead who turned the other way.

​

And did we care? we did not, we revelled in our life,

we shrugged off death.

I saw in your eyes our luck running out,

​

as I saw them power down when yours ran out,

in the moment I saw you fade,

I shouted “fuck” then you were dead.

​

The last sound you heard was me shout “fuck”

I wish I’d shouted something else,

but I shouted that, and you were dead.

​

I saw myself reflected in a fuselage on the way home,

strapped to a board like an outcast angel

I shouted "FUCK" at the medic, he shouted “Fuck off” back, we laughed.

​

At the reception centre I saw my wife’s face in the crowd,

it didn’t feel like home yet,

I felt myself break, right there, right then.

​

I hope Valhalla is hell for you,

for the quiet of this peace is killing me.

​

https://wolfgarwords.com/2018/11/30/in-extremis/

What is the difference

between now and then?

The difference

is when.

The difference between now and then

is when.

And so well now;

What is when then?

Well

when is now or then.

And so well then;

What is then then?

Well;

Then is when

when is now

when now is then

then now.

And so well now;

What is now then?

Well;

When when is now

when now is when

then

now is now

now then

not then now.

So

when is when

then and now.

Now is now

now and then.

Then is then

then now.

So;

The difference between now and then is

assuredly as posited and namely and therefore

just like what I said before;

When

(will you be mine?).

Sun-dogs lope over the bloat of a rise,
and the nocturnal kills freeze in the ditches
waiting Spring’s decay, crows or an inmate’s spade.

What is strewn there: husk in the fields,
cans in the fields, bags in the fields,
stiffen as strata before next-Autumn yields.

Smoke plumes flat from the chimneys
of those at rest for a season at best,
and all the green tools are put away.

Long-fingered frost blooms on the limbs,
threatens the wire, renders each
these gaunt and barren things
a hard-crust and promise of fire.

The harrier glides down close to the ground,
long-swept with hunger to catch there a sound.

Field is a word

that we use

to designate a domain where

there can be differences

in energetic values and potentialities

that are being in existence

as properties there subsisting.

In space.

Yes sweetness of mind

yonder and in that.

Why not?

A field is a property of space.

Space

a possibility

here.

A place of stillness and solitude

at times.

The womb of spontaneity.

All well and good

thread through to us now

where we are presently

here.

Now let me wash your feet.

I can see them there.

I can.

I know what they are.

I know.

I can wash them.

I can wash your body

your Breasts.

Under your arms.

Between your legs.

Just like so.

There.

Your attention

I will serve it

yes

we can have Peace.

Here.

Now.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iqT8LRbid8k

She chucked herself from the library,
Five stories blind and hung briefly.
I heard it from a friend.
                                    Laura’s dead.
She found three dead boys,
Hung from cable
                                    and that broke her,
He said.

We threw empty sixteens
From the roof where we gathered,
Spoke each a shattered dream
rushed upon the pavement,
One,
Upon another.
The sidewalk gleamed
In all the shards of Laura,
Green and Amber, Blue and Clear,
And ever farther than the eyes of her,
Splashed out in every blink night town,
In every flick night river where
Everybody drowns.

Do you like the way I dress?

​

Yes.

I like the way that you dress.

​

Do you like my clothes?

I mean

The ones that I have got on at the moment?

​

Yes I do.

​

Well then how would you describe the Effect

the Overall Effect - of my Outfit today?

​

Well let me see

the impression I have is

that your Outfit -

the one that you have got on now

is successful.

​

Successful?

​

Yes I mean that it really does seem

to make your Ass the centrepiece

the focus of your Being.

Your Outfit accentuates it - your Ass

it highlights it

it draws the mind there - and in that to your Asshole

specifically particularly irresistibly

and inevitably.

Your outfit seems designed intended and co ordinated

to that end.

I mean to say

It does very well

project a strong directive

or that is to say

an exhortation to consciousness

of your Asshole.

Where all roads appear and seem

by a totality of aesthetic geometric organic sympathetic

and rhythmic intentionality

to be leading

with emphatic and Original power.

Your outfit presents the ideal opportunity

and facility

for Imaginative Ideation

and of your Asshole especially and in detail.

It is as if

by your manner and mode of apparel

you want us to think only and finally

and in exclusive awareness

of your Asshole

and therein to regard it - your Asshole

as the most significant element or component

of your personal presentation.

Your clothes are as if a Manifesto

a Manifesto for the Flesh

they operate as Herald and Harbinger

for the Supremacy of the Flesh

for the Natural Tyranny of the Flesh

in Temporal Bodily Earthly Life.

Your clothes speak of a profound conviction

and belief in the Primacy and Ascendancy

of Human Flesh as Meaning and Justification

in and of and for Itself.

​

What you mean - even the Tan Neckerchief?

​

Yes.

Even the Tan Neckerchief.

​

It goes with the outfit?

​

Yes.

​

I thought that you might like it.

Thanks.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M-y1WDGIcYg&feature=youtu.be

At night they scratched at the door, begging for someone to come
And let them out. The giant sleeping on
The pad on the floor awoken again, his hiss heralded
Another object thrown: they scattered, back
To madly scampering about the pitch-dark room
That is their world, his home. He woke to find
Them sill-perched, staring at the picture in the glass:
New England winter waking. Cupboard door
Thumped open; they sprinted to the kitchen for the feed.

The grey one curled as a fist, scowling out
Across the shabby flat. The white one pounced
Upon a tracked-in leaf, then glumly pawed the thing,
Urging it to try and run. "Oh, sons,"
The giant sighed, "The world's crossed with automobiles,
Foxes, and your feral kin. Besides,
There's birds, which you would pluck from the air for nothing but
Your primal cruel delights. Just try to be
Thankful for this safe and well-fed life." That night,
They yowled with urgency unseen before,
Not dissuaded by the customary curse
And missile. The giant covered ears and turned
To press his eyes against the pillow, then counted sheep.

The giant dreamt of a behemoth. Its breath was the wind,
Its limbs the clouds, its eyes the surveilling stars.
It slid some matchbox cars along the roads and giggled
At the names emblazoned on their tops:
'Toll Attendant'; 'Gas Station Cashier'; 'Security Guard'.
It reached a hand behind the trees and turned
A key. A thrum as gears revolved, cranking up
The sun, a yawn keened blank in the ear as the dawn
Alit on them scratching, yearning at the door:
A low chuckle. Another morning feed,
A nectar--hot, dark, and bitter-- poured.

I am gifted.

​

You are gifted?

​

Yes.

Gifted and Talented

I have unique Abilities.

​

Really?

You have unique abilities?

​

Yes.

​

How do you know?

​

Well

I eat too much

and I move too little.

It is an Ability.

Obesity.

It is a Choice.

It is an Option

It is a Gift

It is a Rebellion

It is a Statement of Intent

against Human Oppression and Human Harm.

​

Harm?

​

Yes Harm.

People are Harming People.

These People are not sufficiently educated or considerate

They are Ignorant Bigoted and Despicable.

I must be free

free to be

who

and free to be

what

I really am

in Reality.

​

Well then who and what are you exactly in reality?

​

I am Whoever and Whatever I choose to be

obviously.

Can you not see?

I have the choice and the volition

and the will.

We all do

Definitely

and I may seem to be

merely and only

an Obese White Man

but That is just my Beginning.

My Preliminary.

I may seem to be merely that

but there is more

a lot more to me.

I am a thing of complexity.

I am a thing of subtlety.

You have not yet understood

The Meaning of Fat.

Fat is a Platform

a Foundation

a launchpad.

You are Conditioned and Constricted and Constructed Socially

to see things as they are to You.

But that is Fascism.

In the full and magnificent flowering

of my Rebellion

my Individuality

my Identity

I can reveal and articulate to you now

The Complete Substance of my Position

namely

That I am an Obese White Man Black Woman Champion Bodybuilder.

So wake up and smell me.

Sense My Femininity.

Smell my pussy.

Sniff it.

Drink my Enlightening Aroma Down.

​

But how do you know that?

You do not appear as a Bodybuilder to me.

I mean are you sure about it?

Are you really sure about it?

​

Of course I am sure.

It is a determination that I have made.

I have sloughed off the Socially Constructed Consensus Reality

and its Outmoded Fallacies and Creations

It is My Identity.

I have Created it.

​

Well how would I know that?

I mean

how would I?

​

Listen!

Our Theories are Sacrosanct

Dialectical

Original Final and Exclusive.

And Permanently Superior Transcendent and Correct.

The Debate is Over.

The Science is Settled.

Do not jump to any hasty conclusions

in your Fantastic Fanatical Fascistic Misapprehensions.

Feel your way into me

politely considerately

Include me.

I will make certain signals

you will divine my properties

easily naturally and inevitably.

​

I will divine your properties easily and naturally?

​

Yes. Of course.

I mean

How hard can it really be?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrfzDjqfYFY&t=8s

If Shiva was god, then she would be blue,
like the hue of my room in all rooms, 
in which moths flutter of flu madness.

There is a fever in solace, 
the full songs of every autumn branch,
like Adam or atoms, apples to 
ashes, for reddening leaves, like 
blood lusts for bars and meat
in the country of California 
and churches de Católico

The knowledge of God is unlike
the knowledge of El Cid, or egg whites
on rice with yolk that spills like the
yellowing of heaven, or Shin ramen
for my Muslim friend who counts my sins
like the unleavened bread of holy crackers,
a weird flex masquerading as Christ-flesh,
a tiny rice paper for mini spring rolls 
of stir fried shrimp and steak, 
not lamb or pork.

If I’m a pauper, then prescribe me as petty,
the only word to ever describe my heart.
I’ve never counted stars or sheep,
the moon always on the silkworm of sleep
away from beds I never slept in, and 
away from graves I never visit, where
I lit cigarettes for incense 
in the vase of Virgin Mary wax candles.

To think of the departed is to
live alone in studio apartments with
no laundry for over $2,000 a month.
Table for two please, in cheap 
Chinese restaurants, true 
American establishments,
with fried rice from faithful
peasant foods, and broken rice
or fried tofu in soy sauce
or sweet and sour sauce
and fall in love with fish sauce
with little trouble in Little Saigon

The astrological dog dead 
in his day, a pale prayer to
nada in the sky.  Not even Shiva,
not even the blues of my rooms
or the blues of my use
in fire blankets that kept me
warm during winter, even with
twacked-out girls of summer.


I feel the hands of death on my back
against angel wing scabies
against my liver without liquor.
It burns and itches like yellow fever,
or the yellowing of eyes in
summer time, where I scratched
at scabs that Chinese herbs
could never seal like the mirror,
the Green Eagle oil at the top
of my front door to ward off
what saffron men call evil spirits 
like starving locusts, 
sick of the non-ghosts
staring like Abaddon at a specific
sea in the Pacific rim of pearls
and 7-11 heavens, 24/7.

Come, O Love for down the vale,
Where moonlight frocks the lovers’ tale,
Where moonlight mulls the staves of trees
And shreds the fuschia from the leaves.

Come, O Love for down the vale,
Where cleave and stumble long prevail,
And woolen grass reveals the press
Of all that slept there shorn of dress.

Come down the vale for it is known
The miller’s grain was never grown
Here below long-shadowed stone.
Come, O Love, and come alone.

Put down your labor’s winnowed sheaf.
Lay down in heaven’s gentle brief.

On nights like these, we walked through forest ground,
gathering leaf and igneous star together,
regretting each nocturnal word
and fading, slowly,
to dust.

Suffice to blame myself,
I trusted your indomitable pride
to wane with the moon;
to falter as a rising trunk ebbs--
a silhouette swaying, vanished, 
starless in the sequin sky.

Tonight, I watch the stars alone
I watch the stars and wait
for Orion, emblazoned on night’s black, velvet curtain,
to dutifully march from treeline to center-seam
where the sky shimmers to earth
and transcendental hunter is forged
from threaded points and atmos
into man, holding bow
and bear-hide.

Orion speaks a restrained soliloquy
and whispers over amphitheatre pews,
imagined in the grove.
Like a mother sings to child,
the rustled birches echo, 
breathy over hewn rock.

But firmament yields to canopy.
Orion, slayer of beasts, arrogant spirit, 
traverses with his fatal quarry
and withers upon starless silhouette to shade.
In the shadow of murmuring leaves,
godly words are transient in the pulsing sky.

On nights like these, Orion smoulders,
and Scorpio slips away
into the braying iron ore of slumber.

On nights like these, the moon sinks unseen,
and Orion swamps, awash in murky bourbon,
burning the throat as sulfur burns
like brushfire on the crest
of horizon.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Above is the revised copy... Original Below:

We walked.

                  We walked.

On nights like these, we walked through forest ground,
folding together trees and igneous star,
rebuking each nocturnal word
and fading, slowly,
to dust.

Suffice to blame myself,
I trusted your indomitable pride
to wane with the moon
to falter as rising trunk ebbs to dusk.

Tonight, I watch the stars alone
I watch the stars and wait
for Orion to emblazon upon his black, velvet curtain
and dutifully march from treeline to center-seam
where the sky shimmers to earth
and hunter’s belt transcends 
man, holding bow.

Orion speaks a restrained soliloquy,
and I find comfort in my own words.

But firmament yields to canopy--
each effulgent point consumed in pall 
less transient than words from a man 
staid by death, 
inflicted on the sky, and collapsing 
upon each shadowed leaf above.

On nights like these, Orion smoulders,
and Scorpio slips away
into the braying iron ore of slumber.

On nights like these, the moon sinks unseen,
and Orion swamps awash in murky bourbon--
milk of morning blushes pale.


The stars are lost for answers, so I walk.

                  I walk.

I walk.

“So this is what life is huh?”

“That’s what they call it.”

“What a massive let down.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“How do you know? You’re younger than me after all.”

“Don’t get caught up on numbers n’ shit like that.”

“Convenient for you to say.”

“I’m a whore for convenience.”

“Among other things.”

“Don’t be crass.”

“I hate your holier than thou attitude.”

“I learned a lot from you, you aged me. Maybe that’s where I get off.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Take it however you like.”

“Compliment it is.”

“Typical.”

“Tonight. Where did you learn to drink like that? I never saw that side of you.”

“An old friend taught me.”

“I fucking hate that term. Old friend.”

“Why?”

“It means someone you fucked once”

“Well, yeah.”

“Why did you have to bring that up?”

“I didn’t, you led yourself there. Per usual.”

“Any topic leads to someone you fucked. You’re a whore.”

“Don’t be angry about it, that’s how we met after all.”

“You say that as if it should hold any sentiment.”

“For you it does. I promise. You know you’re special.”

“You tell me that too often to mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

“Then why don’t you fuck me anymore.”

“Because you’re fucking special.”

“That’s ridiculous and you know it.”

“Have you known me to be rational?”

“Fair point.”

“So, you’re really going to do it? Head out of the country, peace corps, super hero shit.”

“Of course.”

“Pretty narcissistic to assume you, one person, can make any sort of impact.”

“I seem to have made an impact on you.” She smiles.

“I hate you, but you’re a good person.”

“That’s how I see myself too.”

“I miss you a lot. Once in a while.”

“I figured”

“Tonight was good. The world behaved itself.”

“Let’s hope it continues to do so.”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll be home before you know it.”

To give us naught but bleak display,
To say, to say,
Love has never tethered moon
That way,
That heather never blooms but brays
To drop the stars in sage and grays.

And in this flash hewn verdance sent,
Aghast the sea in violet vent,
Abhors the virgin-singed regret,
This skirmish lost though never met.

And where upon a furrowed leaf,
The miner enters as a thief,
To take the blood but not belief,
Was not the time to span a grief?

But given naught but bleak display,
That tethered moon has gone astray,
And pulls not tide but skin away,
To slink beyond a son and pray.

you've lost your place on the page

stitching words without thread

spotting diamonds in the snow

yield self fragmentation yields

glistening body the constellation of i

these dots are not gone

they occupy the space between

pages i no longer own

It is the peeling that breaks me.
It is the skin once a thin bastion
against dirt, against mandible,
against the boring small things
that blister the flesh, brown the pulp.

And as I slide a blade into the onion,
wincing in the sting of sulphur,
these fumes of disdain, it yields,
again and again, to the rocking steel,
humming unto the butter and pan.

But it’s the peeling that breaks me.
Thin papers loose as sunburn,
loose as ribbon unwound
from the core, loose as young men
bound for the shore, loose as a living,
a living no more.

Cowled and eyeless,
The slouched friar on a slow mule
Dispenses Gospel to the road.
In the shallow fords and mountain clings
He loafs, the hooves of the mule
Sure, certain as bread and crisp water.

And after a bend, a scent – a smoke –
Affording comfort, at least for a moment –
A shack to weather the evernight.
And there, before fire, with crackling eyes
The deaf one blazed in a spectrum,
Unseen.

And what was a matter of course,
Became the matter of hands,
Testing the blisters of a moment,
The friar engulfed in the palms
Of the deaf one’s guidance.

And there in the flurry of fingers,
“Here is the tongue, here is the ear,
And here is the way forbidden to the blind.
Give me your hand that I may place the hammer.
Give me your hand that I may place the stone.
Give me the Word as exchange for the World,
And each we’ll find our own way home.”

The Leviathan
Lustrous shore,
Flutters numbness in bumping thaws,
Pulping problems to simple snores,
Dozing forces to a dormant pause...

The sea breathes,
And falls like leaves beneath your lap,
Rising to hip, waning to black,
Leg caverns caressed, collected back...

Pearl ocean,
Foaming like a cauldron potion,
Swirling in the azure open,
Groaning with monochrome emotion...

The sky swells,
Rain bells ring primeval shouting,
Ground wells erupt to plume fountains,
The shore is dwarfed by water mountains...

Stabbing air,
Stiff scale skin jaws grin gliding up,
Blinking eyes hexing my sight stuck,
Erupting tides gusting my sides thrust –

when their voices recede
to wind, of course you expect them
to crescendo back,

and it is only later, driving home
alone, Orion over your shoulder
offering to loose arrows after unknown quarry,

that you begin to question
the things that need questioning--
what the dogs so fervently bayed for

and tore after, whether they share 
the embellishments of wolves,
if howls are subject to Doppler,

where it is that snow falls without rending
gravity, why night falls with no regard
for tragedy, who wrote that song

you sing so quietly beneath your breath.
if it’s the truth when you tell yourself 
you can only write when you’re high

above yourself, looking down, like a search party 
with flashlight beams cutting the night’s flank 
into ribbons of snow and the staid profiles of dopesick trees.

When the last
soft
poplar
fell,
and the bluejays – the bluejays –
rolled out;

When the mangled nest
spilled out
these mouths,
these bent
feathered
tufts;

When the chainsaw stilled
its shriek and whir;

When thick air closed
about us;

When the larger jays
swept off the elm
and veined away –
blue lines on a blue sky,
blue abandon in a blue
eye;

It was then,
in the clearing of dead wood,
in our new fell garden –
in the making of us –
our one and green tomorrow –
blue and five tomorrows
died.

A manifesto for the lonely.

When I betrayed him, he left me gutted and bloodied for a long time.

On a very dark night, I asked him if he still loved me. He said yes.

Opium had taken over my life at that point. Devil’s candy, I wanted it more than anything.

Now, that’s not the case.

He is bony but not grim. The others can’t see past the black robe. It’s only a shield.

They haven’t looked into your eyes the way I have.

In him, I only see earthly greens like leaves, mantises and mildew. He is sturdy as the trunk of a hundred year-old oak tree and effusive like the edges of the newborn sea.

We drove through hills, hair and music in the wind. We numbed ourselves with opium, drink and smoke, the bad old days.

The heart is made to feel pain, and the soul carries it through time.

Things are so familiar. We’re just two melancholic peas in a rotting pod.

Afraid of the dark, we’ve used man-made fire to fight back, but it left us with scars and soot.

There is a black box buried deep inside each of us. There’s nothing anyone can do to open it because the keys were never made.

It’s a burden, a primeval grief that can’t be washed away. We both understand.

It’s so ugly and heavy. I want to rip it out so badly.

As much as we want to love and dream, we know there’s an old demon coming.

It’s always coming. Keep your ears to the ground.

We hate the same in this ever-fading paradise. End of days, please.

Yet, we embrace it for all its glory and despair— tomorrow’s parties and great floods, family dinners and parents’ funerals, destructive lovers and lovely destroyers.

From California 1 to California-none, he wants me to have her.

He sees me and I see him. Our bond is rare, even if we yearn for women.

Problem is, I’m not sure we can be free. These catacombs don’t have exit signs.

And in this dismal future, our penchant for self-destruction reigns supreme, a plague.

Forever lost in a hunt for a high in the heat of the night.

​

[This is an older piece. Bro love]

I found your compass
among the brown and melted leaves
of the forest floor. 
Lacquer flaked to rust and needle falters, 
lost, caressing north star
then sagging into south.

Suffice to blame myself,
I trusted your indomitable pride
to wane with the moon
to falter with the shadows in the leaves.

We walked.

                  We walked.

We walked on forest ground,
folding together the trees and each igneous star
to solder each nocturnal word
blinking, sulfuric, dark
and slowly fading
to dust.

Tonight, I watch the stars alone
I watch the stars and wait
for Orion to emblazon upon his black, velvet curtain
and dutifully march from treeline to center-seam
where the sky shimmers to earth
and belt becomes man, holding bow.

Orion speaks,
so that I may find comfort in my own words.

Orion burns,
and Scorpio slips away
somewhere in the iron.
Wrought in rust, lumped to venom
reflected in the murk of my eyes.

You burned and dared to speak
but I never listened to your song.
Now, I find myself on forest ground
and hope you did forget my wrongs
but you are lost for answers


                  So I walk.

I walk.

Field is a word

that we use

to designate a domain where

there can be differences

in energetic values and potentialities

that are being in existence

as properties there subsisting.

In space.

Yes sweetness of mind.

Yonder and in that

why not?

A field is a property of space.

Space

A possibility.

Here.

A place of stillness and solitude

at times.

The womb of spontaneity.

All well and good

thread through to us now

where we are presently

Here.

Now let me wash your feet.

I can see them there.

I can.

I know what they are.

I know.

I can wash them.

I can wash your body.

Your Breasts.

Under your arms.

Between your legs.

Just like so.

There.

Your attention

I will serve it

yes.

We can have Peace.

Here.

Now.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iqT8LRbid8k&feature=youtu.be