Crescent moon. Star. God is love. Natural renewal; cyclical theory. Elucidations on serendipity. Perfect posture. Please and thank you. Parenting. The color red. The quality of color. Monk monastic servitude to aesthetic ascetics in artistry. Pink is the color of my fingers, goes well with yellow and with blue. I feel beautiful a bit hallucinated up and slower for it, got an eternal gaze. I feel spiritual free in the beloved beautiful, God is here, lovely, lavishing i, I Am lavished into with adorations, senses on spiritual happenstance. Sunrise before. Blue hour. Three novels actually. Actually. Woman is so lovable i want to love her well. Awesome and inspiring. Cute and sweet as she is strong. Beautiful is she, she’s been found by my soul and i know her souls feeling well. She’s good to me, beautiful in and out. I’d like to love on, in her.


Pink is the color of my fingernails, i feel pink-yellow, nearly also blue today. I’m a painter. Sit and watch the east star writing from an antiqued checkerboard table about the moon, just a crescent slip of light reflective sound, hardly an echo of sunlight, still king of blue hour. 


Yellows begin, greening blues of deep space. Humdrum of them people populate the soundscape. Tracks are recorded in subconscious memory and attached to the smell of morning dew mixed with my own body smell.


I am thankful for God, love, trees, songs, birds, my friends, gabi, ariana, nathan, alex, mother, father, justin, alicia, beth, MJ, coffee shop folk. The artistry is with me with God; you are majesty making rightly pure transformations into purer thoughts and actions in me. I am impulse, reverberation of one soul’s beating heart of love, wind in through soft flower petals, kiss of sunrise, touch of clouds, vast as a green field, clammy hands, vast as a grass field, open as a shade tree, verbose as this page, love as God.





Love is strange. Beautiful manifest mystery of God. God is love. Love is the seaming touch between, no space between, two souls, forever a moment in eyes, a moment in her eyes, in mine, free eternity unbound, breathe, breaking on through from the other side, in glory, love is really living your life, love is interest apart space and time, again and for the first time, solitude and being so near, being one, love in God, God is love.


Love is a river flowing from endless sea to endless sea, sweetly singing birds in eternity, here and now and now here I am yours tonight, this moment outside of time.


Love is moon to sun. reflection and self. Savored inception in manifest face of the Holy Ghost, good loving. 


Love is pink, white, black, a sunrise, a song, a painting, a perspective, filled space between, an essay on love, on God. 



XI – XIII – MMXX cont.

Chancellor to time; i remove and hold dear and distant hands of the clock. I am the king of everything plays a track called life in my eyes, in my ears, in the attainment to my hands. Be me, be me boast. Be me not, be me illiterate philosophy on imperfect being perfect opportunity to the glory of God meeting infirmity with firm loving action, right here. As we are. As we are in a state of uncertain predilections knowing still God’s premonition is always more mention of love, be love my dearest. Me nearest love, do what you will with it. Give up your nothing. Release all like a parade of kites to the sky winds, be blowing in the will of God, constellate days and adorn us our nightly rest, arm and star for a pillow, lip is a color, taste is new material and spiritual. My baby, my darling, my love is like no like, like everywhere i look. 


My beloved surpasses she in many more likes, like all things, i see you always, hear you always, want to be near you always. And when time turns off, when space fractals; my perspective holds true attention to only you, my love.


Daisies, rose, sunflowers; inner space, roses, lilies; moonlight, grass fields, outer space; our mind; inner space, manifest, this. In all things i’m reminded to love, i live in a glory, my body belongs to breath. I learned once Yahweh signifies and calls upon the God I AM as well as in and out breath. Crafted in hebrew intellect to linguistic action in a spoken breath. All is in perfect balance out the this, that, and the space between.



Between time i find these words written on a milky white grid of blue sky squares, my midori notebook, titled untitled document 2 in black flair pen ink on the bottom right of the front cover, the untitled document is both this and that space between i believe.


Notwithstanding revelation, myself not in winter quite yet, i’ve found the winter language, the text tipped ink to pen like new ideas in old habits, hallowed lands, hollowed hands filled warm with creation. 


This is a poem; i sit outside Cartel coffee lab. In autumn. Two girls talk loud enough to throw the occasional world like love into the music, the this, playing in my headphones. I’ve never been here before, this diamond world. My memory spins like a modern mandala when i watch a grey light white cat awake, scurry a neighboring grass patch to an old man with new ideas watering a tree glowing golden in the season and in the setting sun lights alight on the leaves, pleasantly walking the pleasant street with stories from light years into outer space and back to the grey white light cat walking into my mind like Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami. I will read my monthly chapter tonight most probably; but now i watch that grey white light cat sit and prune you talk funny itself in the middle of the street, casually walk on along into a flower bush. The sun sets on a speeding car, stops at a stop sign, keeps driving on. I hear those two girls talk about film, family, checkpoints and then a loud car drives by, the girl picks up in my ear again saying how she got all emotional, her mom, her dad. I’m alone and feeling life simply lovely outside with a warm coffee warming my handed thoughts as i watch sun set trees red blue hot, godspeed glory one.



Nearly in blue hour before i pull back in at seeing myself back in the outside coffee shop bench inking a page from the perspective of a leafless tree full of pink wood, yellow light, blue sky laurel leaves and brown shadows. I See the orange of sun in the underside of a feather flapping birds wing. Hundreds of them fly the sky, perch on the tree, watch with me the sunset today, november 12 2020.

Still i’m okay getting my company from the stars. Sitting my lonesome at checkerboard writing stories of new, stories of old, stories of time. I give my theory on God and time often, causation affirmation to a good loving creator: Everything falls forward domino you know, intellectual in the lit. throat box spoke what the school want, what they got not without a sleepless night, all these things I return and turn to and for love; anyway, as i’d been intending to say a theory on time, causation: God. That everything came from one thing, that one thing is God, loving curator of faces. Reflections and feelings of love. In love we are met with God, before time and space existed only God and God is love so in love i exist outside time and space. 


Romantic philosophy. The poetics of language. People and crowds and one voice for a historical account of a day in the utter history of today; ahh, release myself speaking on the flowers, departing politics, giving up fear for pandemic, gossip, all that for the good love of nature, our breath, our soul, love and God. i write because i write, i have not a thought like a flower who just can’t keep from living on, like how today that lonely pink tulip now stands tall and together with a new tulip to the sun, sipping love and light potions.