I am in the fight of my life
For my life
With my life.
And my mind cries
Find my tie,
Step off my chair,
Let go of everything,
And reach into nothing.

And you say we are in the fight of our lives,
For our lives
With our lives.
And our hearts cry
Find our ties,
Sit in our chairs,
Let go of everything,
And reach for each other.

Oh.
I see.
It’s not my life
I fight
But my my.
My my.
My my.

If I can make it to now
Things will be all right.
If I can focus on here
Not those things that might.

If I can make it to now,
Things will be all right,
Even if horror
Is clearly my plight.

If I can leave behind yesterday
Let past times be past.
If I can forget what must come,
No matter how fast.

If I can make it to now
And feel sadness inside.
If I can just let my grief
Be kind future’s guide.

If I can just make it here,
If I can just hold on now,
If I can just reach my hand out,
I’ll find arms that allow
A holding of comfort
Where tears can run long,
And when sewers are washed clean,
Keep hold firm and strong.

If I can make it to now,
And let go of escape,
The grey fog of sorrow
Shall slowly undrape,
And valleys of flowers
Fed strong by the dew
Will await present me
To finally break through.

Oh shapeshifting calf!
You are furious wolf,
And laughing goat.
You are wounded bear,
And cheeky monkey.
You are devious fox,
And lovable puppy.

Lest anyone sense your shaky legs,
Lest anyone see your lonely eyes,
Lest anyone feel your fearful quivers,
Lest anyone hear your longing lo.

I wonder if you look beyond your mind’s pen
Would you find there are others
Who can smell your bullshit,
Yet not recoil.

Can you trust them to lead you out?
Can you trust them to clear the byre?
Can you trust the pastures they steer you to?
Can you trust?

As I wander wonder
My weeping withers.
And I wonder where
Wonder wanders when weeping.

There are three types of people in the world:
Jasper Johns, Monets, and Vermeers.

From a distance the Jasper Johns are all fucked up.
Get near them, and they are still fucked up.
And get really up close, get into their space, and you’ll see, yes, still fucked up.

Monets, from a distance, have it all together.
But get near them, become their casual friend, and you’ll see clearly how messed up they are.
And really up close, it’s madness.

And Vermeers?
From a distance they have it all together.
Get close, and they are still all together.
But get up really close,
Become their lover, and you’ll see the crazy.
The harrying of the brush-strokes.
The mad war where greens meet yellows.
The peaks and valleys of the oils clumping on the fabric of their canvas.
Perhaps controlled insanity? But insanity none the less.

In intimate closeness, they are all maniae.
Yet this is not all they share.

Each is viewed but through a frame;
If we lift and look beyond we see the paint fade off.

Vermeer’s kitchen fading to the nothing house.
Monet’s Japanese bridge to nowhere.
John’s paint splotch that just stops, ends.

And in this nothing,
We find everything.

The painter is there;
The brushes are there;
The wheat and the chaff;
The flowers and the roads;
Even the abstract, the numbers and concepts.

They all live beyond the wooden box of our constraints.
The frames are just a view we impose upon them.

There are three types of people in the world:
Jasper Johns, Monets, and Vermeers.
They are all beautiful.