There Is No End-pOint

There is no end point,
no final destination to reach,
no place and space sometime somewhere else
when the drama, misery and pain of Be-ing
no longer exists and when all that you have been seeking
is finally sought.

There is no end point,
no ultimate pinnacle of success,
no millions of dollars awaiting you down the line,
no apex of the American ladder,
no person sitting so high on her mighty steed,
no ascension of a spiritual throne,
no tomorrow that will be more than this.

There is no end point
no grander, better dream
and no frighteningly good, something different.

There is only and ever this
this momentary beat
and collective pulse
this moment
now
this presence
this love
this freedom.
There is no end point.

This flowing river
is a continuum
with no end
and no beginning
no could have, should have and would have been's
no rights or wrongs
no moral superiority asserting a death-defying dogma.
Its steady current merely carves a path
cutting its swath through space and across time
while simultaneously being held and contained by the banks
of mud and root, rock and soil
of earth and light, shadow and terrain.

There is no end point.

There is no far-off better you
no distant, safer shore to sail to
there is nothing more than this
this quiet stillness
and black void
this cyclical nature of birth and death
and around again.

There is no end point
only the simple repetition of in and out
in and out
in and out
out and in
lungs, breath, heartbeat
human-animals copulating,
Earthbody growing up,
Earthbody growing down,
universal motion moving away from
and cosmic consciousness moving towards.
There is no end point.
There is only and ever this.

And the sooner we recognize this
the quicker the liberation
the more comfortable the journey
the softer the blow
of being these spiritual beings
simply having human experiences.

The faster we come to
the more time we'll have
to stand outside of the monkey mind,
ephemeral feelings and fleeting emotions.
To recognize it all for what it is
simply water flowing under the bridge
nowhere to get to, and no one to be
only this
here
now.

Meet me.

Unmasking the Box

Blank slate,
white canvas
a resilient clay to be shaped and molded
empty vessel, waiting container
a precious metal to be distilled and poured
black as night, thick as day
a timeless thief lies in wait

anticipating

chewed off fingertips
of the artist
the sweet whispers of the chisel
the hard lines and the rough angles
of custom and culture
and a smooth sanding of time.

Indian Goddess
(Kali Ma)
a Frida look-alike
hints of the exotic
tempered with a dull sheen
she's a pin-up without a poster
a Jewish princess
dark features reminiscent of the Moors
she tumbles in fluid and grace
revolving brilliant beams
refracted in the spinning light
a kaleidoscope of color, shape and wonder

dancing

in the exertion and the friction, a heat index rises
from the center out, the sculptor melts the coagulating putty
now, a pulpy mass grey with brackish specks of dirt and grindstone
he turns the palm-sized ball
over and over and over again
in his calloused hands, in his palms of wretched delight
a myriad of possibilities
sits

in wait.