There is beauty in the unknown,
unknown in the beauty
of the unknown
is the beauty
of the unknown,
which is beautiful
on an unknown sphere,
so dear,
here
in the unknown
beauty
of the unknown
is the beauty
that rests,
waxes
and wanes
and seeks not to interpret
nor explain
the beauty
of the unknown
beauty
within the unknown
that hurtles
through internal and external space
in the tears
and the lines on the face
that grows old
within the beauty of the unknown
is the beauty
and the softness
that yields
and flows past childhood
and the memories
we lose
so we may gain
the wisdom
of what we cannot know,
or explain,
because
beauty is not an experience
that resides in the brain,
but in the spaces
within which we move
in bodies,
on bodies
spinning through outer spaces
and nebulae and black holes
and foundations
floating through time
and rhymes
about the beauty in the unknown,
the unknown in the beauty,
and how two is three
because space
has presence,
character
and grace
within every fold
and untold beauty
and a secret
tucked inside the unknown
times
of space,
elegance and pace,
the dance inside the space
of the unknown beauty
is a place
plus one
and two
is space
in the dance
of happenstance
and chance
is the beauty
of the unknown
in the spaces
of space,
past the beauty
beneath the place
inside the heart
of every body
is shared space.

Love is not a place,
or strategy,
direction,
or inflection
of voice,
or choice,
thing,
way,
or dream,
even though
it may seem
like one
to me,
a man
lost in his own sea
and multiple versions of ‘me’,
each one a fortress
designed to shut out the mystery
of self
and the feelings in my head,
as I struggle to remember
what I meant
when I said
my soul had limits,
and boundaries,
and things no one could understand.
———–
As I bid adieu
to the many versions of you
who
were me,
I wonder at your place
in my story,
your history in my space,
as I age in place
without an observable trace
of the pain I experienced
and caused,
the scars
inside my heart
that will not heal,
because some questions go unanswered
and perhaps are not real.
———–
In a world full of 6-figure dreams,
it seems
like the cost of what I gain
causes too much pain
inside my heart
and the nature of my soul
tucked away inside
the forest that is childhood,
sprawling,
crawling
with wonder
and hope and sounds
within smells inside memories
caressed by small hands
that held nothing
except everything
I needed in moments
framed within a boundless imagination
near streams
and stones
that knew
and know
that the nature of myself
is but a ripple in a sea
that is and is not me,
and so we
undulate together
in a galaxy
far, far away
on a summer day,
dreaming of childhood’s end
and what’s around the bend,
future and past
nearly touching a charcoal sky,
stars twinkling,
I ask why,
but is that the question
I need answered before I die?
———–
I guess the answer depends
on whether there is a distinction
between the means and ends
and how I tell my story
and whether I frame myself as a hero
or simply a man
without any answer
or plan.
The universe is vast,
but is it grand?
Is there land
beyond the sea
that is me?
Is there a hard edge to finity,
or might I slip through
my own reverie
to discover I am
but one blade of prairie grass
swaying in the great pains of life…