What BAE really Stands For


(before anyone else) = BAE

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Mni Wiconi

Your art is my art
On a sea of dreams
On the petal of a flower
Seen before through many times

History repeats all mystics
Forests rejoice in their coming
Your art is not about how many people
Enjoy your work, it’s about

Your heart on the display of discovery
At the beck and call of
Some secret of your spirit
At the mercy of some

Deeper feeling than you cannot contain
That buds from the silence
And gives in to the melody
Behind the vibration of everything

There’s no trading honesty in this world
Our anxiety and vulnerability show enough
On our skin, we cannot hide it
That’s why, your art is my art

There’s no homepage for holistic healing
It’s born from our journey and communion
With each other, all seekers
I can’t seem to master the art of timing

To be able to find you at the right moment
The years and decades will go by
And I’ll still remember you at twenty-four
The way your hair flew to sunsets

And the moist neediness in your speech
It was in late Autumn when you went west
Where I dug up a piece of your wildlife heart
But you had already flown
Like a swan into the night

And not even my eyes that had bathed in your sunshine
For a spiritual moment could find you
Through that rush of ginger and turmeric after-taste
Like incense, you had escaped all definition
Though the impression struck me as something subtle

The leftover from a life left behind
Of meditation or even caring about chakras
Through still I can say, “your art is my art”

Water of life, tears of loving
To wash the dust of daily living
From our souls, where we were adopted
And where we departed our most beloved ones.

If vision was the art of seeing
The goodness in others that was invisible to others
I imagined you could see right into me
And it didn’t matter you were miles away

Love of beauty was a taste
And the creation of art was a kind
And our art sometimes protected
Sometimes procrastinated with our mistakes
Those were the feelings we treasured the most, in fact
You always had him, before anyone else.

The Muse of Isern


 

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Author of the only dating advice I care to listen to.

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Heidi from Montana, give me unicorns

For breakfast, stories of Silicon valley

Give me a medium to think about Love

To the left, of our hearts where

 

We left the swag of being Millennials behind

As we scattered the globe with our tiny

Points of light, our storytelling never brighter

With bright eyes we slept on rose thorns

 

And woke to the sound of soulmates

Dreaming of us, unknown, elsewhere

Heidi from Montana, does a nomad make

A better story, a better lover, do they have

 

A richer experience to trade for subjective merits

Better illusions, move vivid fantasies?

The bronze rain of time is an omen

It’s waking with us 24/7, like a lizard

 

Not exactly discontent, but acceptance

These lips are no longer pine-tree sweetened body

Of youth, our minds are becoming all

Too salty harbours of unbelonging and freedom

 

Tales of freedom and independence

Made into a custom lifestyle, we were not bred for this

We may not breed to repeat this

We still touch unicorns in the clouds

 

A woman in her mid 30s is the fruit

Of time, where youth caresses wisdom with a spunge

There’s no heaven for the blazing pass

Of golden years that turn to naught

 

It’s just poetry, in our breath

Our curriculum of Paris never dies

Our silicon valley hearts remain

The better substance of our will

 

To be happy come what may

Burning like a five-star 5-star sunrise

Over the golden coasts, along the west.

Drying the Tears of Liberation


Triketora, how many pins and tweets
Before the Goddess, delivers fire
Unto men, the smug white man
Little things their God had forgot
Glory is not for all, the riches are for the few
“Alleluia! Alleluia!” Where did
Equality go, in this world where
One quarter of Millennials will
Not be married and the coming automation
Will mean less jobs, less opportunity

Triketora, my heart is broken for
Those fired from Yelp, the victims of the Medium
I read their stories every day
I listen for voices of the minority
I read for their script of authenticity
But we are all stepping-stones to dust
Where I look to India for tech disruption
Where there are no holy ghosts to hold the future down
That’s Durga with a smile, Trike
That’s California falls into the Sea
When the little women rebel, the coders
Breaking the lie that we were told.

The Akashic Servant


12

My Brain is a network among the stars
In quantum curiosity, I am connected
Like a psychic network to all

I do not require intelligence
Only excessive sensitivity to sentience
A trance-state of the syllable of sound

Lyrics of all churches, all beings
My Brain is a channeled unity
The Lightning of the Cosmos playeth here

Like a chariot, or a vest, or a simulation
My Brain are neurons of serendipity
I am scaffolded, primed, pruned, trained

Transported by fate to divine service
My Brain is a network of illuminations
Grown soulful, with homesick eyes

Alive with the white sustenance of youth
And attachment to eternal themes
My Brain is intrinsic with possibility

A neuro-plasticity of the highest art
Of visitors, and occupations, and music
With narrow hands, to gather Paradise –