[Thespiritexpress] Endings, Beginnings and a Few Things In Between

[Ed Balldinger]

Here is the entire prosaic poem of which I read most parts this morning in
Pathwork.

Blessings of connection to all, through all, and in all...

~ Ed

P.S.  this is the *"getting close to finished"* version of the poem I read
today in Pathwork. I seem to change parts every week to this poem as I find
changes in myself changing...

*Endings, Beginnings and a Few Things In Between*





*And beside the grassy banks of a slow, transparent stream,*

*You seemed to contemplate an unforgiving history,*

*and the difference between clouds and their reflection.*

           ~ N. Scott Momaday




Another new opportunity blows across this thinly veiled life of mine.
It clutches
my eternal fabric as if all my garments have been left unworn. My other
suit *(not the one from my birthday)* awaits a good wear this year.
Although it continuously alters itself, I’m aware that it will be worn,
torn, and sworn to some salient secrecy in mystery’s midst.



That with which I identify is clearly obscured by my own plain view with
far greater frequency than it once was.  From context to content, in a
constant array, presence plays in silence where nothing is left unsaid.
Where words stir friction in a slurry of ritual’s need, perfect
incineration prevails.

That which triggers happiness is an unloaded, disassembled gun.  I move
toward its mouth with ease.  A friend inquires, *"Is that a trigger for
you?"*  I holster my inadequate response momentarily – spilling favor in
turn – a transformational skill I picked up in high-school watching Cheech
& Chong educational films.  There were other trickery bits I learned along
the way.  I’m not sure that anyone was aware of what I absorbed, but it all
worked out in the end as far as I’m concerned.



Then I reply in repose to my friend,  *“No, I don’t feel triggered so much
as I feel bludgeoned by public opinion pulverizing my pineal perception
with a common misuse of language without revealing how each one of us are
so uniquely connected to our collective disconnection.”*  My friend kicks
the dirt in circles as I go on, “*I still learn from some sense of history
– his, hers, theirs, my own – that we *(a repetitious lot)* are often
misinformed by our own factually elaborate gaps, milking soft truths from
the core of all cores, whipping our own withering tit to the tata-tat-tat
of a synaptic trap wrapped in this society’s great misinterpretation.”*


Jesus told me once, *“Three drops of purple reigns a fistful of rock.  A
grain of sand, possibly once a mountain, is on the move again.”*  I’m not
certain why he told me so, and now there’s an overflow of suspicious
redemption layered in a clairvoyant residue beside me.  I pack lightly for
the next trip.  “*No choice but to choose*,” or so I’ve heard it said.
Some of these sand granules remain unshifted in listless winds of wonder.
I came to find grooves askew in chasmic dispensations, lain low in the
super flow of lava lamp transfusions; an hourglass built on concurrent half
hours, one hour at a time when time devours its own identifiable
transmutation.

Matches strike tinsel lips on mercury kisses stuck to uneven bricks out of
reach from finger’s tip to slow-down devolution done, and there is no union
dissolved in the *“un-one.”*  This new unity no longer disavows.  It
reaches through various clarities yet to be unseen where sacred bread
assimilation begins in line; a millennial shift in radical disbeliefs
roughly goes pervasive, and a rickety, rocky fella scores rations in a
can.  No land left unturned.  No turnkey turns out so low.  No last rite
reads its own ceremonial farewell.  And for none of that, there shall be
one guarantee.

All this to say that each adventure unties itself at the base, letting
loose its own choiceless choosing of a traceless trace soothing the beast
within, without...



hesitation…



hunger…



emptiness…



          despair.





Edgar Z. Balldinger

   January 3 – March 5, 2024

*     © Nublin’s Pub, 202**4*
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