empty, almost

is growing closer 
up and out 
and down and god is getting 
squeezed from all the gaps,

like the last 
bit of toothpaste in 
the tube, to 
land in the 
sink by the drain, missing the 
end of the toothbrush

Shadorma November, Day 4 (nine days late....)
(...or does that make it eight?...)


"god" is a word.
"god is dead" is three words.

Meaning is fluid, pumping 
from three words
to what you believe 
I believe.

“guts” is a word.
“I hate your guts” is four words.

I don’t know your guts.
My words are
meaning moving in
your guts.

“Can you taste the venom in my soul?”
I have no soul.
You have no guts
to call your own.
Venom has no taste and
no vessel. 

“Guts” is just a word.
“Soul” is just a word.

“god” is 
just a word.
God is just.
God is justice.

Justice is a worm.

I have worms in my guts,
God’s guts.

...puttin' the Po' in NaPoWriMo...

More Watts…

…I swear Dieu is channeling him…

“If we cling to belief in God, we cannot likewise have faith, since faith is not clinging but letting go.”


“And the attitude of faith is the very opposite of clinging to belief, of holding on.”

“But the attitude of faith is to let go, and become open to truth, whatever it might turn out to be.”

I know these three quotes seem almost the same but I think if you read carefully, there are some important distinctions to be made amongst them.  Each one illuminates a different facet of “faith”.  The light hits each one in a different way.

Alan Watts

When I was younger, I devoured every thing he wrote.

Dieu’s latest post got me thinking.

I’ve been revisiting his books and thinking a lot lately about how much this man’s thought has informed my own.

“In looking out upon the world, we forget that the world is looking at itself.”


“The source of all light is in the eye.”


“You are a function of what the whole universe is doing in the same way that a wave is a function of what the whole ocean is doing.”


Thanks Dieu–




God is dead?
Old Friedrich may have presaged it but
He is still in his wracking death throes
he will not go gently
into that night
into which we plunge
He’s in his wracking, shivering death throes,
grabbing our sleeves, white-knuckled in his gnarled arthritic claws,
crying for the mother he never had,
rending his hair,
tearing at his own chest,
cursing his own heart
his own children,
begging them,
“Tell them I said something…”