the revolution of everyday life


it seemed that he was never able to look away,
though such inner insomnia also had its price.




all attempts at clarity,
especially those successful,
only ever seemed to lead
to further obscurity.



there came a point when it appeared
that those who genuinely cared,
not for themselves but for others,
could only ever live in perpetual grief.



though quite sombre by nature,
he nonetheless found it difficult
to take things too seriously;
especially upon realizing that eternity
was only ever perceived
in the most fleeting of glimpses.



and what of the fact that the lightness he often felt
could just as easily bear down with incredible force
almost crushing him?



of course, there were rough patches, that was inevitable. what was
unsettling was the fact that his pleasures, too, were quite unforgiving.
leaving him to marvel that he experienced any joy at all, even at the
best of times.



the day eventually came,
which of course was no surprise,
when he began to wonder
how to discern between true silence
and what he suspected to be
a certain inner deafness
to which he seemed increasingly prone.

. .


he never ceased to be amazed at just how far
the tendrils of his inattention seemed to extend.



while sitting there, waiting for his lunch,
he began to ponder his options.

but no matter what he came up with
it always came down to pouring
from the empty into the void.



the world always appeared to offer a choice:
one could plunge into it
or simply skate across its surface—

either way he was left gasping for air.



it became increasingly apparent
that transcendence and immanence
were actually synonymous.



beauty has no memory.



each morning,
his first sight
was of the unseen.



an ecstasy of truth

— no doubt,
but it was far
from ecstatic.



often, he found
the best companion
to be an empty chair
—perhaps a little too often.



it seemed that his disasters
were, for the most part,



going to take his seat,
it suddenly dawned on him
that, no matter where he sat,
he always seemed to be sitting
on the edge of the light.



mouth full of sand;
the shore lies within.



it appeared that one of the most common mistakes was in equating
perfection with happiness, for undoubtedly there was also no shortage
of what he had come to term "dark perfection."



having sacrificed the better part of himself,
he now suspected that only those offerings
that were proffered by no one,
to no one,
would be accepted.



his garden produced
but a single flower—



in what, for him, amounted to grace,
whenever it all went to hell in a handcart,
(as it almost always inevitably did)
he tended to find even the desolation



what if we spoke
from the world instead?



it didn't seem to matter where he was, or where he went, his doubt,
as well as that of others, always followed him – even more faithfully
than his own shadow.



he could often be found
looking out the window,
gazing towards the origin.
until that inevitable day
when he will have turned
and gone to stand blind
on the threshold.



being a true friend,
grief was always
there for him.



rising early he took the opportunity to watch the world form.

the rest of the day would then be spent wondering why it never
actually amounted to anything substantial.



to his ever-increasing dismay, he came to suspect that it wasn't the truth
that was being sought, but rather only the experience of truth--and even
then only if it was pleasant.



it was easy to turn away from himself, or so it seemed, but no matter
how hard he tried it seemed impossible to turn away from others.



cupping his hand to his ear,
he closed his eyes
and held his breath,
listening for even
the faintest echo
of the light.



all too aware
of the fragility of the world,
he retreated into his shell
in order to reacquaint himself
with his own.


twigs... pebbles...
shards of glass...
even scattered,
suffice as nest.


perhaps life
itself was
the fissure.


if messiahs there were,
grew slowly,
had to be tended with care.
although he suspected
that any fruit they might bear
was already to be found,
full and ripe, in the hole
into which the seed
had fallen.


gently lifting the veil,
he discovered the obvious:
nothing had been hidden after all.


in spite of everything,
the sky always found its place —
even when scattered across the lawn.


silence too
was waiting
to be slayed.


needing something warm to drink,
he put an empty tea bag
into an empty cup
and let it steep.



the time had come
to let the world
dictate his vision



one day, passing the shelves in his garage, he thought that it might be
worth an attempt to store the sun in some jars. over the following
weeks he carefully bottled what he felt would be a sufficient amount in
case of emergency. but after the winter had passed, he looked at the
glowing collection and thought it all seemed so selfish; so he took off
all the lids and waited for the clouds.


he constructed monuments
to a forgotten gaze.



over the years he had come to prefer the existence of a hermit--
it was so much easier to renounce his solitude when he was alone.



there was a lot of talk about victory, but he wasn't sure he saw anything
that needed defeating.

besides, on the few occasions that he did decide to join in, by the time
he put on his armor and chose the appropriate weapon the battle was
already over anyway.



messengers came, in all shapes and sizes,
telling him things of greater or lesser import.
yet, no matter the message they carried,
he always received them and gave them his full attention,
so that each and every one might depart unburdened.



unlike others
he was acutely aware
whenever he went absent



someone mentioned that they were putting on some music in order to
drown out the music playing in their head. as this sounded like a
plausible methodology, he decided to try a similar strategy in
regards to stupidity.

after several attempts he deemed the experiment a success, but he
came out looking the fool just the same.



he found it preferable
to keep the eyes open
on the off chance that he might
catch a glimpse of the breathless



no longer expecting anything
from anyone
he was soon shattered
by kindness



after flailing about for so many years
he was out of gestures

time to let the world



he slipped quietly into himself
not as an end but as a means


Just so you know...

all images and text © Michael Tweed