Mind of Moog

sound of the wind: aeolian.  

To live well for me would be to wander in a garden. An earthly one. I wonder at the bitter roots of my mind’s fruits—why am I so faithless? I have learned by turning on myself, yet all the while my soul abides. I shed myself and find new skin, moving from vesicle to vesicle. Long is the day and short the night, but darkness shrouds my inner light.   When the sun rises, my cat rushes to the light. It warms her, she bathes in it. I admire her ability to enjoy these daily pleasures. We are not so far apart. I can see her intentions but I cannot reach that inner peace in her eyes.   Beauty lies all around us, I suppose it’s in the eyes. Too often, I sat waiting for another to kindle this light. How deep seem my shallows, how shallow my deep; for that which the eye cannot touch lingers beyond reach taunting the proud. I approach my shadow. Who approaches? I AM, speaks my soul.   Let us not linger too long in the depths. Brevity is the soul of wit.

One wanders around in labyrinthine search of oneself.   Born at the center, we drift outwards until the end.   This mortal coil, is my labyrinth.   I wander in doubt, but with faith in this wandering life, which is mine.   Its walls are only as narrow as my eyes; my perspective is as deep as my gaze.   The more I wander, the more I wonder at the intricacy of   my labyrinth, my world.   As far as I can see, it keeps going— it is growing, it seems.   Once, it was maddening not to be able to see a means to the end.   All our ends,                     are means— we are not lost—                           now I see that I am circulating.   We move like blood from the heart to the brain and back.

I want to will, I will to want, I remain still.   Is this wanting willed, or is it my will that is wanting? -James B. Moog

O, stay not thy visits diva in fur! You move like jazz and weave to me. Wordlessly, I infer your desires. Do not leave. I hear you slinking, undeterred, in spite of our spat, I cannot cleave myself from you. Though you injure me with your claws, I believe it is only your temperament— there, your greening eyes repent! My fury dissipating like a dream; I forgive you and recline serene. You pounce upon me in no time— how could I blame you, my feline?   -James B. Moog