“The Invitation” by Oriah

It doesn’t interest me what

you do for a living

I want to know what you

ache for

and if you dare to dream

of meeting your heart’s

longing.

It doesn’t interest me how

old you are

I want to know if you will

risk looking like a fool

for love

for your dreams

for the adventure of being

alive.

It doesn’t interest me what

planets are squaring your

moon…

I want to know if you have

touched the center of your

own sorrow.

If you have been opened

by life’s betrayals

or have become shriveled

and closed

from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can

be with joy

mine or your own

if you can dance with

wildness

and let the ecstasy fill you

to the tips of your

fingers and toes

without cautioning us to

be careful

be realistic

to remember the

limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the

story you are telling me

is true.

I want to know if you can

disappoint another

to be true to yourself.

If you can bear the

accusation of betrayal

and not betray your own

soul.

If you can be faithless

and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can

see Beauty

even when it is not pretty

every day.

And if you can source your

own life

from its presence.

I want to know if you can

live with failure

yours and mine

and still stand on the edge

of the lake

and shout to the silver of

the full moon,

“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me

to know where you live or

how much money you

have.

I want to know if you can

get up

after a night of grief and

despair

weary and bruised to the

bone

and do what needs to be

done

to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who

you know

or how you came to be

here.

I want to know if you will

stand

in the center of the fire

with me

and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me

where or what or with

whom

you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you

from the inside

when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can

be alone

with yourself

and if you truly like the

company you keep

in the empty moments.

to touch… the speechless

The soft rain in the window speaks volumes

milk gathers above in the clouds, like rain

waiting…, like green leaves to dance

mornings make you save small frames

a moment, until soon, finds you, like a lost friend calling

the blue flower garden in your heart opens without care

cadence flows under the skin

to touch… the speechless.

“Self Interview” by Jim Morrison

I think the interview is the new art form. I think the self-interview is the essence of creativity. Asking yourself questions and trying to find answers. The writer is just answering a series of unuttered questions.

It’s similar to answering questions on a witness stand. It’s that strange area where you try and pin down something that happened in the past and try honestly to remember what you were trying to do. It’s a crucial mental exercise. An interview will often give you a chance to confront your mind with questions, which to me is what art is all about. An interview also gives you the chance to try and eliminate all of those space fillers…you should try to be explicit, accurate, to the point…no bullshit. The interview form has antecedents in the confession box, debating and cross-examination. Once you say something, you can’t really retract it. It’s too late. It’s a very existential moment.

I’m kind of hooked to the game of art and literature; my heroes are artists and writers.

I always wanted to write, but I always figured it’d be no good unless somehow the hand just took the pen and started moving without me really having anything to do with it. Like automatic writing. But it just never happened.

I wrote a few poems, of course. I think around the fifth of sixth grade I wrote a poem called “The Pony Express.” That was the first I can remember. It was one of those ballad-type poems. I never could get it together though.

“Horse Latitudes” I wrote when I was in high school. I kept a lot of notebooks through high school and college, and then when I left school, for some dumb reason–maybe it was wise–I threw them all away….I wrote in those notebooks night after night. But maybe if I’d never thrown them away, I’d never have written anything original–because they were mainly accumulations of things that I’d read or heard, like quotes from books. I think if I’d never gotten rid of them I’d never been free.

Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.

…and that’s why poetry appeals to me so much–because it’s so eternal. As long as there are people, they can remember words and combinations of words. Nothing else can survive a holocaust but poetry and songs. No one can remember an entire novel. No one can describe a film, a piece of sculpture, a painting, but so long as there are human beings, songs and poetry can continue.

If my poetry aims to achieve, it’s to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.

Jim Morrison —- Los Angeles, 1969-71 “The Lost Writings of Jim Morrison – Wilderness Volume 1”

(Feeling)…Empty

Sunday

Empty…Sky

Empty…Hands

Empty…Bottle

Monday

Empty…Thirst

Empty…Grave

Empty…Pockets

Tuesday

Empty…Plate

Empty…House

Empty…Eyes

Wednesday

Empty…Love

Empty…Bed

Empty…Road

Thursday

Empty…Fire

Empty…Wallet

Empty…Sex

Friday

Empty…Marriage

Empty…Words

Empty…Music

Saturday

Empty…Gas Tank

Empty…Park

Empty…Kitchen

Sunday

Empty…Night

Empty…Kiss

Empty…Sound

Monday

Empty…Faucet

Empty…Job

Empty…Jail

Tuesday

Empty…Freedom

Empty…Religion

Empty…Future

Wednesday

Empty…Pain

Empty…Garden

Empty…Paycheck

Thursday

Empty…Memories

Empty…Tomorrow

Empty…Taste

Friday

Empty…Chocolate Box

Empty…Parking Space

Empty… Ecstasy

Saturday

Empty…Pillow

Empty…Ash Tray

Empty…Heart

Sunday

Empty…Hunger

Empty…Blood

Empty…Shadow

Monday

Empty…Sink

Empty…Shoes

Empty…Reflection

Tuesday

Empty…Toilet

Empty…Page

Empty…Hope.

Dance in the Fire

From the West, my red tip swirls

around your soft turns.

We meet the mount.

Dance in the fire.

Your rose heat peels. Hardness

penetrates the skin of twilight,

between the salts

of your inner

sanctum, and the horizon of my flesh.

Louder! we cry from inside our caves:

we crave the rush.

As one, unleashing our wilds

under the celestial canopy, we dance around

the flames – flashes lick and destroy yesterday’s future

with naked abandon.

Deep…a new deep

beat pulses: ‘no mercy’

in the black night of our eyes.

I die in you, and your soft kiss tenders the East. The clarion sun

slowly rises

and painfully plays the golden note

of our rapture.