so many words uttered in the silence of a stride now
rather than on paper
let fly inside a glance
a whispered stranger wrapped in studied pauses
gaps inbetween these motions
stop times in jazz like life or
breath or remembering to just be and
let this locality flow around me
and through me until its flow and mine are inextricably bound,
a consciousness conjoined by celebratory simplicity

a woodsman and his axe
when tools become extensions of the hands
when blood flows through my pen
joy through my eyes and touch

meditation and purpose unite in a work that is not work
when images become words and words become images
and everyday becomes art
cast out on the canvas of my very being
in a breath, in a silence, in a pause, in a stride
before the axe cleaves the wood in twain
before pen or brush or blood spills out on paper
a purpose so pure it binds these silences together in a sound louder than any shout
echoing down the passages of time to ears
who hear that resounding purpose centuries later and pause
and find comfort in its peaceful scream

knowing at least that someone tried
when it mattered most
that someone never set the axe or pen or brush aside
no matter how fierce the wind and cold
that someone listened to those same dreadful silences,
paused,
and then went to work anyway
to create for creations sake alone
art which becomes itself
purpose which exists inside the studied pause
jazz that lingers long after the listener has left
leaving its mark on the hollow walls of time.