Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Soul Currency

Soul Currency
by Jason Motsch

My vision takes the train 
across the room and 
gets off at the stop where
my guitar stands waiting.
The old man waiting there
picks it up and begins playing
a tune, his eyes pouring
out a question as if to 
say, "any money would be nice."
What is the currency of my soul?
Taking the instrument from his 
hands I start fashioning my own 
song.  Playing my 
life story, from the first time
my fingers tickled ivory,
walked hellborne hallways in search
of refuge amongst other children
who sought the harsh noise of the 
electric gods,
discovering the thrill of hitchhiking
throughout the countryside on a radio dial
that played music only I liked,
never feeling alone while holding
my fares for destinations full
of treble and bass clefs while
riding the bus on school and solitary
trips to abandoned houses where records
lay scattered in upstairs lofts amongst
books about acid and hippie propaganda.
Even stepping off the plane for awhile and parachuting
to the ground to land in foreign territory 
until discovering the familiar landmarks again
of monuments to my musical loves and lives,
until I grabbed the reigns and eeeeevened out.
Yes I am standing next to that old man where 
I have taken my guitar back,
and I pay with the only money I have,
my love for the song of life.
As honeybear says,
it's continued freshness of appreciation.
And I continue to appreciate.
A dance with the old gods of Egypt from
jazz to ancient deities of metallic monoliths,
a nap with the kittens who lead me to 
verdant fields where the streams 
of space and time flow free,
reaching into each other,
spontaneous and supercharged
from a moment played 
into this symphony from technological
fun and frolic,
we bring the divinites of other realms
to the table where we feast
on audio performances  from our eyes
into our souls.

Thursday, May 22, 2014


by Jason Motsch

I see the patterns repeating themselves,
following their own seasons within my being like
a reflection of the leaves falling into an autumn-bound lake
within the woods at the end of summer where the turtles
sense the oncoming winter as a phantom ghost.  
Then I come marching along with my backpack and my 
specimen tubes, gathering samples from the terrain,
from muddy waters to rocky soil to thriving leaves, to take
them home to be put under the microscope.
I see the organisms within moving, struggling, and I
am in awe of their strength and beauty, living alongside
all of the molecular structures, trying to steer clear of the bacteria.
But the black bugs of disease are still present, trying to further 
the trails of internal dischord.
It is only by viewing them through my various lenses in the dark
on the night of my spirit that I am able to let go of them
and let the forces of my inner cosmos deal with the vagabonds
of my existence,  flying through meadows
of soul flowers, taking nectar from each one where God's love
flows free and divine into my spirit, nurturing the body and freeing
me from old ways of living from inside out.
Birds break free from earthbound nests and soar in to the air
singing songs that light the entire spectrum of feelings with 
colorful sounds.
Happy with my work, and like any good scientist,
I now submit my findings to prestigious journals but 
in the end, the most important judge of these things
is my point of awareness,
the one that is free of concepts,
empty of descriptions,
bereft of patterns,
and devoid of attachments and desires.
It lies like a deep under ground cavern at my core that waits
to be discovered.
I will dig as far as I can.