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HOME: Wherever I May Roam

the One

By Robin Postell

The last three letters I enjoy slowly one by one…I know you think I’ve grown increasingly distant and it would seem so because I’m not reaching out much, but you are always on my mind

a tether I know is attached to me and sometimes I float out further and don’t constantly check to see if I’m still safely secured but eventually I always pull myself back to the ship of you

My anchor

The safest holiest friendship I have

I like our connection as it is. The thought of ever meeting isn’t something I envision probably because my mind sees a perfect order to the universe in which we two planets orbit the sun

There is a rhythm steady and certain that never fails or falters and having that one simple unsoiled, sacred gift of friendship is better than most unity I’ve ever personally encountered

Flesh is Not Trustworthy

Always seeking and recoiling, blooming and cringing, raping moments meant to be loved, loving things empty but for a narcissus visage in mirrors and smoke


Flesh is not holy unless it is scrubbed clean by a spirit higher than the purest mind, affording that rainbow body and perfumed residue at its end instead of a cold hole in deep dirt to rest its fetid husk like most

Enlightened ones achieve that needless state of being and are neuter to the underbelly serpentine nightmare of want and hopeless longing

Yes I have drifted from the slowed down moments like these where words can float and spark into place without effort.

I don’t know why, other than the beast I walk at the end of this leash is not reliably tame, and however penitent it can become and roll upon its back for an humble guileless belly rub, it will get back on its hooves and chase that matador and red flash until the signals in its brain are not able to coordinate as one but as many, and they ramble and grumble and pontificate and brood and curse and slander and pray and plead and on and on until lightning sets its brain aright and atonement begins…


You know the atonement, it is this me, that doesn’t think but acts and moves forward at high speed with wide eyes and mouth open devouring the moments when I’m whole enough to get that visit from the One,

The Muse.


Writer and photographer since age 7, I took it pro when I turned 21, freelancing for newspapers and magazines internationally. Now, I'm shifting gears looking for new adventures, both personally and professionally - the two have, frequently, been synonymous. A writer must adapt to the tsunami of technology and information in this brave new world. I'm game. R

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