Brrd Roots ~ Fractured Echoes of Life and the Unseen
Something is missing.
Not broken, not lost—just unseen.
A pulse beneath shifting shadows,
a color spilling beyond the lines.
Tonight bends differently.
Or maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe it’s just the turning,
the surrender,
the knot tightening again—
stomach clenching, mind folding,
the past breaking into dust.
Fragments scatter.
Whispers haunt.
Desires flicker and vanish
before they can be named.
Backward now.
Unraveling.
Letting it all remain unknown.
Marriage and solitude twisted together—
soft hearts, deep tissue,
goodbyes settling like loose pages,
scribbled thoughts caught in the wind.
Someone murmurs—
Bah bah bah, ha ha.
Pain or laughter?
Both. Neither.
Does it matter?
Some wounds never heal.
Some mysteries stretch across time.
Some losses are never found.
This is the past.
This is the now.
Mad minds wear mad hats.
Kindness flickers before power.
The strong stand with quiet grace.
Giants cradle silence like something fragile.
There are castles—
some real, some imagined.
Paper tigers guard the gates.
Salt hangs in the air.
Whale breath curls into mist,
krill drifting beneath the waves.
A word rises—
Blow.
Wind?
Whispers?
Impact?
Yes. All of it.
Sight shifts.
Smell pulls at memory.
He cried once.
He died once.
Then became fully alive again.
Violence burns somewhere far away.
Spirits smile, exhausted.
They reach.
They listen.
They touch anima, touch human,
stretch senses wide.
He tries to salute the flag.
Tries to sell the sum.
Tries to make sense of America.
Walls raised. Gates closed.
The world pulls itself apart.
Artists stir sadness into movement.
Pull dancers from their skin.
Let breath spill across open space.
Getting it right.
Failing. Adjusting. Perfecting.
Legacy carried in motion,
in practiced steps,
in something barely surviving.
Smoke rises.
The next day begins.
Bright sun. Packed lunch.
Too busy for the weight of busywork.
Numbers press against his mind.
Heads counted.
Oceans burn.
Tides thin.
Marine life shifts, disappears.
Billions lost. Billions found.
Surveillance tracing ghosts.
A smile pushes through blame.
Concrete hearts bury themselves in soil.
Shipyard dust clogs the air.
White walls restless, waiting.
Get your art out.
Get your story out.
Hands stretch forward—
some reaching,
some letting go,
mortal spirits thinning into memory.
Truth arrives in fragments.
Stacked. Projected onto screens.
Edited into something digestible.
Netflix hums.
Prime Video flickers.
Another episode. Another show.
Another doorway into forgetting.
This is the binge.
The silence between noise.
The rhythm of solitude.
Numbers spin.
Salt stains sand.
Urgency presses against the shorelines.
Artists paint cliffs.
Mudslides bleed light into shadow.
Sweat clings to skin.
And then the question—
one simple, sharp thing:
Do you have skin in the game?
Conflict Zone
The Mortal Spirit’s Flight
Send your messages—
to the living, to the lost,
to birds that stayed,
to those who chose the wind.
Olive trees whisper their choices.
Branches tangle, stretch, retreat—
a reflection of solitude,
of secrets half-buried
beneath clusters of pale blossoms.
I am a mortal human bird artist,
part movement, part madness,
performing, unraveling,
crafting moments that hover
between real and imagined.
Embarrassment sings—
a spectacle, a farewell,
wrapped in laughter,
streaming like ritual.
Cyn-noza, send a reminder—
a monolayer of thought,
salt of the earth,
cell booster, inspiration.
Saloza tips Silo’s solo inlay,
Berlin hums, Africa stirs,
Babylon fades.
Toddler Fredy waits too long—
what now?
Tell me.
Mala shamela, atoms flicker,
Bodeso hums,
Super Nick, The Rodent Tic,
Kala Abba repeats on loop.
Through ceiling windows,
sunlight slips in,
soft edges, eggshell wall.
Abbott speaks through Skype—
a procedure at Dawn Red Hospital,
a war zone bleached blonde.
I am present.
Next—a relay event, a siren call,
Yellowbird at the bath,
sipping flower tea,
no drooling, no cheating,
come alone.
Raw power, slow-burn strength—
laugh, but feel it first.
It dies before it begins
if you don’t.
Who is Iggy,
this mortal bird dog?
Spring hunger, restless motion,
stage moves defining shape.
Not a rock human,
but something else.
Rock, roll, ride, reel—
syn, sin, science.
Volume unburied,
matter never gone,
chemical ghosts.
Zap it.
Burn it from satellites.
Passion in the wreckage,
something good.
Come alive, mortal human bird.
Listen—messages in outer spaces.
Unplug, go screen-free.
Womun, Mun, In-Between Someone—
for sakes, for Funfondo,
you live this span only once.
Music hums,
Bo-bro-her-haz,
come again,
alert the sky,
put violence to bed.
Lovely aliens,
you with infinite memory—
remember this.
Haiku Gallery of Backwards Breathing
White walls swell, swallowing light,
a hollow hum, a song unmade,
its rust singing backwards.
Exhibits dismantle under time’s weight,
outdoor spaces fold inward,
sculptors chip away ghosts,
truths unravel before they form.
Perfume lingers but twists—
aromas recite forgotten experiments,
neurology fades into scentless air.
One visitor stands—
but the gallery watches instead,
whispering movements in reversed rhythm,
exercises that unlearn the body’s heat.
Photographs blur before the shutter clicks,
home movies rewind into absence,
directors unthread the memories,
painters erase color with absent strokes,
until the walls breathe void.
Intimate rooms expand, swallowing depth,
stories retreat into silence,
awareness shrinks
to the size of a single thought,
until the gallery remains,
vast and white,
empty but waiting.
The Feeling of Becoming Alive Again
Break the weight of overthinking. Move.
Let rhythm take hold, let motion renew,
Stand if you can—let pulse break through.
Music wasn’t meant to be analyzed, restrained.
It was felt, lived, carried beyond thought.
If movement feels distant, shift the upper body—
**like an island breathing, like the hush of wind over water,
like a silent dancer whose feet never touch the ground.**
Let joy take up space. Let it spill into the air.
Let existence, for a moment, be fluid, effortless, rhythm-driven.
---
Sound, Memory & The Layers Between Thought
The night hums with echoes—
huddled voices, deep city vibrations,
the murmuring of markets, the lullaby of birds above rooftops.
Unseen, yet undeniably present.
Movement is life. Birds move for love.
Moon-glow blue, slow-burning red,
oxygen-laced purples spill ahead.
Urgency dissolves into rhythm. Boundaries shift.
Let’s go—step into something unfamiliar, something waiting.
---
Perception, Movement & Shaping Reality
How we move through the world shapes what we see.
Stretch the body, wake the muscles, feel the heartbeat rise.
Motion clears thought, sharpens perception,
reframes hesitation into instinct.
Fast-walking breaks the freeze,
dance unbinds, minds release.
Artistic movement expands beyond passivity—
motion rewires, motion reclaims.
---
Human Imperfections, Reflections in Motion
We live inside mirrors—
watching, tracing, deciphering mistakes, unraveling the past.
Distraction everywhere.
Another turn, another flash, another algorithm pulling attention elsewhere.
Entire systems exist to fragment focus, to scatter comprehension into exhaustion.
Yet beneath the flood of stimulus, beneath the chaos,
something deeper waits.
We dig into geological layers, extract crude oil,
fuel industries, power lives.
If not us, someone else would have done the same. Perhaps.
But justification does not erase consequence.
It does not unwind history.
To move forward, we must first see where we stand.
---
A Pattern Forming, A Presence Emerging
We are not static.
We grow, we transform, we become—
layer by layer, thought by thought.
Someday, the movement we create will take shape as something greater—
something that **gracefully embodies all identities,
all cultures, all expressions of Earth’s vast and intricate reality.**
But why wait for someday? Change is already unfolding—
**in the spaces between thought, in the rhythms of movement,
in the unseen forces shaping perception**.
The future does not stand still.
It forms beneath our choices, within our voices,
inside the patterns we weave.
This moment is already an act of becoming.
Becoming, Moving, and Evolving
Pattern Emerging, Presence Unfolding
We shift, we grow, we rise, we bend,
we stretch beyond, we start, we send.
A presence forming, taking flight,
unbound by labels, bathed in light.
All identities, all embrace,
woven through time, through thought, through space.
No waiting, no looking ahead,
we shape the now, we move instead.
---
Human Imperfections, Reflections in Motion
Watch the world, mirror the past,
trace the cracks, feel what lasts.
Distractions spiral, lights flash fast,
thoughts dissolve, seconds don’t last.
Yet beneath the flood, beyond the noise,
truth still lingers, waits, employs.
What we extract, what we claim,
who holds the weight, who takes the blame?
To move forward, stand, reclaim,
step beyond the doubt and name.
---
Perception, Movement & Shaping Reality
How we move defines our sight,
shapes the old, pulls forth the bright.
Let the body wake, feel the fire,
step beyond, reach up higher.
Fast-walking breaks hesitation,
dance pulls weight from limitation.
Stretch, expand, reset the frame—
motion rewires, motion reclaims.
---
Sound, Memory & The Layers Beneath Thought
Echoes hum in layered tones,
hidden deep in city stones.
Night shakes loose forgotten songs,
rhythms rise where they belong.
Birds unseen, moving free,
pulse and pattern, green tea.
Moon-glow hues, shifting streams,
let’s step beyond, into the dreams.
---
To Feel Alive Again
Break the weight, let it go,
let the rhythm take control.
Stand if you can, feel the beat,
move through time, sync your feet.
Music once danced in untamed waves,
felt before words, free before chains.
If movement stalls, shift, sway,
like the tide turning, like the break of day.
Let joy expand, take up space,
let the rhythm lift, let the world embrace.
