Brian shares about his personal transformation journey and clumsily hopeful philosophy of life through spoken word poetry, reflections on inherited patterns and how they mirror society’s trends, stubborn arguments with his better nature, and a philosophical monthly reminder to embrace the mystery of being alive: The Paradox Papers. He also shares ways to practice the S.H.I.F.T.™ — approaches that work for him and that anyone can use to regulate their nervous system, rework their inner narrative, and relate differently to suffering. Small internal shifts matter. They ripple. And over time, they quietly become a different way of living. If you’re here, you’re likely called to
Brian shares about his personal transformation journey and clumsily hopeful philosophy of life through spoken word poetry, reflections on inherited patterns and how they mirror society’s trends, stubborn arguments with his better nature, and a philosophical monthly reminder to embrace the mystery of being alive: The Paradox Papers. He also shares ways to practice the S.H.I.F.T.™ — approaches that work for him and that anyone can use to regulate their nervous system, rework their inner narrative, and relate differently to suffering. Small internal shifts matter. They ripple. And over time, they quietly become a different way of living. If you’re here, you’re likely called to
The present is a present it’s a gift It’s the only moment that can cause real shift Learning happens now Not before, …
I’m way up ahead, on Debauchery Lane With snow lined surroundings that make me insane Crush the fine powder under my feet …
I wake up daily divided deeply disturbed by both the ease of my life and its listless lack of learning I long …
Ebony skin hangs on thin glass bones. As the boys dance I marvel that ankles don’t shatter. Can I have one copper …
My screws are loose And my sanity has been Re-attached so many times with masking tape That my skin burns and becomes …
(written in Iambic pentameter) Like a matchstick withers in a rainstorm I don’t stand a chance to stay dry or warm And …
I open my window to thick heavy air That feels like cement dust, or ashes, or cotton It’s clumpy and sticks to …
I am painting rivers with my toenails so I stand in dry rock beds smearing life back into crevasses that crack and …
Does there even exist for me a person with whom to share a deep mutual respect and understanding encapsulated by a fevered …
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