Drain You/Love is the Answer to all the Terrible Shit

Don’t you know,

I want to drain you of everything.

That I am this dry receptacle wasteland without you?

I don’t wanna waste you,

spilled cum on the floor to be wiped away

just won’t do,

just like I don’t leave my blood

unconsecrated.

Why am I the only one who wants to

jump in the flames? I am brave.

You are scared,

your voice shook,

reverberating from your emotional

body into your heart.

I want all of it. I can take it.

But you are always scared.

Can you imagine what it means

to be the Earth and desperate to create different dreams?

Do you know how desperately you

need to give?

Can you admit it long enough to surrender?

To surrender more than once?

To be constantly surrendering?

It is so easy for women, the

orgasmic fluid circuit machine,

to feel it all. But men can

only see her, experience her,

through increments of giving,

not of his wallet,

of his expectations. Of his control.

And his release is getting a taste of the Heavens.

Plant medicine came from the Earth

when man cried for the divine,

for the Goddess,

for ecstasy,

for release.

And we find in the plants the feeling of home.

It is the mothership.

Where have the Feminine Arts gone?

We need to be the spider whose web

is a silvery, crystally rainbow castle

that we cannot wait to bring guests to,

not a dark sterile hag who tortures like a tyrant

because she has encased herself in cement,

but to lead with a chain of flowers,

seduction/intoxication/shamanism/ecstasy.

Take your pick.

They told us that seeking divinity

was a sin because there is no way

we could be as holy as God.

They told us prayer and true spirituality

were a waste of time.

They told us what they were told.

They were showed that religion and fear were synonymous.

They attached the state to it,

and in the name of God decided what was holy,

based on an ethical morality of the kind of

human who is isolated, Alexander standing, staring,

looking over at the kingdoms of the world he conquered,

contemplating his jump.

Entrapment is the way of true love’s sinister sister.

And we listen because she seems like she has total control.

To hell and back.

Life is a journey to hell and back,

changed,

trialed and errorerd,

reborn.

In other words,

move to the places that scare you.

 

 

 

 

Feed women.

May women learn to hunt.

It’s the only way we can begin to worship true divinity and un-tap the power of potential.

 

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Nothing is True All of the Time

And during the day, I am a vegan organic crunchy hippie with lifts in my shoes and a moral code built on ethics of Christianosity but I’m Jewish looking around going, where am I?

And at nighttime, it’s give me all of the drugs and screw a bra and torture me. Let something terrible happen because I know that destruction is the only material I have to work with.

Commedia del Arte. People laugh at the tragedy survivors carry with them. Transcendence is a gift and this moment is all there is. In the nighttime, I’m only a puddle of darkness occasionally chastised by the moon. But her light is no match for a bitch like me. Go ahead and give me your best shot. I’ll take it in the chest and use my blood to write the poetry of my death. It goes something like, “I’ll be back.”

And during the day, when the sun scorches my youngish skin, I change my hair and my clothes hoping to make my face and tits look better than they did before. But they will never look better than they did before. Nothing new will hide the fact that I’m a corpse in the making. But still, ain’t it fun to put a shiny wig on rotting flesh? Maybe death won’t notice me, we think. Maybe just this time, I’m too cute to die. I’m too hot to die.

And the addicting power of no shits, of escape, of depression, of caring so much we don’t care at all, teases us with early death, the promise of a brightly burning light aflame, fast and gone. During the nighttime, I want to kill the princess. I want to fuck my way through the United States. I want a microphone. I want the confidence to castrate. I want my tongue cut in the center so I can shock and lash. I want a bullwhip and vagina dentata. The daytime is oppressive with her moral highground and fear and expectations and doing the right thing.

Isn’t this the end? What is this good life we promise people? The privileged, those of us who stand there and show others the good life? The western way, stuffing your face, addicted to suffering, to being miserable and fat and aching for transcendence, to be fucked, locked in a cage of desires we’re too stupid to touch.

The pressure of expectations: babies haunting me, the umbilical cord attached to my mother which I hold in my mouth, drinking in ancestral bribes of mediocrity. This is not for me. This is not for me.

Do what makes you happy. Do what you makes you happy. Drugs make me happy. Sex makes me happy. Cruelty makes me happy. Friends that  burn bright and ask where we should bury the body makes me happy. Is that good enough, ma? Is that okay to share with your friends? Can I come to dinner parties and family reunions and weddings with a sword in my cooch?

I don’t wanna be good. Don’t wanna be good. Do what makes you happy.

Being bad makes me happy.

Any institution places the bar at a level no one should aspire to be. Mediocrity.

I wanna blow it up, ma. I want to dance free, on the street, encased in leather.

I wanna burn through them, ma. I wanna poke their eyes out.

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The Butterflies

I am sick of words like

‘yummy’ and

‘juicy’ to describe a

spirituality to heal me

if I am standing in the middle

of a fire, looking for healing

remedies for heat…

“Get out!”

Where are the truth tellers,

grab ’em by the ballbusters,

pussy wearers,

don’t take no shit,

don’t take no money,

street warriors

that only stand for the well-being

of the soul?

Bald men in suits

make money

make money

make money

leeching it out of

the purebred

muscle of the soul,

potential that millions

of people have sold.

We built cages

around our broken hearts,

filled them with cement,

locked the doors.

How many lovers

are willing to chip away

at the concrete remains?

And can love even save us

if it is not our own?

Can we be save-able?

Am I save-able?

Do I need to be saved?

Death is the great

equalizer.

Zoom in. Scale down.

What really matters?

 

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Stick to a Plan

And I look for myself, Pa, in the structured lines of boundary,

but find them fading

as I am here,

then I am here,

finding myself in the space

where he dropped his towel and

did not notice. I grew excited in my seat

waiting to see

who would pick it up?

Should I pick it up?

I did not pick it up.

And I find myself this body

of lines, wrinkled and hard

against the backdrop of

sometimes-purple cacti

and drooping flowers,

anticipating,

will they drop?

will they drop?

I will not take them.

I wait for the Ocotillo blooms

to hit me in the head so I

can make tea like the rest of them,

and I stand there waiting,

but they do not drop.

So I go home alone again.

I find myself in the expanding

distance between

the hiker ahead,

the biker ahead,

the driver ahead,

do they think of me?

Do they comment on my backpack

and my patience as I walk the street?

Do I register on their radar at all?

 

don Juan Matus said,

“Sightseeing is for people in cars. They go at great speed without any effort on their part. Sightseeing is not for walkers. For instance, when you are riding in a car, you may see a gigantic mountain whose sight overwhelms you with its beauty. The sight of the same mountain will not overwhelm you in the same manner if you look at it while you’re going on foot; it will overwhelm you in a different way, especially if you have to climb it or go around it.”

When you are a walker,

every place is the same in the sense

that it creates a physical challenge.

 

Is that where I am, in the lines of challenge and easy?

I want to ask my ma and pa,

why did you have me?

As my womb yearns to be filled with life,

as my soul expression craves unconditional love,

what is a good reason to have a child?

Do I need one?

 

don Juan Matus says,

“we are energetic probes created by the universe.”

But it is not enough.

 

You ask me, pa, who is it I want to be?

What do I want to do when I grow up?

 

Am I growed up now?

What about now?

I only ever wanted to know who I am,

and now I know,

I exist in the moments of coming and going,

of shade and light,

of being blurry and exposed

under the sunlight,

and disappearing in the

moonlight.

There is the moment of reaction

to define myself as reactive,

to point to behavior as re-occuring,

to have something to hold on to.

I see the purple cacti behind the

lenses of my sunglasses, but when I remove

them, everything is green.

Why can’t you stay purple, I ask, so that I have something to hold on to?

I am flesh here,

a fleshy body with a name.

My relationship to my name is another story

that is made in the becoming and going.

Swim with me, pa, swim with me in the tides of constant shedding and growing.

Release the shores from the burden of constraint.

Who are we?

The lines blur, like a word we repeat so many times we are confused at what a word is,

or like handwriting on a page that looks like the cardiogram pattern of a heartbeat,

ba-bum,

ba-bum,

and we sing with the arbitrary patterns of meaning,

which disappear like lines in the sand.

And that is okay,

because it makes it easier to love whatever shape.

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Born to Die and Born Again

I was born angry at life,

wanting to die,

separating myself from those others,

I’m better than…

I’m worse than…

I’m all alone here.

Leave me to die.

Who would have thought there was a reason

for me?

Not I.

The greatest truth is that

there is no separation

and there is no escape.

It is all available and right now,

pushed further by anger.

I am not alone.

I have never been alone.

I can never be alone.

Trying to is not strong,

I’ve learned that the hard way.

I have to learn how to be here, with you.

So be patient with me.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

Thank you.

And that girl,

the one from the dream,

with long purple and black hair,

may she be freed.

Perhaps she only can be by me.

Perhaps she is my baby.

Perhaps she is me.

They all are anyway.

I am he as you are she as you are me and we are all together.

Goodnight World.

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Here and There

It is a gift to grasp at my anger,

to use it to create, to re-create a moment later.

Poetry feels fraudulent as I try to capture

the moment before this one.

The one I had to let go of. I cannot

summon it from those places

ideas go to die.

My anger carefully sprouted from

rock bottom,

watered with tears, fed by the fire

of not-giving-a-fuck.

Where is it now,

after I have treated it with a morsel

of soma,

medicine to get through

another night of living

in the fallen world?

Until next time, I suppose.

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Dreams

I wound up on your island,

Near your front porch where

They put in a restaurant and stamped

It with the U.S. logo. You came by,

Slick and quiet, to say hello.

I tried to act cool, like I did not

Want to know everything. But you

Knew I did. You did not indulge me.

You had the aura of a man who

Had been fucked by a real woman

So many times you became a real

Man, and I was soft and sterile,

Pre-menopausal in body, mind and

Spirit. Everything was different, you

Said.

 

She was with her new friends,

A Syrian-Israeli female soldier

And a group of cronies. One of

Them asked you, “so she has to have sex

With you to live here?”

“No, to be a Priestess,” you said,

imploringly.

You looked slick and edgy,

Cold, the warmth was gone.

You did not want to meet my

Family, you did not want to meet me.

We are light years away now,

Blood pumping in opposite

Directions. It reminds me of

The Skeleton Woman. I must

Become as death and lie with her.

You must become as Death and lie

With her. Do you have the Skeleton key?

Just the blood pumping heart

machinery.

I had a dream God laughed at me.

He said, “woman like to pretend they

Are superior to men, the creators of

Life on Earth. To give birth, we must

Have a seed on continuity. Why do you

Women think I made you so pretty?

So much ugliness in life already, most

Of which you bring. How else could I

Ensure productivity never cease? You

Still need a seed.”

What is to come but the dark and vivid

Dreams of night?

Where my lovers fade, where my true

Love waits, making jewelry and taking

Classes on metaphysicians. He is chubby

Or he is from Maryland. My dreams,

Reminders of those who are stayed with

Me. Not real but in the sense that I

Care. My lover, the man of my dream,

Touched me on a mountaintop of

Crystals. But he did not tell me

He already had a lover.

The Skeleton woman objects. To be

Initiated, you must fuck a corpse.

Maybe necrophiliacs are on to

Something. Perhaps I should date one

Of them. They would love me even when

I am dead.

Life is full of false security.

The only constant is change.

The western world wants to put us

In boxes, and bury us before our time

While they keep corpses alive. Breathing

Is not life, not only breathing anyway.

Wolf packs travel with a vanguard of

Elders to give the rest of them a chance

To get away, to protect the young.

When did we stop living life for God?

Self-preservation or immortality.

These days feel like self-preservation.

My womb is empty and hostile.

My spirit is empty and hostile.

They asked me what I wanted to be when

I grew up and I said, “a tree.” Well, only

In a dream.

 

 

 

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Schrodinger’s Lavender

It must be a fruit fly,

dead on my thigh,

drifting over my birth mark

of Orion’s belt. I remember

this time last week,

he guessed what it would be

before he dipped his lips and

begged to kiss it, my soft and

milky relatively supple skin.

Just like now in reverse, he was

lavender when he breathed hot

air on me, and now he is dead.

I project myself to a time when

I am old enough to see not so

supple skin. Everything looks better

in a bathtub. When I was a girl,

I did not think about these things.

They always ask old people what

they would say to their younger selves,

what about writing to my future self?

It is romantic to think of a letter I would

write to myself and never read.

It is romantic to think

somebody might care about me

more than I care about myself one

day( which is not much, despite

the rudimentary evaluation of

an ex-lover). What is the legacy

of a Jewish-American woman?

The role models in entertainment,

in medical fields, in law offices,

we are everywhere, filled with the

guilt complex and instability of

being a Monsanto plant with

superficial-reaching roots. Nobody

cares about the Jew, unless they are

hermaphroditic, or transgender, or

black. Impress me, Jew, do your dance.

None of it is even that good. What

about the Jew with the long face?

What about the long face?

What about?

Those Hindu Hare Krishna tableaus

with the process from birth to death

piss me off. I only capture this moment

in poetry to prove that I once existed here,

in this moment, that there is something to

show from my time in the middle. The

fruit fly is lavender, though death

does not bother me anymore. I am

at once a brilliant, shining star

and a rotting corpse. I do not hide it

anymore in the American way. I want to

rub it in your face. Why does ancient

knowledge make no difference? “Women Who

Run With Wolves” was written in 1992. I was

two years old. It may be too late for me,

completely filled with apathy. Where do we go from here?

Preach to the choir. Make yourself happy.

Is art worth more than sharing?

We are on lifeboats. Where is life?

Happiness, meaning, dreams, reality.

This is my moment, my breath in a wasteland

of noise.

Where do we go from here?

Dead fruit flies and lavender.

Maybe that is what the Buddhists mean by “emptiness”.

 

 

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Fears

I’m scared of my teeth falling out,

and I’m scared of physical pain,

I’m scared of being humiliated,

I’m scared Karma is really a bitch.

I’m scared of being judged,

I’m scared of cancer,

I’m scared of the raw power of an Empath,

and I’m scared that I have it all wrong.

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