My new dress has a label with the brand name written on it:
the song my father serenades my mother with.
“Made in Guatemala”, also,
triggers my sense of entitlement.
I have a roof over my head,
I have a writing desk and somewhere to write.
Pain teaches those of us who have room for depth,
to focus on what we do have, to tilt the mind to
a positive pole, the maneuver to end the
Tiny fingers slave to produce a stretchy dress I pay
two dollars for.
In America, we live like kings,
Dressed in all our finery, covered in regalia,
empty rotting corpses.
Trees do not wear clothing.
I have my wits about me,
and this makes me lucky,
for I have everything I need.
Love is all around me,
I can touch it when I’m free.
Depression is molasses,
but laughter contagious.
When you got nothin’,
you got nothin’ to lose.
In the moment, we can choose.
But the choice is already made,
in the moments before.
What have you cultivated?
Last night, a mystery glass
shattered in my shower,
my anxiety Manifest.
Perhaps there are worm holes all around us,
and we are swimming with shallow edges,
form A and form B existing inseparably.
Could you stand the truth that you are all of humanity?
You are Trump and you are Bernie,
fears and love woven seamlessly.
Rebirth is painful,
tricky to talk about,
so I write.
Worry is a tidal wave,
and I am the fluid shore.
Can I keep the wave at bay?
Fight to live another day?
When will this cease,
I’ve been down on knees,
give me what I need.
But the flood is a metaphor,
for the Mother.
Emotional destruction for me,
a little tiny fingertip of Hers,
a paper-cut on her thumb,
the kind to forget a moment later.
Can I please stay here?
Can gratitude be my stage,
so I can sing my song?
Ropes and pulleys
jog my muscles:
this world’s choreography:
“that isn’t me”, “this isn’t me”.
But who am I?
Anger, for this question, that I must be something
other than fluid.
Other than wide-eyed at the miraculous vision.
Other than planting seeds and watching them grow,
mastering the cycle of nurturing prosperity.
My boys lie down at the bosom of Love,
beating strong in my chest~
deeply nourishing daydreams,
a glimpse at the wonderful, at the spectacular.
She thrust a knife in my hand and told me to tackle her,
and I did, breathless and excited to throw a punch.
The warrior does not exist merely for war,
but for the spiritual life of the warrior,
to compete with the psychic noise that
exists out of fear,
a frequency we can no longer afford.
This game, this new age,
is transparency. How free can you be?
Can you be as free as free can be?
Can you survive on a daydream?
Little tiny eyes peeking through the blinds out the window,
the storm has ended, come out to play.
Little tiny hands and feet and cock and pussy,
and freedom as our foundation.
Maybe they won’t have to suffer like I did.
Born in a world devoid of meaning,
finding the ultimate truth within myself.
I can show you. I can teach you.
I can be with you.
Gratitude and certainty,
faith and confidence,
the positive pole rising like a shore combatting tidal waves.
Baby, peace be with you,
keep at bay. We got this. We are yours.
We are the grand-daughters of the witches you could not burn.
We live to fight another day,
we live to bring forth the rEvolution.
Fear no more.
Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!
~that which does not serve.
It is born in love, and it will never die.
Visita interiora terrae rectificando invenies occultum lapiden.
The age of Narcissism is over. We are in the end times,
dying to be reborn in the cauldron of creation,
the fire that purifies and ignites,
the passion fueled apocalypse.
Birth and death a seamless whole united,
where do we go when we die?
Does a thumb worry about the well-being of the body,
does a form envy another form for existing over there?
The obsession with the mind is over,
it’s time to ground the power, it’s time for the
heart to take over.
Love a woman. Let a woman love you.