When I’m Calm

When I’m calm,

My only responsibility is show up,

Maybe love.

I become aware of the myriad of ways

One can (verb) down the street.

When I’m calm,

I taste the deep sea of creativity,

What exists before existence existed me.

Time is a Mobius strip made of pain

And pleasure.

Nature is a seed of the archetype is the tree of a seed.

When I’m calm, the depth of this moment has at least as many tributaries as my veins to artery ratio.

There is quiet where once was the imprint of a grotesque fantasy, the kind of day dream only fear can feed us, which for some reason feels more real than possibility.

We don’t care to admit that we enjoy the taste of blood. It drags us back to the dirt when we forget we are not just walking heads.

When I’m calm, I trespass silently so as not to wake the beasts.

It’s only a matter of time, I mumble. It’s only a matter of time.

If I’m not thirsting for flesh or as high as a kite, just where in the world am I?

It feels good, not to rock or to roll, but to watch from backstage, like a bird of prey.

The mask is my own creation, thank you darling, I tell the sweet faces at the ball in the dancehall of my imagination. It is made, thank you for asking, of trial and error. I am a player on a stage, a dancing mirror, you’re so good at showing me what you expect from me.

Alas, 2017, I want only mirrors surrounding me, reflections of forever in my true loves eyes.

Goodbye 2016, thank you for your demons.

When I’m calm, it is the moment I flow down the Mobius river of time and his mother inifnity.

There is availability in the spaces between bouncing, an illusionist knows how to beguile the mind, to turn it away from something or somebody. If it glitters it’s gold.

They are Alice’s multiverse characters that decided not to follow the White rabbit. They are the White rabbits who never arrived.

When I’m calm, we are only potential.

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Life Cycle

We have a life cycle,

as do the people and the activities we engage in.

We seem to claim death of the body as

the end of our one cycle.

It is strange, when you’re young,

only being confronted by images of fading,

withering, the horror of what may

come, with the plethora of possibilities,

stories of the grotesque,

limitlessness; the incapability of

moving forward because the consequences

always seem dire.

The necessity to keep moving through life regardless,

wearing helmets to cover sensitivities because

we hear this world with the volume on blast.

When the music is screeching, it is pure torture.

When the music is bumping,we move like

ballerinas with perfect tempo,

singers with perfect pitch,

it is a choice.

In pain, we are born,

Through pain, we learn.

Pain is not the same

as malice.

When the pain of birth

is a pleasure,

when they have

combined as one,

what in the world

can be of singular importance?

Leaves die to go through

energetic transformation

into mulch and back into the

tree.

Are we like leaves? Made of smelly

and the grotesque,

sulphur burping in a swamp,

Death.

Shit and farts and breath and

odor, the body dying and birthing

simultaneously.

Our life cycle takes on a

spirit, encoded in the

space of what is left

behind. What is born must die, right?

Isn’t that what we have always been told?

What we see is what we know.

What about the allegory of the cave?

You can never go back to quite where you came,

despite constantly striving to get there

once you find out what

Becoming is like; the pain that shreds us

despite jumping in like excited volunteers,

jumping beans screaming,

“What is life? What is life?”

And seeing just enough

to run back to home,

only home isn’t where it

was just before,

it must be established somewhere else,

somehow,

a process of creation over and over,

making our bodies, our homes,

our streets, our communities,

our world feel more like home,

prepping our beds just so,

living to sleep the perfect night’s rest,

the universal mother our home.

From the womb whence we came,

towards the tomb where we go,

to sleep, dreaming into the night.

 

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Waiting

History

and education

are full time investments.

The history of the ant that crawled across my yoga mat,

the yogi who passed away;

the education of

synonyms for self-reliance, and

the truth about Whole Foods.

What is important comes down to

who is looking, it is always me.

Where is life? And what is mine?

It begins now, it always begins now.

I am all of it,

but it seems that none of it

is me, except for the ant.

The ant, I saved and put back outside.

That is different, that is making waves.

Where will I be in 10 years?

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That Which Haunts Us

She told me I’d ruin my eyes reading those paperbacks in the dark.

She told me I’d ruin these eyes by reading blogs in the dark.

Laptops carry their own light, ma.

It was too light(late) for adaptability.


The best version of myself,

is so important people have

made their profession showing me how to find it.

The best version of me,

I tell them,

is after a drink. Or a smoke.

Have you read the news lately?

People don’t have water. People are sick. People are dying in the middle of the ocean. People are burning.

The Earth has smoker’s lung,

did you see the before and after?

It is grotesque.

Mama, what’s beautiful that’s left?

Your heart, my baby, your heart. You are the best person I know. Don’t ruin those eyes.

I dreamt I gave birth prematurely~

baby was smart, baby constructed a shell out of a snow globe ’til she was big enough to go outside by herself. I let her go. I let my baby go.

We are the accumulation of biological ingredients: a recipe that writes words of poetry.

We are capable of great change, for better or worse. Who’s to say?

don Juan Matus says we are on the active side of infinity. A sorcerer is immortal.

A sorceress too.

Some words express ideas that do not exist in time,

and that is impenetrably eternal.

don Juan Matus says the inner silence,

he says the inner silence,

he says.

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Does it matter so much what I do?

Today I can breathe.

I have something inside of me. I have something inside of me,

my own personal dish to bring to the potluck.

Silly tangly tendrils trying to make spaghetti with you, on a fork.

Let’s go.

It is life to be filled with grief and possibility.

 

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Liberation

Love is a defense mechanism of a world learning to stand on it’s feet,

arm yourself in connection or the ghosts will be too loud,

arm yourselves in cock and glorious pussy.

Love is a defense woman, a pussy her wallet,

a dick, the golden seed.

Women took the money for the greatest need on Earth,

because money is power. Or it was.

Where there is a need, there is the salvation.

I want to grow mushrooms and he came.

I need to be fed and I’m fed.

I’ve wandered so far from you mom,

I feel like I’m lost. Should I keep going?

I am still tied to your umbilical cord,

because I can never let go.

I can never let go.

I see you just over my right shoulder,

and up above. I am attached to your umbilical cord,

but Bob, he looked over to say,

you have the wrong name,

you have the wrong parents.

And the wild women, scramble and

shout blood dripping out of their mouths,

you were begging to be born,

what did you think would happen?

I’m only as dead as I am alone.

And that’s all the way sometimes, at the same time.

Until She picks me up again.

And I wonder if I’ll still be here tomorrow,

and I learn how to communicate to her,

I beg her to show me herself,

I am her tiny moth and she is my lightbulb.

Am I ever here? Was I meant to be here?

Just because I am here, and it seems everybody thinks

I’m supposed to be happy.  So I must be wrong, right?

You say affirmation bias, but what about

when I’ve never heard of an idea before, and it keeps coming to me,

and I didn’t know?

I have to trust that the universe is my mother,

just as my much as i trust

my mother is my mother,

or else I’m free-falling into oblivion,

with no sense of safety.

Is this what freedom has always been?

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You had me at remembrance,

when I had given up.

I remember everybody I see everywhere,

their name,

what we talked about,

context.

And I remember you,

sweet princess punk

with other stuff going on.

I saw you,

and assumed you did not see me,

just like everybody.

I thought you

were beautiful

but mean,

looking down at me,

as a customer,

not a person with

hope and fear.

Years later,

when you saw me again,

and I saw you,

I knew you, but did not wish to

put you in the embarrassing position

of being deeply remembered.

But you saw me too.

And you remembered.

And you weren’t scared to let me know exactly when and where.

You let me know you noticed me.

I will tell you I love you.

If I see you again.

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