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
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
into mulch and back into the
Are we like leaves? Made of smelly
and the grotesque,
sulphur burping in a swamp,
Shit and farts and breath and
odor, the body dying and birthing
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,
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.