holy

23 Jan

There is nothing but

holy.

I wore it today as a mantra

in traffic jams

and temperature swings

and in the checkout line

where I was handy

and open

next to  magazine and candy gossip.

Enough flowed through

to bless the swollen wrist

of the Target cashier

from RA she says and sighs,

so painful,

sweet one, yes.

When we are there with her,

our mind’s hand covers her pain

with tactile love

while we drop to the spot

left and right lungs

touch the fire pit of our

singular abyss.

Holy rains on

holy messes

and blesses us all,

despite.

 

 

 

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before or after we gone

26 Dec

What is life from no vantage point?

Center dancing and catalysting with every other center –

a friction of creation.

We, bombs bathing in lighter fluid,

montages of memory –

the white noise of yesterday

mixing with the headlines of today

blind to the rumbling volcano now

where we are

made, destroyed, and made again…

The first collisions of matter still echo,

songs on the victrola traveling out,

borning to dying, a 30 second film –

a scribbled line from here to there –

disbanded drying and dying,

then gone,

a whimper AND a bang,

i say,

and again.

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the plot

25 Dec

When I have simplified my life

to a single dripping faucet,

each falling drop

the entire spectrum of sound, sight, taste, feel and smell,

each plop an endless reverberation on every level, and

I can perceive

and I am free in each moment

to full spectrum – which is a happening –

then I am not fleshed anymore,

but a sensory device,

forgetting to be allergic to the cat.

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the buddha breaks a sweat

9 Dec

Buddha in Black Sweats,

I bow to you in retrospect,

you who awakened my Nosy Rosey

eyes that noticed

you

rushing to beat out others

to be first

while dripping sweat

AND

not cleaning up after yourself.

It was that final straw that arched my back

ready for a war—

Harumpf!

You got me, I wanted to reprimand you, I did.

I’m in 2nd grade tattling to the teacher,

Billy didn’t put away his cartoons to do the lesson.

I  watch  some ME giving you the stink eye,

ha, all the while,

you in your infinite wisdom

hold a mirror to my angst.

Now, I can see—

so easy for me to wash the machine before and after

as a great service for me and to me

all the same.

I couldn’t even see you, if you were not me, as well.

I am you, sweaty man, and

I am Goodie Two Shoes who follows the rules, and

I am the machine,

passively waiting for each one who will sit on me

and sweat holy water for us all.

 

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shit may or may not happen

29 Sep

It seems to me tonight

that I can’t get it right.

I have tried so hard.

It also seems

that I can’t mess up.

I return to a

seat

wedged between my heart

and solar plexus

on which balances

a space between

striving and not.

This seat does not totter

or teeter

but provides a solid spot

from which motion or not

is clear.

Every effort and every allowance

can be seen in joy.

May the Protestant work ethic

in all its good intentions

burn brilliantly into its own footprint.

Work Happens.

Stillness Happens.

And Shit Happens

from another seat

altogether.

 

 

Tags:

brillo breath

21 Sep

Forgive me

all

for when I step on your words,

for my imagining that I know what you are going to say.

Forgive me for the tight holding

I have done

and keep doing

in uncountable seconds

of my personhood.

She imagines she has something important

to say

(any words in time are flowing water)

and she has a poorly acted way of pretending to know things

from her limited exposure.

Only ever each moment

to release into this soup of being.

My psychic muscles are tired

of holding self together.

Breath,

thank you,

enters

into the each

last

holding,

of this construct

scrubbing away the clinging.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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how the future comes

16 Sep

Shush

compromise.

Remember,

safety above the mess

is a slow death.

Knowing what is next,

assuring myself

I know

what is next,

stomps out miracles

and silences sirens:

closes the door on what

can be.

i will not go through days

the same from morning to night

in and out of slow sliding seasons

as the she who thinks

in square units of measured time.

i will dive

into the murky mud

of what longs

for birth.

Growing

are fierce buds

through my rocky soil

with fists

tight with determination

into next

and next

outside of tidy

outside of known,

I hope, though, shy of disaster.

Inappropriate Creation,

comes forth,

and I let it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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