Tag Archives: Poetry

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.

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

my dating profile :)

22 Jul

I look normal, I seem normal, and I can wear my normal suit as needed.

But life’s journey has led me away from the path of normal.

I am putting my truth out there on my profile into the world of normal, to eliminate most, and to speak to those who will instantly know what I am talking about.

I am not talking about anything overt; I am talking about the inner blossoming.

I am on a path toward self-discovery.

The answers I have sought have been discovered to be within and to be never far.

Breath is the vehicle for me on the ride.

I spend time in silence,

I fall in love all day long, everyday, with ants and trees, and songs.

My boundaries have loosened, my identity has loosened.

I can still dance in the world of normal, but I only do so when absolutely necessary.

I am looking for friends to interact with who have a clue what I am talking about.

I am looking to weed out all who are nice, but still normal.

I leave this breadcrumb trail of nonsense as an invitation to anyone who finds the normal paths of life debilitating; there is more. And it is so much more.

The only clues cannot be named or nailed in directly but can only point, like a mute but colorful road sign.

Contact me if you want to talk of such intangible things, or if you want to watch ants or the leaves dance in a breeze, if you sometimes realize you are the breeze, the leaves, and the breathing eyes watching.

trust

20 Jul

is in the breath –

every.

damned.

time.

thank god,

so close.

i’ve a new name for it

8 Nov

–the vast neutrality.

 

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