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Archive for November, 2010

“And I-n our quIet hour

I feel I see everything,

and am in love with the hook

upon which everyone hangs.”

…Joanna Newsom

 

Another upside to the perfection of circumstance:

the reason giveth to live.

 

I’ve got little but your loose map

made of literature.

and the moon in my belly –                               a sense of deity touching the palm of my hand

hope the repository of my shoulder loop,

the connect between heart and mind where the self resides

and my little mouth counts. (zero to three and sixty

The Ankh! my life my body, my body a picture of my very sandal which traverses omni-verses. Vers – truth. Life. Verite. Union. (there is no difference)

 

having only peace of know I’m a piece

I’m a piece!

of all these webbing dancers! and a train rumbling by the window. Its blackness holding toxin but traveling swiftly on

and humanity not contained

in those dark depths.

but rails can only hold for as long as someone works them.

 

how times haven’t changed but my blessing calls for transformers to explode

in blue lights

witnessed by innocent drunkards passing

as explosive lightning – a frightning party in the night!

 

the slowness of the restaurant

(its empty checkerboard floor becoming the board of a game people can’t afford to play at the no/ew.)

indicative

bringing time and crossing fingers.

i take it like a meaning

i take it like a sign.

i taste it like freedom

n hope

4 the coldness of winter

, draws people fondly to the arms of their loved ones.

huddling 4 warmth.       Bodies bearded around a fire made from what used to be waste.

Where’s the acceptance of beauty in that image? Making life-sustaining warmth from the waste of what had existed prior.

 

We are baking bread tonight.

cranberry-banana.

from scratch.

and i want

to slice it at a table for twenty         (the flames of a trash-fire make a good table)

as its still warm.

spreading butter on it softly,

to meld and finish its imperfections

and pass each hunk off in a circle

reaching the last in a row

and containing the blessings of all the angels who’ve brought their fingers to its outsides.

say, You deserve this Bread.

 

when will we remember

like a large game of parachute

to be one another’s angels?

lifting up the sky

for I to run underneath it,

rejoicing,

in childlike glee,

and taking our place on some other side,

rearranged,

to lift the sky again

4 R family.

[one another/brothers n sisters/mother and father/combined One soul]

 

 

ah, fabric

net

material

the impossible intricacy of mother spider’s web

and its invisible strength.

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Easy

Easy, easy,

my man and me;

we could rest and remain here,

easily.

We are tested and pained by

what’s beyond our bed;

we are blessed and sustained by

what is not said.

 

No one knows what is coming,

or who will harvest what we have sown,

or how I’ve been dulling and dumbing,

in the service of heart alone.

 

Or how I am worn to the bone by the river,

and in the river made of light,

I’m your little life-giver,

I will give my life.

 

… Joanna Newsom

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IV, XIV

These words aren’t my words

these thoughts aren’t my thoughts.

they’re our thoughts and our words.

i borrow from my brothers’n’sisters

we exchange strings of SYMbols

i capture your essence in my teeth like bailene

swallow some and let other parts drift away

all algae in the ocean

traveling light     .

and growing off combination   .  nn distribution

 

The Great Mother

I*s born

by alchemy.

the combination of elements

makes Art.

channel fo(u)rth with gumption

and preside

over One-s actions.

know how I guide I F(ire).

N birth by marriage

 

tworlds collide

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Guiltiness,

pressed on their conscience.

And they live their lives

on false pretense every day –

Each and Every Day.

These are the big fish

who always try to eat down the small fish.

They would do anything

to materialize their every wish.

But woe to the downpressors,

they’ll eat the bread of sorrow.

Woe to the downpressors,

they’ll eat the bread of sad tomorrow.

They’ll eat the bread of sorrow every day.

– Bob Marley

 

 

Is it any wonder,

that as I sit in our local “anarchist, revolutionary community-space worker-run cafe” and a man engages me in conversation

after talking for at least half an hour

a girl from the counter comes to find me in the back corner of the cafe. She asks “are you okay?”and hands me a piece of paper with a note on it from some customer who’d been eavesdropping. Later, another worker behind the counter informed me that a customer notified the workers at the counter that I might be ‘cornered’ into having a conversation I didn’t want to have.

Why were they wondering if I was okay? It’s obvious: I’m some defenseless innocent middle-class looking white young female who is having a conversation with an older black man who, by his dress, appears to be less than well-off.

Yes, ma’am, I am fine. This gentleman is respectful, inquisitive, genuine, and feels like talking. We are discussing worldly issues and opinions on politics, spirituality, and life experience. I think it’s fucking sad that you “anarchist, revolutionary” workers don’t see past the prejudices that keep us, as a human race, in bondage. Instead of seeing two human beings in conversation, you saw something bound up in race and class and weighted down by the dark magick of money.

We are all human beings. We are here on Earth to practice Being Human. One grace that might be saving in this sorry situation is this:

while the homeless eat from the “Welcome Table” separately, outside in the cold,

the “honorable givers” in their finery sitting at the high table next to stained glass peppered with altered and falsified images of Jesus

will never know Grace as long as they look down their long noses at others. They’ll be eating forever from food that cannot nourish

constantly pouring more dirt in an unquenchable pit of thirst

until the day realize the Human Purpose is to Love.

stripping others of their dignity and humanity is keeping all in bondage.

foolish, foolish wonder how they’ll come to realize their own suffering.

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Recently came to the realization that I probably would’ve been considered a witch in times past. Witches were women interested in plants and spirituality outside the accepted (or required through persecution) norm. Women who embraced the earth – her gifts – and themselves as manifestations of the divine feminine. Extensions of the earth herself and collaborators in her journey.

 

Tonight’s witches brew:

garlic

ginger

turmeric

cayenne

black pepper

lemongrass

rose

dandelion root

echinacea

a hint of mint

and maybe some honey.

 

A basic blend to relieve some asthma and anxiety and keep my tapas flowing in a time of stress and hardship.

 

Interesting how Witches have been turned ugly and evil by the collective mass view. The reality of it is just some folks trying to keep it real and (literally) down-to-earth. Their remedies became mysterious because they were discovered through spiritual exploration and passed wisdom. I have heard that witches were users of plant substances for spiritual progression. They may have smoked marijuana or taken other hallucinogens for spiritual purposes. The main idea I want to address, though, is that witches were human beings like anyone else, not some abstract fairytale character full of wartyness and misplaced hairs.

 

These days I don’t get burned at the stake for being a witch. Just written off as a “hippie”/member of the “counterculture”/”stoner”/”social deviant”/insufferable “idealist.” I won’t get burned at the stake. But I will be thwarted, mischaracterized, and written off so that people can preserve the status quo.

 

Y’all don’t realize how change for the better requires drastic upheaval.

Birth is painful.

Death is equally as beautiful.

Turn over the compost and see what life lies underneath

notice how it brings us a little bit Closer.

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