The Miser The Miser The Miser The Miser

over and under again this card has pulled itself to show me

monthswise

and telling me : LET GO, OPEN YOUR HEART

the task i know because i was told must be so simple

WHAT IS IN THE WAY.

why why why wouldn’t i accept unconditional love

since i know not how to love myself that manner

but WHY?

there is a key

there must be a key

one answer

because he knows so much more than me.

he knows and loves my choice so personally that it burns him when i make the wrong one

when i take evil into my body

my task today is positivity

it is making this world what I want it to be with every breath

step jitter

what simplicity, how?

w

what seems

what seem so hard

what is blocking the way

to making me human

to making them all know

themselves

t having them realize beyond conceptually

relearning

relearning

tao

tao

too

tao

to

tooo

touch

gun

its politics

this constant battle over how much face to save

how much do i compromise myself for this stupid fucking job

how much love do i give people

how do i tolerate their evisceration of others

when i know it stems from a lifetime of conditioning

how do i hold them

how do i hold myself

this is not easy

it seems so hard for me

someone says its just a dare

chilis say take a dare

what am i not daring

and why

why

why

am i failing

WHAT IS IN Thy way

its not enough to be more anything

baby

i heard you for the first time today on my message machine

and still can’t answer why i never heard you before.

my eyes are clear

but i m tentative

where s the dangling rope

mercury

you tricky girl

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New Moon

This become a dead-space yet? I live in a house without internet. I’m writing on paper. [that’s the update.]

–

Swannanoa, sweet SwannaNowhere, Iam Here. I live in a small house sweltering in sweaty grasses.

I live

in some small house

completed now with seven other children and a chorus of flies:

their teensy iridescence crashing together continuously

making music

I’ve grown used to

even when it falls on the skin of my shoulders

and rouses me

in morning.

When I get up, I move lengthwise

making my muscles unkink and grow slender. I flick my toes.

When I walk out into the world after asleep,

my naked skin greets the air. I reach down and notice my pubic hair’s grown coarse

in its forest of thickness

I’ve allowed to flow free for such time now. Never again to disband it

without incredibly good reason.

–

Fig’s in the living room, positioned somewhere ocean-wise, on our giant rug of the globe.

he covers world in art

collage-fixins and papers strewn allover

his addiction. His schizophrenia

and the reduction of his pills

forcing him to seek refuge

in all these genitalia

he constantly creates.

skeleton-penis-flaming vagina. “Everything goes back to birth,”

he’s wise so beyond,          that it surprises me when he clings to my words

until I realize I must be careful what I say

around a searching soul so willing to change.

Fig, you’re okay. And I love to get high with you

off mullen, mugwort, herbs,

wrapped like a delicacy

inhaled

and expelled innocence laughter.

The medicines I’ve got to take to get myself to sleep

in that hot smelly room of human

on all nights i could tear in for

hours.

–

The small house is white, and it’s really false as a house afterall.

Nothing but some crude shelter,

outside posing as in.

It sounds like music

and feels as restless as creative youth.

and outside, which is inside, is always singing. It’s even in our skin,

raised little red bumps

we can’t help but itch until they bleed.

I take a pen to them,

making stars,

galactic scenes,

connecting sense out of chaos;

the creatures I killed so swift with the flick of my hand,

my own blood smearing there, along with that of how many others? It’s a deep orange pekoe

resting in a streak, residual lastings for as long as my next shower,

which occurs maybe in ten days or so.

Showering is a big event in small house. and Clothes can’t contain

the freedom we feel

in a first small house, it’s loft full of arts, words, crushed cans and stolen go(o)d(lines)s.

-0

Emma. has hair like a marigold

and the body of a muse,

renaissance painting.

Her ‘grandpa-ass’ like porcelain gel, speckled. flatly swishing against her frocks, all flowered

she is covered in flowers.

Emma’s like soil, bathed in flowers,

the intricacies of the root systems finding their coils and clings

in ways impossible to predict.

flowers grow from her demure smile

and the way she knows herself but doesn’t know she knows herself

dousing in wine                (“get me the burgundy”) and seeing four faces.

Her skin sprouts faery wings

and smatters in stars

when it’s courageous enough to face the sun.

Emma. A drawn-by, strung-out tangle of golding copper,

lusting for melancholic passion and learning to pick on through

pluck on by

her breathy voice

is as endearing

as the red little pimples in her crack

and the way her teeth line up

to show off the piercing just topping her chin.

A cherry

on her icing (for she’s a cupcake garden, after all.

she;ll go soon. And be gone. And the small house willn’t be similar.

longer.

–

–

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It’s Just Voices

i miss you a lot today.

–

sipping a beer and whispering, “cherries.” “mulch.” to nonedurstanding and

for serious, man

miss what we made.

–

seems I need so much more when you’re not around.

–

it’s like,

i can’t get up now. or things are a dream.

it’s like,

i just wanna sleep. i’m sleeping awake.

it’s like,

i’m just outside it all, okay?

like. who else will forget time with me and taste each separate atom of air.

.

Here, even in this body full of humans who can be naked with one another

there somehow exists only pretense. some arboretum of walls dividing us via leaves and branches

unable to break down but with rigorous mental training?

why is it

so much more likely to be open in a locale which requires shutting down for survival.

.

missing some pieces to the puzzle

or whatnot.

i musn’t understand, surely. not him. not i. so much questioning reveals that lack and yawning lawn of confusion.

vapidity

rapidly

regent.

–

I’ll feel gently comforted now and then,

by temporal desires.

and while in so, get caught up in them.

like, this yoga class becomes my future.

this funny joke ultimate.

this instant connection something of value and meaning

.

fuck school.

i just want to live.

fuck plans and a schedule.

fuck it all beyond fantasy.

i wish to live outside in woods

simplicity

treasure

discommunication. only one person i need

fuck

me

for fucking up.

some lesson resides here, i know it.

let’s run off to the woods

let’s learn about energy

let’s ‘wow.’

let’s let go of silly notions that anything’s of inherent worth or value

Theories of Relativity.

Let’s remember, Virginia, none missing anything if you’ve got everything in the palm of your hand (especially when that palm rests inside another of equivocal greatness)

but somehow i treated it wrong.

somehow i don’t have the answers yet

and it made things rather ruined?

Sometimes my romance, i think, is all I’ve got.

unconquerable delusions

insufferable questions

quaking when waking

so let choose to sleep.

–

pass

back

sore

frot

chase

ten

grope

mallow.

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Chocolate Preeminant Nightmarish

These drugs,

simultaneously filling my insides and wetting,

pushing and cleaning them sloppily out.

greens

browns

strings and putty.

strung

ed

o   u    t

lids both halved and fulled.

Is this coming back? Me coming back?

–

I will admit. When we got off the phone I uttered aloud my disbelief. The rest of the day hovered in the final frays of our clinging

til the next day

.   I knew you’d gone.

He’s gone.

hes gone

–

–

I am not “his girl” any longer.

–

sometimes striking clarity will emerge from these smoking tangles.

I’ll see some curly-haired lemon tending.

I’ll see the necessity of all of this strife.

I will realize,    like,   +

the glorious reminder that we worked because of likeness

in other words, the brilliance I admired so so much in him

is MY BRILLIANCE !

it is my potential. It is my past and my path and all that is ahead ,

twining. curling. eyelashes outside of spiraling shells,

lining tassel and velveteen.

–

I’ll see his happiness,          reclining,            billowing on a bed of smoke,           with some sort of moon gently lowering her breasts to his lips

he, Master, drinks from the breasts of the mother

and she’ll offer

if I’ve anything to do with it

just in hope

I’ll want for those teats to swell

with all the dusty swill of swirling elements and precious

power

bond

canonical cradling.

Drink, precious beautiful son .

–

–

I stand by my assertion

of knowing and not, at once at all.

this is my present life, after all.

and sure, we never learn anything ‘knew’

we just reacquaint

but you know, with your study onthe brain

all the puppetry string meddling in to distort the leaves and falling plains laying deepin.

–

i know, but i don’t know.

and not yet so solid as to get this intuitively [for the here now lately]

so, sorry babe.

–

‘Tleast I know enough to cognitively recall how beauty is ugliness and vice verses rolling off silent tongues! This isn’t intuitive, there’ins the issue.

I’ll make it mine, boy. I’ll remember that fear is nothing but choice of death.

I’ll remember the vice versas,

the vices

my vic(tims)(tors)(es) whilstriving to surpass.

–

and someday, I know

this notion

like no one can understand me but him

like no one can connect as us

like God has escape d grasp and here’s the end

nothing to succumb but loneliness

– i know this will fade, in the face of our truth that all things shift, pass, swivel, and change.

doing my own dance of spirit, and life.

–

–

–

so here’s to fists

and rose wines.

toes between toes and grubby carpets.

here’s to the heavyness in reggae hips

the wisdom of ages

and impossibility of time.

here’s to storybook characters too real to be invented.

to bubbles

and fortunes told.

Here’s to flat squishy bread

and the sad smile that will always come to meye corners

when I think of how you learned to forget your teeth around me.

here’s to the cold washing over

in a room full of misunderstanding

and flirting as a standin for outrage.

here’s, babe,

to your softest skin

and the wave plains your arms made ;

the history of your hair.

the way your collar bones looked me in the third eye

through that cobweb street scholar sweater.

here’s to trying

and dying

and feeling

and mealing.

here’s to falling face first into darkness

and getting caught by light.

to too much talking

facilitating

and extraordinary knowing.

InImy

the love

the pain

the process

our duty.

Here’s to conscious acting

and self-guidance life.

Here’s to our defiance

and beautiful, slow, but mutual compliance.

Dance.

–

Thanks for playing my music.

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mental realms and rainbow

You laugh so brightly! Tickel-ing the airwaves like the highly plucked notes on your guitar

your hand shooting up on instinct to cover your mouth

the mouth i love and love to watch

No hand can prevent the escape

of twisting dancers,

so adept as they somersault from the sweetness of your gullet,

frogs off a pond made of glass and lillies

like the time we found some secret spot in the city

and the two of us laid on a giant marble, feeling cold and wet and solid like jewels all at once

we looked towards each other

and i allowed myself to slip away down the side –

a playful child summoning a game of hide and seek

but my face must have betrayed I loved you all along

contorting on its own end when to hiding thoughts of babies

bursting open like shutters hit by a breeze

at the possibility of spying your beloved teeth

darling

do laugh

i love the lights and shape your eyes make

the world shakes hands within your laughter

and we together can fall asleep in a hammock.

caressing by the sounds of the oceans within our breath

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w([al{l]ow})

I am so tired of this

endless living samsara

with no bounds for choice escape.

There is no escape.

Some cling to an ascension, theories of light and perfection and glory

and life fluxuatingly flows on continuation

not necessarily is any light showing to conclude tunnel.

it smacks. of something like: well, all you can do is your best

i know, i know, but what of when i lose the strength courage will energy bounty

how do i remain in buddhadharma

or held in the cradle of god

making the choice to remain aware of the web has proven faulty

unspoken energies pronouncedly KICK me off it

some sort of daily practice, some discipline

nothing works

despite all knowledge otherwise full of grace

limp

dangling

vomitears and hooves full of stone.

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Jazz-Funk Sitar, Pineapple and Malibu

Twice in two weeks a snake has crossed my path in the woods. Barefoot the first time, a friend stopped me in my tracks with her terror. The snake froze in its sensuous curve, licking an invisible popsicle of self-defense. I guided my friend gently around a wide-berth circumference. The creature’s eyes and matched tongue never left our forms until we’d retreated far enough as to dim the energetic intrusion.

Two days ago the same slithery beast crept over the naked skin of my topfeet on another trail, a mountain a couple of miles away. This one also lapped it’s tongue, careful to maintain its  stiffened-stream posture. A companion caught the S by a grip on the tail, and I balked as he stretched his lean body in opposition,      fighting against entrapment, wrongful intrusion, bodily touch minus permission or ability to say. I sensed a vengeance, the serpent’s want to retaliate, and led our retreat out of respect for its lack of understandable words. Perhaps I was projecting myself onto this snake. It seemed so clear to me that catching it by it’s tail, preventing it from slithering as far as it pleased and in any direction, was an unwanted imposition and unfair, despite any just motives of the captor. Captors often believe their motives are just, after all.

The woods are alive. Clicking, tick-tocking their own non-clock time. No time at all, but mystical force. Time as measured only by seasons in ceremonial growth and decay.

How exciting, out here in the dark. The sky a puddle cauldron in some distance and smell of fire tugging the intuition of my nostril fur. Sweet, sweet blossoms beginning their perfume,

a time of creation. A time of Love. And how giddily mysterious, these trees in the dark. At their feet all kinds of cricking and cracking. Creaking branches with moaning blades of grass. Taken away one sense, I mistake not to know what lies there around me. What insects? What fauna? What eaters and shitters and pollinators lie or frolic there? Which lurk on prey, which dig, which forage or shiver or lackadaisically lay about in stretched leg-leaf-tentacle heaven? Only hearing them should be enough. Only feeling them. Only imagining them shall be enough for a sage.     My testines urge me: defecate there, on deadened foliage! Joining refuse-life-refuse-heat-smell-scintillation-food-life-refuse. Like some mother mushroom spreading football-length miles below, vast pulsing fungal matrimony; bleeding manure spore-gy. MMm, the delightful attraction to become weird. SPOntaneous REgeneration ! and what color-trails assist.       ssssss

The water here tastes purely toileted, surely poison. Lace of some technical attribute; its atoms altered to manmade algorithms and replacing words like “bless.” “Joy.” I’ve not been drinking it. I can’t discover what’s worse – dehydrating myself or drinking water designed to shape me into a compliant drone.

Chemicals penetrate my skin four-days weekly, anyhow. The dishroom stinks my clothes like body odor never has, and in what short time! Like coal in the mountains, remove the epidermis for some compact layer of iodine now lurking underneath. The sake of health! Cleanliness! Of course. It’s code.

I notice how intricately linked the weather is with emotion here. I have begun to pick up on the vibrations of words and thought. The moment someone speaks an idea about someone else, my view of that person (the speakee) is changed. Even if I don’t agree with the observation. Every single thing any person, any consciousness, chooses to inject into the atmosphere changes it somehow. The way words are spoken makes something new. Each decision, every thought.. all of these are comingling energies working to perpetually create reality. We have a duty to control them. We have a duty to make them healthy, bright, reverent of love, constructive, truthful. Infused with honor. I recognize how much easier it is to maintain a pleasant state of mind when surrounded by people (sometimes unconsciously!) committed to interacting peacefully and constructively with one another. Though is it easier to connect with myself? In some ways, yes, for I am allowed the freedom to express myself here any way that I want. All social norms are cast aside, save for those which protect mutual honor and respect. The outer-work is done, then. This allows me more energy to spend on cultivating my inner-means of security. In this I am not convinced I’m making progress. Old habits, trip-ups, fall-backs. It’s about becoming mindful – making sure I can and making sure I do.

Earlier today I thought to myself, This place is making me a better person. I am improving. I become more good every day. This place makes me more what he wants me to be (more my pure self). But surely these characters will ebb away once removed from these purest surroundings?

I must solidify those thoughts (of assuredness, benevolence) and continue them despite temptation to trade them for easier ones. Yoga has taught me that when you believe you are strong, you are strong. When you think of yourself as divine, certainly you become divine.

In the past 10 weeks, folks have been praising my laugh, my yoga practice, and my dancing constantly in all means and perfections. It’s like it’s easier, here, to spy another’s essence, and even more convenient to acknowledge it aloud and share in the joy of cultivating spirit. To be validated.

appreciation can come from anywhere

it seems that the hunger, sparked from true cosmic connection, is more unique

my cave so confusedly wishes to be filled. At least some of the time.

the hollow want of someone yawning open

far far away

he’s swallowing i’m drinking air – we are apart and im drinking only air.

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The Cosmos as All-Encompassing Unity

Pantheism is the view that the Universe (Nature) and God are identical. Derived from ancient Greek “pan,” meaning “All,” and “theos,” meaning “God.” Literally, All is God.

Pantheists do not believe in a personal, anthropomorphic or creator God.

Examples of pantheistic schools of thought: Stoicism, Epicureanism, Neoplatonism, Taoism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Neopaganism.

Famous Pantheists: Hegel, Walt Whitman, Ralph Waldo Emerson (pictured above), Henry David Thoreau, D.H. Lawrence, Robinson Jeffers, Albert Einstein, Frank Lloyd Wright, Arnold Toynbee.

For some, pantheism redefines “God” to mean “existence” or “reality.”

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poornamadah poornamidam

That is whole, This is whole

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Cupping Tuna Vapors

I am hopeful that I can dispel these false notions

but I don’t know how long it will take

how many lives I’ll interfere with in the process –

paths to be dismantled with my own personal artillery.

Nothing worse than an idiot with a pocketful if innocent grenades.

The cards tell me something is ending and hint that it’s false clingage

i hope it’s my ignorance

The moon says quit complaining show gratitude and let go of olds

old woundings

scores of eldersores

LET GO. STEP ANEW ALREADY

where’s the puzzle peaces falling into place? I’m looking for that lock-click offering

the pads of my feet on the mat

I’m looking for home.           Settling. Alast, rest. Beauty assuredness of beauty

promising not to fear

or schmear

myself too thin

trying

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