Posts Tagged ‘love’

The Question Is:       WHY?

WHY have we doomed our beloved human race with tyrannical op(DOWN)pression?


The first step: extricate yourself from the system entirely. Cleanse from media. REJECT having your life be determined by others/rules. Find the freedom of expansive consciousness, and all the beloved joy and benefits attending.

the love of the sun, transmitting information and spurring growth

and the bless of the moon, holding memory and acting receptor



This family of lineage,

these couple-thousand intellects who’ve held the seal of privilege for a countless age-

We’ll Bring them Down.

(most intellect don’t believe in God

but they fear us just the same)

The reign of the thumb will turn over


with shaken necks and clearbred eyes, we’ll hug brothers and sisters and know union is the only advancement.

it’s time to Make Love.



Free your Sex. don’t let it be degraded. Understand the game of hookup. Understand the mistakes of Feminism and find trHu-manism. Recognize sex as the keeper of total potential. Deep union and expansiveness

embrace spirits

decolonize the mind and let yourself be priceless    .

Save brothers and sisters with love.


two elements creating three makes perfect circle makes growth and

unlimited capacity




go to some healers

look into people’s eyes

feel the outside

gaze to the sky



Feel your life

and commit to being alive

rather than a slave. Drone. Worker bee


make yourself



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all these misguided girls


bleed us the way,

arms outstretched like children. grasping and pressing poor cupid away

pierce us with your arrows (bleed i)

remind us the wilderness within us

let us feel your crystal vibration

let us pick up our hearts and lay them on the ground. to feel any avalanche earthquake mudslide which may fall upon them

open us to pain. the real pain that equivocates real life joy

make us be lovers

teach me to be a lover.

my belly wants to moon

from holding some grey truth

silvery nights and ecstatic parent

my belly’s an embarrassment with its unused open space

neath these outstretched arms

that have been pushing and grasping away for a lifetime

teach myself to be a woman

who knows she’s ok.


make me still

and tell me, skymoonpluto what this soaking disease makes from

a blind self absorption

a willingness towards death and walking zombie

paired with such sweetness and mistrusted skill

raining inadequacy wrapped innervousness

how these demons kick

how to kick them demons   !

learning answer to some question about the nature of mineillness

CA n my heart plEASE O-h-pen     towards a rainbow colored velvet purple case key’i want us to rest

in the comfort crevice of the butterfly’s wings

meeting in space

in that space

that tummy space where we can call the moon in.

this is truth

hear me here

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So, Swannanoa.

We live (love) on a street off seventy, a pub at the corner and garden out front, was all boxed out when we got there. I am not a legal resident and the room I sleep in’s full of sweat.

Rent: a hundred dollars each month.

two sleep in one room. Fig’s got a twin mattress in a crawlspace full of windows. I’m in a room with another. It’s not my room, but I sleep there. The only bathroom connects downstairs with upstairs, and in that steaming loft three mattresses spread out on the floor, along with buckets of clothes and books and used alcohol containers. Our herbs have sprouted and live on the roof, fungus in the basement.

We pee outside to conserve water     and nothing stays plugged in. The fridge is full and faulty, leaking the floor as if it got up and moved during n ight. The washer shakes something awful, so that Fig sits upon it hoping the pressure will contain. Fig’s the sweeper and the swatter while everyone else is off to work.

Like anywhere else I’ve ever lived, I tend to walk. Yesterday I even strolled – (the heat of the day made impossible walking)

Small house is near to train tracks – one passes every night at 9:30, every morning just past seven. The rhythm of the in-betweens evades me, but I’ll learn them.

Anyway, I leave with bare feet normally, stepping careful on our gravel and hard plants drive. Past the pile of large refuse, including our old dryer, and out into the street. A pub’s to my left. Once when I was dropping our recycling behind there, the parking lot swarmed with bikers and their babes, their grey beards offset the hard glint of the leather on their backs, reacting too noon’s light. A church is to my right; one of something like seventeen in the neighborhood. Some separate buildings, some like old converted warehouses. Anywhere to worship in this valley, I suppose. This one’s Methodist.

Turning right towards the church and heading up the way. The train tracks lie ahead some couple hundred feet. On the left we come to once-existent sidewalk, now overgrown with weeds. A chainlink fence guarding so towering false mountain made of sand or some more toxic substance. Real mountains grace the skyline to the South, lushing and bumping elbows with clouds of pink late late evening, when the sun finally tires from some sixteen hours of shine. They are a painting. The mountains are a work of art, there, cradling and tossing cards, home and family for whomever cares to look up and feel caressed in them. And nothing lines them but trees

and ten thousand plants made for healing.

Quickly, come to an antique store playing Marley and selling short and longs. It’s open some ten hours out of a week, and postulated to be a front. Turning right and walking still, here’s a house where it’s lored some dready’s make glass pieces and sex toys. But all we’ve ever seen out front is a mass of beer belly’s, babies, and bags of chips. People who don’t take kind to my braless wave and whisper something neath their breaths. There are toys strewn around the walk and a mystical eye paints above an entrance, infinity at its depths if you stop for looking.

Come forward and on your left is a photograph waiting to happen. The funeral home is dated like sixties and colored cream. A matching, vanilla hearse reclines outside the door, probably still smelling of flowers and gasses past if you open the back. A collection of soul-paths within there, for sure, but uncontaining. Just a reservoir in pass.

And the chocolate factory joins the funeral home, its dumpster locked but accessible, and containing huge blocks of the bitter stuff. Kitchen clean and pristine, only seen when an onlooker’s curiosity moves them to jump and peer past covered plastic on windows.

Here’s a Baptist church. And another just across the street, called “Free Will.” Back yonder was the “PLACE: People Living According to Christ Everywhere” or something to that effect. An old sign practically faded floors some trees on the roadside: “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and Thou Shalt Be Saved!!” such emphasis for any fool who knows otherwise. One church’s named only “Truth.”

Keep walking and the factories/warehouses fade to back. I live amidst trailers and cozy houses screaming “NO TRESPASSING” through dollar-store signage. All times of the day, people are out. In their yards, on their porches. They sit and whittle. And drink. And read. They simply set awhile, with or without company. They listen to the television blaring on just inside the door, where someone else sits in the dark of their old shelter. They smile at me when I wave at them. There’s an air of suspicion at the same time a complete lack of pretention welcomes any visitors. A sense of ownership on their land.

These folks,           they work and long hard day


they come home

and they set. Taking solace and comfort in the simplicity of that life and the sweaty sweetness of the grass and birdsong surrounding. The hollow sounds of highway echo off the loving arms of mountains and punctuate with the toot of any train pass.

I think I’ll take up smoking.    The sweetness of our back porch just welcomes such an act, in its lazy seeping way.

The poverty is such dogged comfort in this town. “I love the way the sun glints off the Harley Davidson building on the golden hour, as it starts setting near eight every night. She takes her loving drawn time, hardly disappearing completely til quarter to nine.”

This is where I live. We walk to the supermarket to pass the time and I teach boys about good beer. Rising bread. Running River. Bending in worship to the yard, its poisons in oils festering my skin in a way that’s itchy comfort

sex with nature.

Our neighbors, Betty and Ken, are retired. In all hours of the day, we can look off the porch and see them setting, screened in over there, with their parrot Amos and two cockatiels.

Betty makes us a strawberry shortcake. The house and more gain to consume most of it before the ants claim it as their own. We make some brownies with peach and blackberry preserves Mary bottled last August, and make through the yard to deliver them across the way. They invite us in, refer to us as “you’uns” and sacrifice their chairs seen as they’d been ‘settin’ all the day.

Betty loves the brownies. She congratulates us on them over and over, a large crumb quivering there on her starched collar through when we get to going. They love to have us visiting and tell us all about the church and it’s Welcome Table. They’d like to see us there, I know. Refer to us as “their college friends.”

This is where I live right now. And it is where I want to be. Not sure why, but it is. There is something so comforting about the simplicity of living by these definitions. Even something freeing about it, though I wonder to find more of what life’s true about. Know?

And even though my passion is in some city so far North and opposite of here

i want this slow crick’s current to take me and give me success

the mountains like a support

like a cot I’m constantly on, suspended firmly, even by rickety metals and tarp.

The flame of him is here, always anyway. In the Skeeter Beeter candle next to me at night, as someone muses to my right about losing faith. I look to the flame and see the mandalas we observed in the sky one day a whole equinox ago. I see some green and smile knowing which chakra is winking at me from that vial. In the flame,

I see some squirming exhibition. Writhe.

Like pain. Such incredible burning pain and exaltation


that’s what I felt with him all of the time. Can a life be spent burning? It’s a raucous and beautiful choice. It’s a hard choice. Our fires scorched and stoked by winds continuous

I wonder when I see him

will it be the same.

In the meantime, I tell the boy losing his faith not to worry. Sometimes we can’t hold on to faith comfortably. Sometimes we forget to bless our food. Sometimes discipline is impossible and we begin to crave

and that’s glorious. That is life

making extremities from the subtleties

and getting poetry all on the way.

My friend says soul mates are temporary, because the pain of them is too hard to bear for long. I am not ready to believe that

or make a choice to let go of the love I hold on to

and still caress dearly

each every day.

All I can do is concede to “we’ll see.” Maybe that means letting the crick take me

maybe it means becoming more moral and stringent in what I let make me

maybe it means tumbling back into full arms is imminent


In the meantime,

I choose to be here because I fear being elsewhere

and because I’m beginning to know here

and because the drum circles in town every friday are tribal.

I choose this electric youth

and matters lessons holding me safe

even if it means struggling when this passes.

I am so damn comfortable on this flimsy cot, anyway. Daisies licking at its corners

and dreads not staying out my hair. Another tribute,

my heavy music friend,

to you

and how much I love you


dear always


Carry it in the air

on these sopping southern currents

catch is in between your teeth

let it fill those spaces

first in your mouth

and traveling

through twixts yon bones.

I love

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Done For

you’re like a signifier for everything I’m coming to want

epiphanies need to be had by the two of us? before we can meld together again?

what is happening when these humans come into our lives

and we can’t forget them

and we can feel them in our veins

firing our synapses for us

licking us clean

from the inside out   ?

i want to come for you

when it means nothing to me

but coming for you.

to feel again

that nonspace between our palms

. i can’t hope for any comparison.

i can only hope to remain in desperate hoping

for the rest of this time (whatever length that might imply)

really though,

it’s coming to MEan

i need someone else to care for

spending life making love and magic


individual momentum has fallen off
fallen for.

i can’t do this

i am too afraid to do anything but this.

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Paradox ma pox

In kundalini,

I cry.

I fall out of the poses early

when it hurts

when it’s begun to bind my face

when i feel it coming out.

I think of how I need to feel that brow center,

how my energies and awareness must take pains to be shifted to that spot.

I think of how meye there seems to be slightly above where everyone’s always said it must have been.

I think of how my screenname on AIM was “IamtheBINDI” at twelve years old. Before I knew anything about anything

and how in my sophomore picture, I’m wearing a pink one. Slightly higher than where everyone says it should be.

And I wore a red one to homecoming

‘slike somehow I’d had some awareness amidst all the casual normalcy I’d been brought up to believe in.

The clouds are pink when I emerge from the room,

without the meditation I’d come for.

i open my face

and let it cry

saying how

things are so difficult

things have been so goddamn difficult for me these past months, what feels like many

and the worst part is

i feel like i’ve got no excuse

for hurting.

i cannot say that someone died or that i’m ill or poor or enslaved

all i’ve got

is an effort

to understand what life is

and what i should do with the vast array of choices consistently lining the path i walk.

all i’ve got is frustration for feeling so friendless

a disconnect with my guiding force

and the pain of love

the confusion of what feels like irreconcilability.

that no-strings feeling,

as if there is something serious that needs to be resolved

but it is impossible to resolve it right now

and will be for some time.

And me,

feeling like I might be ignoring what needs to be done due to circumstance

even though right now I can’t feel the power to know what must be done.

I’ve just got to trust

that I’ll know soon enough.

I’ll be able to connect and quiet and listen and understand

I’ll see clearly again one day soon


and allow for that to be true.

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I want to sing

to you, my love

My only love

and happiness

Don’t be so blue,

so blue, my love

Take off your shoes

Take off my dress

I want to sing

to you, my love

My only love

and happiness

Don’t be so blue

so blue, my love

This, too, shall pass

This, too, shall pass

But tell me, tell me what

have I done

to deserve you?

Must have done something

’cause that’s how

it works.

Must have been kind

to kittens and birds

in a previous life

Must have thought happy thoughts

happy thoughts

‘Cause there,

you were there, right beside me

and somehow inside me while

inside myself

Books on the shelf

Thoughts on the shelf

Hands to myself

I should definitely keep my hands to myself

’cause love

is a dangerous pastime.

Caught between madness and gladness

of flight

Nothing is wrong

and nothing is right

falling asleep

in your arms every night.

But love’s

such a strange situation

full of frustration and

anger and fear

Everything’s tears

Nobody hears

Nobody’s here and

Nobody hears


want to sing

to you, my love

My only love

and happiness.

Don’t be so blue,

so blue, my love

Take off your shoes –

Take off my dress

I want to sing

to you, my love

My only love and


Don’t be so blue,

so blue, my love

this too, shall pass.

This, too, shall pass.

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These drugs,

simultaneously filling my insides and wetting,

pushing and cleaning them sloppily out.



strings and putty.



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


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



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


and extraordinary knowing.


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.


Thanks for playing my music.

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