Posts Tagged ‘Warren Wilson’

This girl, some holy trinity,

our fire-fire-and air. rising silents and subtle around a table

at some cafe named for our temperaments.

3 to sidle aside one another

seamless and next

and maybe some kind of one.

All these skin-sac.s

reflections in the mirror showing all sides of mineself.

She’s the part of me that suffers

she’s the part of me that feeds.

He’s the piece of impatience

and him, the part that gets annoyed before regaining my composure.

Thomas doesn’t come to work anymore.

His job felt threatened by a temper

which refused to be calmed via ‘reason’ or ‘rationality.’

Wanting to steal this camo jacket!

Wanting to cash a self-written check!

If the world doesn’t manifest according to his surface dire needs,

Thomas flies handles.

His brow connects like a log of brick

and it’s all he can do to make noises from deep within his throat

his deafness aiding the expression of his zipping whip

his candid candle

“childlike” notions of truth, reality, importance.

Truelike notions.

Why shouldn’t he cash a $10,000 check he’s written himself?

None of that bank’s money is real anyhow.

So Thomas practiced his judo chop

in the air about his good friend’s aura.

He let the dishes drop and clang and swung around the racks.

He kicked the shins climbing out of cars

and sent his fist through plaster.

Now, where is Thomas?

In some quiet, dead quiet world of chest vibrations and racecar pajamas.

Maybe sitting on a rug, diving into a bag of raw onions

getting hay in his teeth and coming

out smiling

, his best friend playing the face of a clown.

making it easy on him

with nicknames and signatures.

Thomas, I love your tattoos

and the free drone of your chuckle.

I think it’s cool when you ask me through fingers

about the cleanliness of each individual plastic bowl.

Because I know none of them are really clean.

And the fact that you’re the only other one in the hot mist of the dishroom who knows that

is a comfort.

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By the By

This is where I live.

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This day,

waking up full to the weakling, power derived off forty hours without food

and solids seem demonic, a chore mere by my choosing.

Enduring that discomfort –

– of needing solids

– of loathing solids

all through class

and passing a cursory homegrown beat between my lips

the purepinkness of its sugars embalming my insides and brightening the eyes.

Thoughtless tasks as bliss. Mindless maneuvers, torrid living in calm

my breasts swing roundly in this shirt, kissed by its comforts

and the environment that welcomes their shape

without leering upon them.

Just are. Even when dancing,

they just are

no one cares the more.

after work,

remembering shannon never got mine response

and catching her, six hours different, in some confuzzling conversation.

I realized my head is nowhere

too many places all at once

spirit buried more than usual,

more than its been of late

the result is a feeling of crass apathetic disillusionment

just a dangling, as per while.

I am not clear.

I can’t decide.

He is not clear.

wants so indecipherable

going through the motions –

thanking god now for the motions that keep me


in some sense at least.

And here,

such isolation. Surrounded by so many lovelies and all this interest in energy

yet feeling as divisible skins, moving and pursuing – all individuals getting it on their own terms.

How can I stop thinking of him?

Even if we truly stopped, this dangling would remain until resolution came before

ending this cyclic notion of halfness

in kundalini, my mind wont shh

the clarity is failing

swallowing back tears

the swelling of my heart occurs, but not expansive.

“Mother,” flash of my mother, then breath as my mother, than pushing it back rather than working it through. No welcome trance today, mercury.

And coming home, the sky is indigo.

the puppy’s learned a new trick.

my juice is plush.

Davey calls

he comes toting ingredients for “vegan ice cream,” including his own blender


telling me he’s just been massaged by a friend using his own urine,

he makes a blackberry-melon-almond-flax-apple-ginger-banana


and, scooping it spoonwise,

dripping it down our glass and our bows

his blackberries are on my teeth

and in my soul.

for once, this day,

i smile.

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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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