A Click in the Corner

No.

It goes
in
and in
and compresses
tightly.
Do not breathe
eat
sleep
dream.
I am
informed.

What of it?

A diamond.
A pearl.
Yet to see
the reward.
In
and in
always
but
how to
get out.
Doors and windows
shut
to the cold

wrapped up cocoon-like

stifling heat
inside
suppressing
immunity
and ingenuity.

Then
you see

externally

no
new
ideas
flow
free

and

in turn
inward I turn
burn
up the coal
out the smokestack
burst forth
brightly
chrysanthemum
colors
from the
chrysalis.

Yes.

A breakthrough
is rewarding.

Fly away
from these words.

You are free.

spiritual

spiritual…
part spirit,
part ritual.

and what is [it] in the middle?
what joins the concepts of spirit and ritual
into that which is spiritual?

ahh…that is for each of us to decide on our own.
we all have a path, and to follow our heart
is to know oneself intensely,
practically, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other
is the ritual of it,
and spirit is what compels us to move.
together, the movements,
the awareness of our movements,
they meld into one.

om. zen. amen.

saturday, the twenty-eighth of august

time to start cranking up the speed
on this production line.
problem is,
how do you keep an angel
tethered to an inspiration conveyor belt?
truth is, she can’t be tied down.
nor is she a she, or even a he,
more like a hedonistic omnigendered bellydancing poem
playing endlessly, effortlessly as elevator music
to the ups and downs of my life.
the akashic records – now, that is an angelic assembly line
if ever there were one.
oh, the irony of it!
me, thinking i put the spirits to work
producing these lines,
oh, lies!
they pump out human souls like mine
all the time.

easier said than done

one palm down on the knee
accepting what is,
accepting what could be -
the other palm up
on my right knee;
half lotus seated comfortably,
baby at breast
sleeping peacefully.

get it all out,
to get to where
i’m supposed to be:
presently.

i don’t care if i’m a starving artist.
you can recognize me when i’m dead.

don’t temper it,
because then it’s not real.
we are the filters,
the crystal diffusers
of light in the dark,
synthesizing all that we see,
hear, taste, touch, smell, breathe,
a perfect shade of cigarettegreydeathlypallor,
enjoy life for all she gives to you,
suck the marrow right from her bones,
we all go down the same road
and we know,
you know,
sit still,
look into your heart,
there is change coming.

when i take my glasses off, i do not see,
but that does not mean i stop to believe
there are other worlds than this
which exist around, below, above, between, and within me.

entirely too much energy of mine
is being spent on where i’d like to be
in a few months from now.
turn up the volume
and the bass
and boomshakalaka to a few years from now.
forward thinking only works
when you fast forward far enough ahead.
otherwise, i’m still caught in the game
of keeping up with the jetsons, joneses, kardashians -
why is it so hard to concentrate?
why is it so hard to turn it all off?
shake me up like a can of pop,
pop the cap and explode all envy and empathy
until i get back to empty
and see i’m still here,
silent,
and all is well with the world.

that’s what she said

how much longer can i keep this up?

ditch the trappings of tin-can-labels

and fly free, baby bird.

cooped up is no way to live.

next month the cold blows in.

“west,” i always said.

south is now on the radar.

still, i do not move.

stagnating, rotting, getting old.

but what about roots?

are there other routes to take

for acquiring the sensation

of fitting in,

minus the effects of

moss growing over

my mangled bones?

abundantly be,

the core keeps burning

while i travel astrally.

the disconnection with my body

is ever-present.

can’t keep waiting

for the deus ex machina

to push this stone along to a roll.

work in progress

fake it, force it, push on through.
do whatever you need to do.

we all raise the bar,
& the bars close down.

it is better to go to sleep & dream
& remember what the world was like
when we were young
& the west was one
with the whole land mass
& the pot first called the kettle black.
betty boiled the water down,
slowly as ever,
watching it all the way
from inception
to the point of rolling
on the floor
laughing
in real life
while giving this fresh squeezed water
to every poor pore
craving life! life! life!
“we want to live!”
they said,
and to whom?

who listened?

who created?

who birthed betty and beulah and bobby sue?

who was the mother of all?

father time?

we all explode out of black holes
- thoughts&dreamers&poetsalike -
spanning eternity & existance
from infinity’s edge
to the arc of acknowledgement
& satisfaction
at the fact that we can know we are real.

and how do we know?

who told us so?

who listened?

do you hear me?

i conceptualized you in another dream,
& who dreamed me?

figments of each other’s wild imaginations,
we are.

drink, drink, drink it up,
the bars will close down
as we hold one another to higher standards,
raising all brothers and sisters up to greater hights
& new vantage points
to better see the lights
pointing back inside of our heads
telling us that we did this,
we did this,
take credit now
for creating
this wonderful mess.
fix it.
frame it.
fuck it.
how else do you think this happened?
“immaculate lies,” i tell you
in the teal room.
you will read this
on your teleprompter
in the 35th century,
while somnombulant waves
broadcast bouantly
throughout my brainscape.

it is better to go to bed early,
dream of the time before time,
close the bars down,
drink deep of the water,
fill up the kettle for your next of kin,
boil – but be patient,
purification takes its sweet southern time.

beauty breakthrough

why am i afraid of my own beauty?

why i am afraid of my own beauty:

there is a small black hole inside me

where no matter how much light i fill my life with

it never ever dissipates.

my fixes are always temporary.

plaster crumbles when it rains.

drugs eventually leave my system,

but always leave me emptier than before.

sugar spikes my blood

and caffeine speeds my heart rate,

but neither fuel me up for the long haul.

i’ve lost touch with my senses,

i hardly feel anything when i touch at all.

my skin is too thick

to appreciate the subtle caresses

of natural beauty.

could it be envy?

i watch those who are so shiny, smooth, and polished

and wonder, “when do they have time to shine?”

sometimes i am a moon reflecting these starlets light;

sometimes i am a sun radiating warmth and love and fright.

i’m so scared.

i’m so scarred.

i’m so dangerous.

i’m burning out

and slipping down

the rabbit hole

faster than light.

it started when i was young, i was curious.

i already knew there was something wrong with my body.

shamed, from an early age.

but they were wrong.

they took advantage of my trusting nature

and their position of power.

i will not be taken advantage of again

by the spiral inside my own mind.

how did one little spot spiral out of control?

nearly twenty years later, this has gotten old.

it’s okay to be naked.

my skin is beautiful.

i will not be shamed into hiding it anymore.

not with clothing,

not with scabs and scars,

not with makeup,

nothing will detract from the beauty i possess,

both outwardly and from within.

i will not poison myself with drugs and alcohol,

sugary treats and caffeinated drinks.

i can and will and do

shine right from the inside.

i love my own beauty.

i embrace my own beauty.

i am my own beauty.