The Glow
waiting for the phone
the spleen
the butter bean biscuit dream
of floating through mesomorphic tones
each pulling at us
in ways unknown
flute solo.
he plays to the moon
and there’s only so many words i know
i don’t know much, see
i don’t know much of anything
but when we come together
its like
the dancing gnats
that everyone wants to swat
he knows only the rhythms of his mind
but what if one’s mind is petrified
by the bulimic tendencies
drone, drone, melodrama in his toes
he plays for a smile
rather than a glow
he plays for a style
rather than the soul
poor kid,
i wish i could teach you the nothingness i know.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Melting
Melting
in a room
afraid to thumb it alone
a prisoner
or a foreigner
of battle blade ballistics
fastening my fists
to fuzzy foamy blissful existence
enraptured in the innocence
but
i’m touching you
and you don’t even know it
i’m touching your lips
and you will never show it
cuz your lips are battle field malevolence
tied to strings of childhood violence
for the name sake
of your mental earthquake,
you will never show it
for the name sake
for the sea snake
who slithers through our little mistakes
the walls fall inward
backward
behind our identities
beyond our own disease
a thousand seas wither and wave
to the beat of a single thumb
that stays
in waterfalls
and prison cells
of mindscape, soundscape, red tape,
saying No Women Allowed
on the lonesome roads of thumbs and toes...
alone, alone, alone at home,
alone at last.
in a room
afraid to thumb it alone
a prisoner
or a foreigner
of battle blade ballistics
fastening my fists
to fuzzy foamy blissful existence
enraptured in the innocence
but
i’m touching you
and you don’t even know it
i’m touching your lips
and you will never show it
cuz your lips are battle field malevolence
tied to strings of childhood violence
for the name sake
of your mental earthquake,
you will never show it
for the name sake
for the sea snake
who slithers through our little mistakes
the walls fall inward
backward
behind our identities
beyond our own disease
a thousand seas wither and wave
to the beat of a single thumb
that stays
in waterfalls
and prison cells
of mindscape, soundscape, red tape,
saying No Women Allowed
on the lonesome roads of thumbs and toes...
alone, alone, alone at home,
alone at last.
Finity
Finity
is the only drive mankind times
with clocks
and hooks with sinker lines
to pull it close, close, closer
to what we think --
or thought...
or might think!
that we once knew
or will maybe know, someday.
is the only drive mankind times
with clocks
and hooks with sinker lines
to pull it close, close, closer
to what we think --
or thought...
or might think!
that we once knew
or will maybe know, someday.
Naked and Shivering
Naked and Shivering
He gripped the knife and stabbed the cigarette butt that lay helpless on the floor of my car, held it up to my face -- “What. Is this.”
Imperial eyes, too kingly for my kind. I like those smooth eyes, soft eyes, cradled in honey comb compassion; the eyes that search the world for jagged souls, souls with gaping holes from childhood beating and neglect.
I see now that I am on both side of this reaction, both broken and healed, wholesomely fragmented.
But how to respond to interrogation. Equanimity. Quick wit. We both knew what clung to the tip of the old Ka Bar. What this set of piercing eyes was looking for was deeply tangled in the cosmic secrets of the twelve house of hidden unfolding.
“That would be a cigarette butt,” I responded flatly.
“Why is it in your car?” His raised eyebrows mirrored the tone of his voice.
“Because I smoked it.”
A little snort puffed from his lips as he spat out the window, disgusted with my ungodly behaviors.
The huge trees, pines and oaks, sped past the windows, deliriously lost in my self-loathing as a heavy sigh fogged the glass.
“I don’t know why I smoke them, honestly. Every time I reach for one, I am already regretting it, already feeling nauseous, dizzy, disassociated, short of breath...but something keeps driving my hand to cancer stick, cancer stick to mouth, smoke to lungs.”
“Self-destructive behavior!” he billowed. Yes, oh god among men, you have solved the riddle. Your brilliance guides even the blind. You have lit the untouched torch and thank Jesus for the illumination.
“Yes, I know,” I said, rolling my eyes out the window and my mind away from this car whose proximity shrunk with each minute.
“You need to learn to take care of yourself Leah! Accept your beauty! Take a shower for Chrissake! I’m going to hose you down tonight and tomorrow until you learn how to keep yourself, mind and body, clean.”
Well. I haven’t smoked since, and I can’t say that old Louie had much to do with it, but maybe he did; I am no god. I cannot tell you the exact formulations of the karmic path. I cannot tell you if it was him or the mountain or the electric air that stopped the desire. It was nothing profound or powerful. I am no accomplished guru, having conquered the human condition. It just happened.
In fact, it turns out that I am not much of anything after all. I dabble in the arts, graze academia, dip my toes in the waters of medicine, psychedelic and otherwise. Like a panting dog pacing the shores of a lake, I watch life from the shoreline only feeling the cool waters when they come up to meet my timid toes.
I worry about all the people I have let down, all the relationships I have let crumble into nothingness. My memory is hopeless and my mind is an error I try to rectify. My body is an anchor, dancing eerily and silently in the deadened green terrain at the bottom of the ocean.
I once thought I was destined for glory. The end result of said dream glory changed over time -- musician, philosopher, monk, healer -- but the story remains the same: an aching for something more, something deeper, closer to the truth, something real. I progress through the teachings, reach a point of amateur mastery, and run away from the thing all together, afraid to continue or even come close to success.
But I see something else now. I see myself in a new light, this costumed, enculturated animal, seeking out degrees of sex and reward, entertainment and nourishment. My divine potential now lurks in the background while I try to decide on which side of the world I sit. Watching it spin, I ponder the meaninglessness and the miraculous and I see myself reflected in the frozen ocean, naked and shivering, waiting to be hosed down.
He gripped the knife and stabbed the cigarette butt that lay helpless on the floor of my car, held it up to my face -- “What. Is this.”
Imperial eyes, too kingly for my kind. I like those smooth eyes, soft eyes, cradled in honey comb compassion; the eyes that search the world for jagged souls, souls with gaping holes from childhood beating and neglect.
I see now that I am on both side of this reaction, both broken and healed, wholesomely fragmented.
But how to respond to interrogation. Equanimity. Quick wit. We both knew what clung to the tip of the old Ka Bar. What this set of piercing eyes was looking for was deeply tangled in the cosmic secrets of the twelve house of hidden unfolding.
“That would be a cigarette butt,” I responded flatly.
“Why is it in your car?” His raised eyebrows mirrored the tone of his voice.
“Because I smoked it.”
A little snort puffed from his lips as he spat out the window, disgusted with my ungodly behaviors.
The huge trees, pines and oaks, sped past the windows, deliriously lost in my self-loathing as a heavy sigh fogged the glass.
“I don’t know why I smoke them, honestly. Every time I reach for one, I am already regretting it, already feeling nauseous, dizzy, disassociated, short of breath...but something keeps driving my hand to cancer stick, cancer stick to mouth, smoke to lungs.”
“Self-destructive behavior!” he billowed. Yes, oh god among men, you have solved the riddle. Your brilliance guides even the blind. You have lit the untouched torch and thank Jesus for the illumination.
“Yes, I know,” I said, rolling my eyes out the window and my mind away from this car whose proximity shrunk with each minute.
“You need to learn to take care of yourself Leah! Accept your beauty! Take a shower for Chrissake! I’m going to hose you down tonight and tomorrow until you learn how to keep yourself, mind and body, clean.”
Well. I haven’t smoked since, and I can’t say that old Louie had much to do with it, but maybe he did; I am no god. I cannot tell you the exact formulations of the karmic path. I cannot tell you if it was him or the mountain or the electric air that stopped the desire. It was nothing profound or powerful. I am no accomplished guru, having conquered the human condition. It just happened.
In fact, it turns out that I am not much of anything after all. I dabble in the arts, graze academia, dip my toes in the waters of medicine, psychedelic and otherwise. Like a panting dog pacing the shores of a lake, I watch life from the shoreline only feeling the cool waters when they come up to meet my timid toes.
I worry about all the people I have let down, all the relationships I have let crumble into nothingness. My memory is hopeless and my mind is an error I try to rectify. My body is an anchor, dancing eerily and silently in the deadened green terrain at the bottom of the ocean.
I once thought I was destined for glory. The end result of said dream glory changed over time -- musician, philosopher, monk, healer -- but the story remains the same: an aching for something more, something deeper, closer to the truth, something real. I progress through the teachings, reach a point of amateur mastery, and run away from the thing all together, afraid to continue or even come close to success.
But I see something else now. I see myself in a new light, this costumed, enculturated animal, seeking out degrees of sex and reward, entertainment and nourishment. My divine potential now lurks in the background while I try to decide on which side of the world I sit. Watching it spin, I ponder the meaninglessness and the miraculous and I see myself reflected in the frozen ocean, naked and shivering, waiting to be hosed down.
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