2/10/11
1 am on the floor of a 2nd story studio loft. Saxophone solo bops over bass beats beneath an indistinct pop tune that drifts up from a bar across the street as I take a last drag and mash a cigarette butt in an old peanut can. In a few moments what passes for music will be replaced by a flood of drunken babble and last minute bad decisions to fuck or fight, maybe both. Neither romantic as we care to think. A nights indiscretion followed by lip service “I'll call you” 's or walks of shame. In a few weeks some will ponder the ever popular options: to keep or not to keep.
My choices have become drastically simpler since the recent imposition of adult timeout for the next five years. Maybe pot will be legal by then. Sure. I am an addict addicted to passion. A life of passionate striving. I'm not selling anything nor advertizing. I am far too self-centered and egomaniacal to waste my time convincing others that I'm awesome. One of the “diseases that inhibit true mastery” is the desire to play a passive role, and with the personality of a hurricane it can be hard to tell when I'm really calm and not simply playing it cool. The footing is precarious while dancing along the divide between the struggle to stay true to oneself or become who one is. The intellect acts as a rolled ankle to the intuitive hip sway, but too much hip--like the loose lip--leads to the inevitable misstep. A silver tongue gets bit and teeth chip when the jaw is knuckle clipped if a mouth runs away.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Indra's Net
Pre-dawn.
Stepping into dark protected timber acreage of a once massive forest,
passing over woodchip paths amongst outdoor classroom
(almost as if the remaining trees need a reminder of their place—in the dirt)
follow the path deep then deviate;
the beaten has never been my way.
Begin moving toward winding stream knowing
few take time to weave in and out of brambles, brush, and thorn thickets, but
this is the way it was and will be:
no cut paths, no trespass, no bipedal transgression.
No easy access.
Do not seek the path, let the path find you.
Far enough in one forgets the rape of the natural world,
even though the buzzing interstate insect routes may still be heard.
Remember your role in the Great Mother’s play.
Pass no judgment on those unaware of their parts in something greater than themselves.
As I cross the stream a dimly rippling reflection reminds me of the same.
There is no difference.
Perceive each moment as direct communication with the divine,
move without being moved. For matter, motion is the rule;
both mirror the time spent not knowing.
Logic incises ancient wisdom from frontal-lobed tree dwellers.
Lost in these thoughts, eastward I climb a hill so that She may present me a gift,
an earthy place of respite to greet the slowly waking Sun
soon to peer over the horizon to claw its way across the sky.
Green buds of a sapling slither around the bleached bones
of a once mighty tree’s open palm beckoning me
to sit and wait for the fiery eye of energy.
Here the air is crisp, honest, primordial.
Deep draw from filled pipe, hold it in, feel the wave of brain change
clear away accumulated cognitive cobwebs,
smoky exhalation mixes with steamy breath in the moist cool morning mist.
Sacramental offerings are exchanged,
symbiosis of carbon dioxide inhaled into woody lungs
and The Heavenly Chi absorbed by alveoli
—She doesn’t mind, She made it so that we might see.
Calm rhythmic breathing quiets the urge to cogitate,
focused mind moves to still body, awareness dilates, at ease now—meditate.
Melt into the One & None. Becoming. Became. Be gone.
A slow synergetic gestalt of condensed cosmic vibrations,
undulating in twined harmony, folding resonance fabric
—life experiencing itself subjectively.
Reawaken from trance, say a silent prayer.
Om. Shanti. Om. Shanti.
Prepare to reenter cultural soma revitalized
to liberate sleeping beauty from societal coma.
Rising Son.
∆˚
Stepping into dark protected timber acreage of a once massive forest,
passing over woodchip paths amongst outdoor classroom
(almost as if the remaining trees need a reminder of their place—in the dirt)
follow the path deep then deviate;
the beaten has never been my way.
Begin moving toward winding stream knowing
few take time to weave in and out of brambles, brush, and thorn thickets, but
this is the way it was and will be:
no cut paths, no trespass, no bipedal transgression.
No easy access.
Do not seek the path, let the path find you.
Far enough in one forgets the rape of the natural world,
even though the buzzing interstate insect routes may still be heard.
Remember your role in the Great Mother’s play.
Pass no judgment on those unaware of their parts in something greater than themselves.
As I cross the stream a dimly rippling reflection reminds me of the same.
There is no difference.
Perceive each moment as direct communication with the divine,
move without being moved. For matter, motion is the rule;
both mirror the time spent not knowing.
Logic incises ancient wisdom from frontal-lobed tree dwellers.
Lost in these thoughts, eastward I climb a hill so that She may present me a gift,
an earthy place of respite to greet the slowly waking Sun
soon to peer over the horizon to claw its way across the sky.
Green buds of a sapling slither around the bleached bones
of a once mighty tree’s open palm beckoning me
to sit and wait for the fiery eye of energy.
Here the air is crisp, honest, primordial.
Deep draw from filled pipe, hold it in, feel the wave of brain change
clear away accumulated cognitive cobwebs,
smoky exhalation mixes with steamy breath in the moist cool morning mist.
Sacramental offerings are exchanged,
symbiosis of carbon dioxide inhaled into woody lungs
and The Heavenly Chi absorbed by alveoli
—She doesn’t mind, She made it so that we might see.
Calm rhythmic breathing quiets the urge to cogitate,
focused mind moves to still body, awareness dilates, at ease now—meditate.
Melt into the One & None. Becoming. Became. Be gone.
A slow synergetic gestalt of condensed cosmic vibrations,
undulating in twined harmony, folding resonance fabric
—life experiencing itself subjectively.
Reawaken from trance, say a silent prayer.
Om. Shanti. Om. Shanti.
Prepare to reenter cultural soma revitalized
to liberate sleeping beauty from societal coma.
Rising Son.
∆˚
Coffeeshop Courtship
Here we are again, exchanging glances from across the open room lit in low soft
fluorescence emanating from can lights recessed in the vaulted ceiling mirrored on a polished
wooden café floor. You behind the counter at the register patiently waiting for the man in the
blue hood to dig out a wadded dollar bill and some assorted change in exchange for the steamy
to-go cup of coffee just brewed. You don’t mind the time, it affords you chances to steal quick
peeks of my eyes fixated upon you through a shoulder length veil of gleaming copper tendrils,
afraid that you’ll see me seeing you; afraid that you won’t; afraid you might glimpse the true me
beneath an integument of nervous twitches and feigned sotovoche. I pretend not to notice, but
cannot deny the telling flash your eyes burn into what you see as my stoic stern face while yours
gives nothing away but a slight upturn of the lips to signal willingness to play the game, this
game, our game.
To extend even the softest of hellos to close the communication gap between us seems
far too risky. It’s never easy for me to reveal my inner feelings, I appear to read like an open
book, but the text is all ciphers, “puns and reedles” as Joyce wrote. To know me is to grasp
the intangible; feathers of smoke, droplets of water in the hand. Decisions mundane become
monumental when I think of intention. What motivates me? What are my drivers? What does
she desire? What matter these thoughts? Quicksilver reason quiets a lusting heart’s echo against
tympanum like evening tide breaks against cliff sides. I yearn to pass beyond lust and hesitance
continues when understanding is all I want because it’s never that easy. Then despair slips in
unexpected—viral radio filler with the unforgettable nauseating hook and toe-tappin’ beat. No
one cares to be around the lonesome, sulking and needy, wet towel personality soaked in self-
pity. Grave ashen faces in place of trembling rouge eyelids whose swollen beads distort and
reflect the rosy wisp of ruptured capillaries. Features harden involuntarily the further I sink into
the mouth of doubt and betray the intensity of my thoughts to those who recognize this all too
frequent tendency.
A jet engine roars to life and snaps me from over analysis and into total confusion. Why
the fuck am I hearing a jet? Does anybody else hear that? How long have I been seated here,
drowning in myself? The barista has moved to the espresso machine and calm washes over me
to the shriek of a crushed bean concentration camp for the final caffeinated solution. Close call.
Thought I was hearing my mind tear itself piecemeal, pressure release from a suffocated
conscience.
fluorescence emanating from can lights recessed in the vaulted ceiling mirrored on a polished
wooden café floor. You behind the counter at the register patiently waiting for the man in the
blue hood to dig out a wadded dollar bill and some assorted change in exchange for the steamy
to-go cup of coffee just brewed. You don’t mind the time, it affords you chances to steal quick
peeks of my eyes fixated upon you through a shoulder length veil of gleaming copper tendrils,
afraid that you’ll see me seeing you; afraid that you won’t; afraid you might glimpse the true me
beneath an integument of nervous twitches and feigned sotovoche. I pretend not to notice, but
cannot deny the telling flash your eyes burn into what you see as my stoic stern face while yours
gives nothing away but a slight upturn of the lips to signal willingness to play the game, this
game, our game.
To extend even the softest of hellos to close the communication gap between us seems
far too risky. It’s never easy for me to reveal my inner feelings, I appear to read like an open
book, but the text is all ciphers, “puns and reedles” as Joyce wrote. To know me is to grasp
the intangible; feathers of smoke, droplets of water in the hand. Decisions mundane become
monumental when I think of intention. What motivates me? What are my drivers? What does
she desire? What matter these thoughts? Quicksilver reason quiets a lusting heart’s echo against
tympanum like evening tide breaks against cliff sides. I yearn to pass beyond lust and hesitance
continues when understanding is all I want because it’s never that easy. Then despair slips in
unexpected—viral radio filler with the unforgettable nauseating hook and toe-tappin’ beat. No
one cares to be around the lonesome, sulking and needy, wet towel personality soaked in self-
pity. Grave ashen faces in place of trembling rouge eyelids whose swollen beads distort and
reflect the rosy wisp of ruptured capillaries. Features harden involuntarily the further I sink into
the mouth of doubt and betray the intensity of my thoughts to those who recognize this all too
frequent tendency.
A jet engine roars to life and snaps me from over analysis and into total confusion. Why
the fuck am I hearing a jet? Does anybody else hear that? How long have I been seated here,
drowning in myself? The barista has moved to the espresso machine and calm washes over me
to the shriek of a crushed bean concentration camp for the final caffeinated solution. Close call.
Thought I was hearing my mind tear itself piecemeal, pressure release from a suffocated
conscience.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)