Time Turns to the Scent of Liquid

The scent of the pores of the Earth

Opening up as the sky pours into it.

Smells have no filter.

They draw a direct line to the past.

With one deep inhalation

I am connected to a million lives lived.

Past lives are subtle

But my childhood is vivid.

We take the long way home

No matter the weather.

All four windows down

As we drive just below the speed limit.

The wind blowing in my mother's hair

Nostrils out the window and parallel to the headlights.

Pulling the miniature forest into her lungs.

As a kid it was just

Another strange adventure.

But also fun to see

My mother transported to another time and place.

Our drive was through a thin slice of the park.

But she devoured that slice

And it fed her until our next ride.

I pulled more moist air into my sinuses

Into the backs of my eyes.

I opened up that memory

And let it pour out back into the soil

So that the next time it rains

She can enjoy the scent again.

Moment Contains Infinite

It's been years since I held a galaxy in my hand

I pulled it in towards my eyes

and it made me a bit uncomfortable

how it also pulled me in.

Race tracks ran down the top like

an intricate system of Maglev trains.

Crackling commences all around me.

I panicked for a second

worrying that I had

lost something in that

close by galaxy.

I let go and

let it continue to flap

in the wind.

I sat on one of

the grey rolling cliffs

meandering out radially

like aquatic serpents.

It was as if I was sitting on

the giant leg of

a wise ancestor,

turned entirely grey from

deeply rooted wisdom.

Did it also recognize me as kin?

The crackling rain poked

at the leaves on the ground

while my kindred spread its arms

and hunched over me,

letting only intermittent pattering through.

We sat there together

until I spilled over with

the overwhelming novelty of stillness,

moving around in a rabid search

for novelty in more movement.

Did that tree know I wasn't yet ready to learn the whole lesson?

Did I just buzz away like a fly?

That tree is no doubt there at this very moment, staying still, soaking in the gifts of star-born wisdom while we all move so fast we stir the cosmic pot we find ourselves in, never able to see the detailed components and interconnectedness because we've lost the ability to stay still long enough.

Maybe that's what we try to do with sleep.

Perhaps it is no coincidence the Buddha found enlightenment through stillness at the base of a Fig, if in 30 minutes it could begin to show me the threads of interwoven fabric we all belong to.

Thank you for your patience Fig.

I look forward to seeing you again.

The Medical System

Is anybody home?
Ummm, well we will be home soon.

You aren't home yet?
Well things are a bit messy but they'll be cleaned up soon.

How messy can they be that you can't go home?
We know it's a mess, but we're not sure how bad yet or if it will take long to clean up.

When will you know?
There are professionals working on it and so far they don't know. Maybe tomorrow.

So now you know?
Well no, we know what's not in there, but tomorrow we'll know what is.

Ok, so today you know?
We have eliminated half of the possible things that could be in there and will do scans tomorrow.

What did you learn from the scans?
Now we know which rooms need the most cleaning and tomorrow we'll find out what's in them.

So what was in there?
I guess something millions of Americans have and it should be easy to cleanup. But someone came through the wall with a sledgehammer, which is what made the mess in the first place.

So you can go home now?
I can go home tomorrow once the conference of professional housekeepers has time to meet and agree on a cleaning plan.

Did you make it home?
Yes. Now the cleanup can begin. A lot of dust built up while we were gone so there's more to clean than we expected. But it's okay since our housekeeper was already scheduled for Tuesday.

The Deepest Breath Out

I breathe out
to the very end
and then some.

Like the opposite of gasping for breath.

My soul pushing out
old garbage so
hard it
feels like
I'm going to turn
inside out.

So I push harder, as hard as I can. Send it on its way.

It tries to cling on. So I push even harder and hold there at the bottom.

Like a free diver
telling the seal
"You go back
up
I'm good
right here."

Sitting on the bottom of the ocean
cross legged
and letting the
cloudy sky
pass by.

Then right when the
last oxygen molecule
taps me on the shoulder
I feel the sun rays
shining through.

I float back up to the surface and marvel at the bright beautiful sky.

I looked a lifetime of trauma in the feace and told it to go somewhere else.

I will be moving forward with gratefulness, compassion and light.

Stuff of Stars

To kiss her hips is to reach up
through the clouds
and pull the warmth
of the sun
over
my face
like Cupid's
war paint.

She smells of
Earthy flowers,
and I consume
her nectar
and my body feels
like I'm
sitting in a field
rubbing my bare feet
in the grass.

Hitting snooze together
is like
a full body sigh.
I pull her left wrist over
her body
and she shuffles
herself back into me
for one more
reset.

Sometimes I wonder
how many lives
we've lived together.
Do we always find one another?
If not, I don't want to be reincarnated.

I imagine us running
in the fields
of some far off land
like children
laughing and falling to the ground
together
and
becoming
the seed to a forest.

People would return
to that site
with children and grandchildren
to tell the story of the
deep love
that fertilized their land.

Some people say you can
still hear the laughter
on a windy day
and
when it rains
you can hear the feet
pattering on the grass.

Every year on the anniversary
of the
day they met
a beautiful flower
arises
from the ground
and
shines in the sun
for one day.

I imagine us old and happy,
dancing together in our livingroom
heart to heart
feeling the warmth
and
love
of another lifetime together.

Attack in the Garden

Corn whispers a raspy
          Cardboard on cement note

A train spits
          A toot
                    As if it’s choking on a fly

Trucks slowly back up
          With helium-filled sea lion roars

Birds tap their cautious
          Morse code
                     To the
                               Cuties passing by

A snake hose
          Hisses out water

Water pops on leaves
          As if
                    Miniature children
                              Were jumping oin puddles
                                        On a leaf trampoline

I lay still,
          camouflaged in plants                    And smeared with dirt

I thought I was hidden,

The friction of my hand typewriting onto
          The paper

I should have known,        

He slid across the ground silently
          Belly almost touching the ground
                    Tightroping my blind spot

Until it’s too late

He’s poking my stomach with both hands
          In a victorious trance
                    Dance

After two and a half circles
          The game of musical chairs is over

He puddles onto me
          I’ll be here a while

Pullin For What You Want

Push your hands

Into your seat

And

Lift your butt up

One inch

And hold there.

That’s what it was like

In reverse.

That kind of energy.

Only holding myself

Down.

My soul rising

With all of

It’s strength.

Grabbing onto the

Exit door. 

Hooked in like

A cat

Above

A tub of water.

My mind spinning

My own personal planet.

Faster and faster

Around my seat.

Creating the gravity

Needed

To Keep

Me there.

My heart ever

Darkening

And deflating

With each

Breath of

Recycled air.

My eyes go blurry

In the fluorescent light.

Until one day

What am I doing

Becomes

What do I want.

Nurture the Lion

The repulsive radiance of

Monitors

Monitored by IT to keep

You on

The treadmill.

They pay you

The same

Every

Calendar time.

They task you with

Distance

But hold you to

Minutes

King Solomon

Would be proud

To keep myself

There

I would have to

Cut out a part

Of myself

But I showed

I was

My own

Owner

We agreed on

The race

But

They assumed that

My pace

Wouldn’t knock over

The pyramid

Of sand

Before it was time

Just pretend to

Be

Busy

Like all the rest

But I wouldn’t

Trade myself in

I tried staying

In the chair

To stare

At

That glare

Feeling as my ancestors did

When

In the presence of a starving lion

You can’t placate it

With anything but food

The lion in me

Fed on purpose

And

Sunlight in the pupils.

Melting Pot

Life is a tug-of-war

between the path

of the ancestors

and that of our future.

We must understand

where the ancestors came from,

where they fell short,

and why we intersected with them.

We inherit a deep patterning,

one rich with experience

and knowledge

and shortcomings.

We layer onto that

our own aspirations,

addiced to

our inherited cycles of suffering,

unconscious of the reasons

we fall short.

The answer is in our cells,

nothing more than bars

which are to our eyes

as vampires are to sunlight.

We must honor both paths

with enough rope

to avoid placing ourselves

on a rack for the soul.

Some of us must

heal inherited wounds

and create an ancestral dialogue

to head out on a new path.

This comes through

the incorporation

of the sacred.

It may be as simple as

washing hands or feet,

giving thanks

or service,

contenplative stillness

or something more interactive.

The healing of cellular wounds

is not an intellectual inquiry,

but rather begins with

an acceptance of our

inability to know.

How can you

make a delicious meal

without knowing

the ingredients?

Put The Screen Down

Black kids dropping like leaves in the Fall

If they ain't dead sweep 'em into a stall

Easily thrown away if you crush soul to a ball

But that don't matter 'til it comes to touch y'all



Look around, gun violence in the CHI everyday

Silent sandpits and jungle gyms, nobody to play

Better news, look like yous' and rockin' AK

'Cause our government's been bought by the NRA



Enfranchised whiny bitches want else to blame

When the root of your problems is a fucking shame

Chin down, shoulders slouched, I don't feel bad for you mane

Cause the truth of it all is you suffer from lame



Put down the mouse and keyboard it's 3 at night

And you ain't disenfranchised, you're a whiny ass white,

Go outside, get some sun, meet some people and might,

Realize it's yourself that your trying to fight.

Let Your Wounds Heal

I told them you've got to give your wounds air or they will fester.


But they live in the swamp.

Densely packed with potential predator hiding spots.

Ready position up at all times.

Their neck got tired of sweeping the floor so they put eyes and snakes on it in a bluffing display butterflies would blush at.

It buys them the  second take of predators but doesn't always work so they build walls.


I told them you've got to give your wounds air or they will fester.


They paint themselves with a cloud of loud music, telling the world they are as serious as the song sounds.

They dance along the street, winding a circular line-in-the-air with their swirling arms.

With a serpentine stroll and the torso of a toy soldier, they paint their chin up to the sky, dangling their throat into public, daring someone to call it a vulnerability.

The walking equivalent of sleeping with one eye open.


 I told them you've got to give your wounds air or they will fester.


 Subconscious survival strategies stifle real strength.

Even the snake on their neck should be able to stretch out every once in a while.

They shed their skin and bear a fresh novelty to the world.

 
 I told them you've got to give your wounds air or they will fester.

May they find the time and safe space to take that leap

from the thirty-thousand-foot-view into the unknown

 other side of their walls,

giving a parachute to their free-falling inner trooper

so they can

show themselves

the compassion

to switch out

of

sympathetic mode.