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?