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.

You Must Choose or Be the Past or Future

A million moments a day lie awake at their twilight beckoning a second glace

Linger and soak in them for a minuscule moment more

Humming deep in your throat like a favorite childhood snack

Releasing the invisible ink with which you write your story.

Our pause button,

A deliberate deja-vouz,

Stretching a moment into infinity and

Tapping into the endless potential peace

Sitting in a moment the end of a deep breath out.

It's there

A Million Times a Day.