Written years ago...

What a strange new thing, this
now what to say…
keenly aware of a muscle twitch, two shades too far
to keep plain faced.
I say
Have you…
then trail off again
knowing each question brings up the
inevitable story neither of us
wants to hear –said aloud .

-Sometimes, words make things real
sometimes so do tears, so
she asks me to stay emotionless
scared that empathy would
trigger memories.
And I…
fear her mask falling
cuz I need to see her strong
or
maybe I’d succumb to the violent cycle
of my brother’s who done her wrong.

I Am That / Cristoforo Colombo (April 2018)

Those boys approach things as you do, and you like it. But it causes ya to grin to see yourself socialized as such, no? To recognize how boys gather a handful of knowledge preemptively, curiously turn it over, and then present it with a slight twist, “I own this now, but I will offer it to you,” or because we are ‘nice boys,’ “Hey, is it ok if I claim I found this? I’ll share (because I am sure you’ll give me credit.)” Oh boy, wow…, are you being too cynical or is this an attempt to recognize complexity again and apply an honest frame? Testing a statement to check it’s fit?  -I am that.

      And white girls, with that working-class bravado, that bluntness, who mumble things with their faces down; then get wide eyed and in frustration share: inspirational in their honesty and willingness to just claim the place where they are that day. I love that. People who can say what’s on their mind. Bringing up the elephant parts as if they were just discovered, we’re all so Columbian after all. That little wrinkle of our socialization, that little acknowledgment that our proclaimed values may be different than our actions, that implicit bias showing, even as we proclaim ourselves wide eyed and knowing. -I am that.

      And of the fair youths, sweet and lost. Wow, those are beautiful beads. Blinking too much, exposed anew. Look away. Don’t look away. Palms sweaty, stomach in knots. If I don’t do it they’ll think I am a coward. Looking bored, looking tired. I don’t want to feel this guilty. Head down, mumbled speech. Just don’t say anything stupid, be part of the group. Follow the orders, follow the leader (lol)  -I am that.

      And the anxious advocates amongst us, so used to being righteous that we end up stumbling, ever tongue tied, forced speech, from the heart, from the gut, from the ache in your back ribs, continue to speak past the point you were making, clutter it up, lose their interest, worry you’ve muddled it, close your chapped lips, replay the moment, play it again, play back the entirety of your life, oh! that shameful loop, heart knotted, analyze and blame yourself, question with your clenched throat, breathe and cough, and cough and choke, try again, that eternal loop, from the gut, mind still askew, but find it there again and cling, sooth yourself with that salve of truth, that’s how you’ll know you’re still alive, and I, -am that.

The Listening Heart (April 2018)

A downturned face can mean so many things you know, you know better than you let on, so why do you always assume the silence, the quiet voice, is an opportunity to step in. Sometimes the downturned face is a fight to hold it back, sometimes it’s the protection of the heart, sometimes the contemplation of a reason, and sometimes just a burdensome headache not so well hidden.

          She surprises me sometimes with a roar (*hint), that will always be my favorite thing; the quiet one who speaks truth so beautifully. When I was younger, I might have perceived her voice as raw, and I’d have stepped forward compelled to listen, and then spent all my hours replaying those thoughts alone, praising her for unleashing her righteous anger unhindered (for my benefit). But sometimes when I am in the right space, if I am mindful, I can see the difference between my prejudiced insistence that such anger is natural (read ‘exotic’), and not the product of a billion hours spent carefully crafting, adjusting, attuning and finally fulfilling a human need often mired by a craftwork of hindrances –most invisible to me, but upon which I insist (or often do, at least).

            So, I nod along, this is the conversation I was expecting, hold your prejudices back boy, and listen. Turn your face down if you must hide your shame, but don’t you dare stop listening. Peel back the layers, one gnarly scalpel cut at a time, cringe and grip at the cold air exposure, that’s what it means to be present, that ache, that sting, that’s the shared connection to humanity, now listen with your whole heart exposed.

A Hunger or Nourishment (April 2018)

You took a bite of the wall,
now there is a stone in your belly and a hole through which-
you can see something better. Name it.
Call it out. Let them know.
There are vivid colors, fresh air, sweet abundance.
This drab and bitter, isn’t the only reality.
But remember,
if you cling to your tiny mirador in desperation,
you’re blocking the view.
Try something new.

You’ll need better tools than your crooked teeth.
and more hands, the robust, and the petite,
and words: crafted, chiseled, molded to shape,
so that thoughts become visions,
aspirational hymns fueling movements,
amassing the crowds to march and play,
Remind them!
Remember the story of us?
that’s how the walls come crashing down.

That pain? just a stone ground to fuel within,
trust your gut to handle it,
you’ve spent enough time watching other people
take bigger bites.

Las Ramblas (August 2017)

There are a few places on earth, I've always thought were magical,
Where the spirit of the place seemed to overwhelm the physical space so much that the laws of science and cynicism weren't needed, and didn't have to apply.

The adventure through the streets was so real, that you could feel the demons and the angels resting on your shoulders, clawing and soothing - as they pointed out the choices, undermined the patterns, animated the very stones, and nurtured your path forward- so that though not fated, felt perfectly predestined, as if the universe had prepared (all this time) to greet you.

The muses meet you there,
And until you feel them latch on and compel you to be- you don't recognize how perfectly meaningless reality had once seemed. 

And as you inhale the vapors rising from the street, your corneas flex just right in the midday sun, revealing every color in existence, and the perfectly sculpted comes to life, smiling just right -she waves you forward, and another plays the rhythm of your heartsong echoing off the old stone walls, and suddenly you are crying, suddenly beaming because you can't help but choose hope, can't recognize anything but the beauty of humanity and of creation. 
-that's what it means to wish a street would never end.

Untitled (Jan 2018)

I've started to 

look at old relationships 

as grave markers, abandoned

sarajevo roses trampled upon,

walk across one and the next is

easier, but everytime you

stop to consider, 

oh...

oh... every time.

The collection grows, 

each a different reason, 

and I worry they are 

compiling, 

complicating, 

the next endeavor,

with unwanted

unnecessary 

weight.

But how to let it go?

if they weren't meaningful

I'd not bear them, 

not fill in the gaps with

cement, and beauty

not chisel these remembrances. 

This Reminds Me (Feb 2018)

I remember when we were in high school, I thought you were beautiful, dancing naked in that thunderstorm. –Haven’t I written this before?

            

In psychoanalysis, there is an idea that a person will play out their maladaptive relationship patterns within the therapeutic relationship, that is, they will reveal their unconscious conflicts, their underlying issues. In the therapeutic setting then, the therapist is expected to remain separate but attuned, able to recognize, draw out and guide the person into a different psychological pattern, perhaps to prolong it until they see, perhaps to question it until they understand, to enact it until they can break the pattern once and for all. The theory goes, that if the analyst doesn’t catch it the first time, it will surely repeat, it always repeats. The cognitive-behaviorists say the same, but call it all by different names. As do the transpersonalists, inspired by the Buddhists, Jains and Hindus. 

Samsara

The spinning world, the wandering path, the burden of suffering, the cycle. 

“Isn’t this where we came in?” 

            Have I not been here before? 

This path feels so familiar.

            This reminds me of high school. 

This feeling, is of the last time,                        and of the next time,    I’m sure.

This is   -was             -will be            -again,  

            Dizzily I plea, holding tight to my seat,

Let me off the spinning wheel! 

But your face reminds me of a beloved friend, not so much physically, just the presence. And so, I reach out to her, and you, assuming the similarity must mean something true. You have a new name, but your voice reminds me of another love, and I am sure it’s the same oxytocin in my arteries. Your story reminds me too, and so I continue to reach, as I do, as I have, as I will. 

I write a new poem, and find it suffuses into an old one, the next stanza, so you must be my next verse, next chapter, next friend or lover. But I could have sworn I dreamed you, have known you, have met before. And it must be so, because this is all too familiar. This behavior. This pattern. Isn’t this the same old story…

Karma brought us here. I know the rhythm in my veins, what did I do last time that brought me more of the same? What should I do this time to fulfill my dharma, or to cast it aside and become enlightened? To heal the wound in this unconscious conflict? To address the issue of my attachment?  

Yet again, I’m called to your side with a quick plea and a grin, dopamine drips, my mind splits from the grounded path, drifting, scattered, some part of me always wanted to learn to be care free, to float towards the heavenly, some part of me has always wondered why I cling to the dirt, claw for its regulations, moral anchors, dense and dull. I see them now my grasping hands, my rigid stance, even as my heart drifts toward the intoxicating scent, the fantasy flight, enamored and clambering, where am I again? And this is how I am split open, a heart butterflied, a soul crucified in its place, struck bridging the divide, I realize I’m tantalused again. 

I’ve been here before, haven’t I? 

I always sooth myself with Gibran’s declaration that the lute must be hallowed with a knife. oh, I listen to your song, tantalized, oh, I wait on each word, eye wink, hand caress, drawn breath and smirk. oh, These are the instruments playing, and I love a crescendo as much as the silence between the plucked notes, oh, those strummed chords, oh, I know this, its clenched ache, its longing to release, you’re playing my heart song, again, oh om.

Was it not Judas, who, with such noxious lips, embraced the lord, condemning himself, and yet saving the world? Not knowing the part that he played, he saw only the vicious cycle of his attachment repeating, the betrayal of himself again and again, this unconscious wound split open and un-mended -and by his dharmic suffering sanctioned the miraculous.

Chained to the wheel of longing and sorrow, focus on one point to dispel the dizziness, proclaim it beautiful, raise up the pedestal so that from any position in the spin, you can still proclaim your devotion to the idol -and even if it’s a new love* tomorrow, worry not, the familiarity will follow.

I’ve come to expect the hurt, ever enticed by the sirens’ pull, as Goldmund had to find out, despite logical Narcissus’ warning. And between the suns and moons, that set me spinning, I meditate, learn to discern between stories, practice crafted words, taming my tongue to sing others songs so that I can stay anchored while they enact them again and again. Watching the river flow to the sea, drift up into the sky, collect, and crash again.  

But I remember, as the world and you spun, your arms outstretched, the flashing terrible, and glistening and cold - so vulnerable in your need, so giving in your desire, you pressed your tongue into my mouth, and ground your soaking skin onto mine, and for a moment I thought, this feels right, so beautiful and human, so familiar.

Sun and Dust (May 2018)

I was waiting for you to reach out, and for that reaching to mean something more. 
Though I could not presume my arms were sturdy enough to hold.
My stance, grounded enough to share the weight.
But sometimes still, I wait.

As if to see, the color underneath, once the murky water clears, I had one time a glimpse, which, I thought might mean I understood.

But simplicity was never caught, 
and
sometimes I hope she'll never be. 

And the light and shadows' glistening,
by distance made a softened storm, ever shifting, 
resistant, ripe and rare, 
for at least this little while, 
shall hold my curiosity,

if not something more. 

Jonah

Where are you right now?

Swallowed by a fish, captured in the liquid of their guts, not so dissimilar to the outside world, all around them. But is it their story that’s moving you through, their muscles pressing and agitating forward, is it what you wanted. Your parasitic desire to be swallowed whole, to merge into another, grounded and sorted until your story isn’t able to be told, without a mention of the sea.

And what really, do you know of this majestic spirit, this swimming, dancing, creature of the grand unknown, did you ever learn to translate whale song or are you merely fantasizing again. With teeth like that, easy enough to be captured, skin so soft, wise eyes so full of longing,   -so longing fills you, pinches and pulls, not gentle at first, all siren pining, and then it dissipates and dulls and you find yourself wondering, why everything tastes no good, why time alone, feels too much like sand grit sinking, pushing against the deep waters current, without direction or vision, or heart song.

So you ask yourself why not seek out a lift, a little something to make the mix more delightful, the moment hopeful, why question what the heart knows, why grow discouraged by gravitational pulls? A ride, is all, make it symbiotic, but of course –that side of the story will always be unknown, Jonah, how much does the whale miss you?