Dreaming of the best of all possible worlds

Am I going to implode or explode?
The stations are dangling on the carrot
left broken by the Orange faced man himself.

Am I going implode or explode?
The students are scuffling through the door
screaming because they want to be boss,
there's shade being thrown
and my patience gets shot.

What suffering? What anxiety?
Our schools, our lives are just suppose to hinge
on the manifesting mode of survival,
not enrichment.
What is this shit I'm drinking?

I have a choice to envision the best
of all possible worlds.
I used to know a girl who would say,
"If there was any reality in the eleventh dimension
this plane of existence that's supposedly real, then
 this is the best option out of them all."
She was right, it's what I... amCreating have CREATED.

Am I going to implode or explode with the best of all
possible visions?
Shouldn't I try to make space and draw with pastels
the gorgeous tones that could smudge my future
into my history?
Don't I have a duty to myself to spell out the details
I know could spawn in a saucey pool of happiness?

Winter prescription

Just before seven we are up,
our bowels are crowing like the rooster at first light.
You are up first but then back to bed after the head.
I lay with swollen eyes until I peel back the sleep
to see your sparkling pearls in the crepuscular light.

My heart sends the message down the telegraph line
---Iloveyou--to the brain and then the lips.
You mirror my lips and voice and ask---areyousure?--
Iam, I mean..Iwas...should I say that? I mean...areyousure?

Prostrate with tense tendons,
my twitches in the tibia are tapping
with the moves of Fred Astaire.

I command my legs to do my brain's bidding.
They obey and shuffle my toes to the coffee grounds and water
where my fingers find the field guide for preparing
a morning purge, on the first page in BOLD---coffee, cigarettes, weed,
computer or paper and pen, sunlight, quiet,  pain, distress, or happiness and a
desire to examine your insides.

The voices from my looney tune dream
linger, fading with the growth of the eight o'clock sun
that slaps the right side of the tulip petals on the table
and my mind begins to transition:

"Melatonin replaced with Caffeine and Nicotine
causes a rapid state of alertness. Combined with the
effects of medicinal doses of Marijuana, the patient may incur
a state of lucid awareness
of one's cognitive boundaries
and emotional flaws."

I read on..
             "If the patient is female and is of child bearing age,
              estrogen, testosterone and androgen levels will
              determine the intensity to which the patient
              experiences the positive effects from this combination.
              Negative effects include; self doubt, trouble sleeping,
              dizziness, drowsiness, increased appetite right after a suppressed appetite,
and a desire to masturbate or engage in sexual activity."

The side effects didn't seem that bad
so I moved forward with the purge.
Since I was nineteen and full of angsty screams
I have been reading those directions
and the reasons seemed to evade me
until this morning when heard you
say, I'm here because I want to be.

Across the Cityscape

One night when I was fourteen and sleep walking 

I woke up and found myself staring out at the night sky.

There was a light that gleamed from the Pleiades,

the place where you and I were birthed into love,

where we first opened our eyes.

When I'm next to your side, I sense a vast history

where we've exercised our right 

to bridge peace where others would fight.

There's this place that only exists when our eyes lock tight,

one iris of yours is the key and the opposite lens

on my laugh lined face is the lock.

The door opens us up into a room 

where we can paint and draw and dance and sculpt.

I see you with a springtime smile,

spinning connections of fireflies

while I summon swimming sunfish 

to jump for your delight.

 

All of my cells, down to the neutron, are telling me 

that you and I have shared particles since 

the beginning of time, we've been responding like

morse code flashlights from windows 

across a cityscape of blinking signs.

I feel a fire in my veins that pulses with desire

for your lips and thighs, 

loving vibes and entrance to the fortress of your mind.

This elated flame surges deep in my arteries too,

causing a force of vulnerability to give myself over to you.

Rarely are we lucky enough to understand our alignment

and resist less to our own fear for long enough to find the

ones we are suppose to know.

I honor and respect you in honest thankfulness 

that our acorn we have fashioned from the earth of our heart's

is now sprouting into the oak tree seedling.

With tenderness I promise to water and feed

our divine love created by you and me.

Outloud

The movement is now underneath me like the river under my leafy skin, my veins swell with the realization:
I am now in a new canal that leads to the ocean.

I am the ocean, the river, the leaf and the sunlight. The movement is me and I am the space that creates Love.

If I see my emotions as a piece of me, I can look objectively and master my reaction.
Time seems to be in this forward dance that spins me around and laughs in my face when I attempt to grasp at it, as though I was the one who was in control. That's when I learned how to let go.

There is nothing more powerful than feeling the thumping song that your heart sings when you realize what you really need and can tell the Universe OUT LOUD.

I screamed and cried into the sky until I felt the weight of a million frogs jump from my spine,
like pouring a glass of wine to toast to a celebration, my soul lit a fire, a spark to find my heart's desire: to love and to be loved in return. To recognize what I deserve and to be open to the love from the universe.

Setting in motion the leaf, releasing my grip from the rotten tree roots, I slid down stream and turned around to release all that was behind me, to see, to navigate clearly the eddies and rocky banks battened with boulders that I should avoid

Nor my Neighbor Down the Street

While searching for the light that kills the bacteria
they found a light that reprograms the cells,
a light that rewrites the souls,
and a light that travels nowhere
except it's everywhere.

And while they were at it
they had to consider proportionate
quantum integers that existed
on the other
side of the worm hole,
-)))That swirling mass that spins faster
than the speed of any light
so quickened by madness at onehundred&eightysevenmillionmilespersecond that it traps
light and anything else in sight
in order to deconstruct, to pull a part the atoms and reconfigure,
like the mouth of Pluto
sucking our dear Persephone into the crust
into the depths of the earth itself,
the blackness was all consuming
til her mother scorched the soil with revenge
and Pluto freed her but with some leverage
to bring life back and repair the burns and then in winter she returns.
Her sacred release brings our pomegranate
lips the yearned for Spring bliss,
a well intact rite of atonement
earned in the winter drifts for those who survive it.

So do the blackholes too transform and release the 
light to some flipped compartment of space and time?
Do the particles ride through and bring light to 
another side? 
These were the questions they began to ask
as humanity looked back with a vast flabbergast,
they had exacerbated the fresh water which all life has a constant need,
the land became void of air giving trees,
all beginning with the lust for greed.
But we have not done this, you and I nor my neighbor down the street,
How can we be held responsible for changing the way we all see?
And then as though a light bulb had gone off above them,
everything clicked. Our old ways must be swallowed by generations
who detest the exploitation of the needy. The future is only foreboding if we allow for
the greedy to succeed. 
The darkness must transform the light and in this yinyang eddy
they found their peace.

Is there an Escalator?

It's been years that I've been examining the steps
retracing my motivation to a shadowy desert where the iguanas ignite at night

Balloons fall from the sky with messages of syntactic embellishments meant
to touch your cream pie white skin and encourage you to melt
into a relaxed state where you close your eyes and trust me

The sanctions that have been stated and lock-down measures that have been taken
have driven my endurance and qualify-able quest for knowledge into the necessity for tender touch
the need for entangled intimacy that can only be suppressed like a towel at the bottom of
the tattered laundry basket for so long before the mold begins to grow

each time it gets a little easier

to be quiet like a spider
and wait patiently web intact with glorious looms
ready to wrap you in a loving embrace

And it's been years that I've been examining the steps
replacing action from past mistakes

Reservation

The sun rise from the tree tops creates the illusion that there are hills and valleys
through every flooded yard, acrid field, creek and culvert.

I've been trying to reach this place in my dreams where I can see
my sister and every time I manifest a room with a door that she can walk through
we have a conversation, an action that hasn't happened in almost a year now.

I've been laying low, down in the valley, close to the banks of the Great Miami
where bodies for centuries have been tossed next to paper waste, fish eggs
and needles full of viscous plant matter seen as pleasure.

I've been sitting quietly and most nights I wait patiently
as long as my stimulation is satiated.
I have been listening to the movements of familiar mouths
and watching how my own reflection is no longer in
parallel like it was during days of dick's den and dube burgers.

I now take my connection to the next level without conscious awareness
of what I'm actually asking. I request meetings in the woods, in the
ephemeral space of music creation and on alters.

Days like Yesterday

This is the year of the sacred goddess
although every day is a day to tap
into the feminine if I can let it in.

There is a violence that is fighting the enlightenment.
The spin of the Yin and the centrifuge of the Yang
are always in the a revolution, a centrifuge of exact opposites.
There's a need to hold onto the geodes and crystals
with your face on the wet soil and a yearning
to let go of all of your possessions, pack up
your heart and fly into the arms of the unknown.

Is it like this for everyone?
Are there generations of people who are manically
changing their minds and acting on it?
 Does stability elude them?
Do we all share pieces of them in our dreams and allusions?

There are days like yesterday when you wake up and the sound
in your eyes rumbles your tongue, the lips of your gums
spit out words that derive from the pit
of your ache and your brain is bypassed.
The people you once knew have changed from tadpoles
into frogs and the locomotion that was your life
is now a hum of highways sounds in the distance.
You search for your old clothes on days like yesterday
but they're on the backs of teens who bought them
from the thrift stores you emptied with your love on your arm.

You awaken with the knock of gun shots on your window.
This time they're not a sound of danger like two years ago
when you went to sleep hoping that the stray bullets
wouldn't graze your bed post. Now they represent a thunder
of boredom, a place where men go to release
tension and show off their biggest guns.

I hang prayer flags in the windows for the ones I've loved,
for the ones who have loved me more
than I have them and for the ones I will love in the future.
The ones who have died lie their ancient eyes
on me when I can't sleep, they blow the wind
with the windows closed and wave
the flags because I can't see their hands.

I say on days like yesterday that I am a light bearer
but I was quickly corrected by an elder
she said, child you are not a bearer of the flame
but you are the flame itself,
and so I burn
but I do not consume.
I grow but I do not take over
like a wildfire.

First house, first sign, best in show

I have a friend who fills me with expansion
and every time we meet our conversations are lengthy.

The other day we talked about robotics and teachers,
the speed and privy to information will soon be
even more accessible if we're blessed enough.

There is this friend of mine who has been
giving me the shivers.

I recently discovered that she handles
conflict through exploiting others.
Her refuge it seems is to go to malicious extremes.

Another wandering sister who knows me well
dwells with the artist inside and every time her laugh sells.

Our similarities are so deep that you would guess
that we arrived here from the same darkened trench crevice,
the place where the creatures create thier own light; Bioluminescence.

Amongst all of these Arian connections who, while uniquely providing opportunities
for vast personal reflection, I see the strongest indicator like a flashing transistor in my best friend and partner.

I am finally sailing in a space where I'm used to the rocking of the boat.
I see how my ability to choose love over fear soothes our burns
and encourages her to ameliorate, like a hot needle that guides itself in,  with a little pressure.
For every ailment, Nature has a remedy and sometimes the outcome is thick skin.

.

In the great room

That plump supposition has secreted this puss
that resembles a blight ridden potato plant
too rich and full in nitrogen, spit with holes through its' leaves,
bent from over-saturation.

But there's always time to replant
during Mercury retrograde, the time of recollecting
the past and separating fantasy from fact or whether you should have
left but decided to stay. You stay persistent like a washboard,
grooves exactly a half inch from perfection.

Do not fear, you can change your rhythm,
your shake and how easy your bones break.

In the dream where I stand in the circle
holding the innocent eyes and the guitar that I play
inches from the strings, you are all looking back at me
asking me to open the door to cross the border.

We are all in our own houses, chipping the slate to the shapes
of the floor boards, painting murals with flaming reds and yellow ochres
derived from the clay in the lake shores, taking on working roles
just to ensure our rooms are more beautiful for our hearts.

And in the great room I will meet you
there in that facing circle where we all are equal and eager
to step through the threshold.

Come one, come all

This circus is a myriad of myths.
Our dimes and our diners are now obsolete
as the water-wheel centrifuge dives down and then up
again to fuel our secret ballot response.

There are no True Defenders of Freedom under the Big Top.
They all play to the reality T.V. driven
psyche of fuzzy reception
and the watchers believe with giant dry eyes
lubricated long after their sweat-stained stadium seat
is stolen by silent soldiers.

They dangerously entrusted their livelihood
only to become slaves of a chemical industrial complex.

And now the insects have cameras that listen to your buzz
and the warped mirror is now two sided to make sure
they're there watching. You have to struggle to make your way out
of the crowded jackets and peanut shells flinging dust in your eyes.

The only place left go, to leave the circus behind
you must first untie the knotted lies of where the post holes are dug.
You have to find the sound that is taught and hidden under the elephant's rug.
Don't be surprised when cut back all of the slack, you find yourself in the woods
or the desert never wishing to go back.  

Inside the broken finch egg she saw a new speckled world.
She was out of her head and could not pick up the shards of shell
she had caused to crack by not speaking up.
Just arriving inside the pickle jar dream
she dreamed of when she was teary eyed and twenty-two
she joked that the vision
now seemed distorted.

Her internal clock was punching her gut, spelling out in Morse code
that this situation was not right.
Uneasy but unwavered she planted her garden and tried to unpack
her old life out of boxes but the spaces made clean were all circular
so in her sleep she sorted through her needs and wants and what felt right.

Uncomfortable and tossing. Coughing and back in pain she woke up early
every morning with the gaining solstice light.
The porch she worked on obtained pieces of a family's past
that she was not allowed to touch with dirty fingers or make clever comments on.
She tried hard not feel like a visitor in the distance.

All of the coffee she wanted was available, every bill she had was paid.
Still she felt like she didn't have what she needed. She was still searching
for the ideal she painted for this moment. She was screaming inside
to have more love. More hugs, kisses, sensual and romantic stones to be thrown.
She needed was receiving a kick from her spirit to pursue a greater path
that devoured her hours with enlightenment and connectivity.

She could only give that gift to herself and then and only then would she begin
again to feel like herself.
Everything in its right place.

Last day of April

Within a dream so vivid you said in words almost slurred
that you fell in between another's legs during the last eclipse.
You were so nonchalant about it as you admitted to also sleeping
with a friends' boyfriend whose name you could not remember.

I woke up saying, "when did you have another female roomate?" pissed at you.

And they quickly approched the audience

Have you ever felt that overwhelming lip quiver that sends your whole body shaking with adrenaline filled heart palpitations that change your breathing habit, sucking in too much at the wrong time, sending your brain into hypoxia?

It's the moment when you either hear news or have to say something that is completely shocking.
It's the time when you heard that your girlfriend had been almost raped because she got too drunk at a party. It's the moments just before you discover the results of your cancer screening and that summer when you stumbled upon an email that your partner was cheating on you.

Feelings of dread with Musgy Spanier's Riverboat Shuffle spinning trumpet trills ascending in the background. This ain't no Eliot Smith kinda day. And she can't say that this is the worst it's ever felt like, things could be much worse and she knows it. It's the fear of the unknown you know, that kills us in the moments of feeling your future wrapped tightly in a rice paper egg-roll.

Now I just have to unwrap this present that's in my face she says from her ego-consciousness to her heart. Everything that you once dreamed in the form of things around you to make you happier had come to fruition, where's your happiness in its genuine?  Her heart replies.
Now her gut told her in knocking punches, so as not to ignore,  there's something wrong with the situation even though it's fine the way that it appears. This saddened her like being out at the rolling sea with no sight of land in store.The picture she was painting while listening to Bach had been smeared.

But what if she's just afraid because of the change and the unknown, because of the lingering ghosts in bedsheets and wallpaper? Her heart said to her brain.
 She told me that she felt like this was an addiction. She was always chasing after the way she felt when they were in love, when their lives felt right because they were together. They were chained together on a prison yard, picking up stones to make mortar.
She would do anything just to make her happy; give up her job to move to her hometown, meet all of her oddball requests, and finally to stop asking about making love. This is where the telephone polls started snapping.

After all of the laundry was done, the lawn was mowed, dishes dry and dinner hot on the stove she realized that there were still boundaries that she could not cross. There was sensitive information in her heart that required rules so secrets could not be revealed.

By this time their symphony felt like it had its' peak in the planning of the future, but once it arrived she sensed a summer of discontentment. Once she gets what she wants she always wants something else. One could say that this is self-reflective of all of western civilization. The Grass is Always Greener, Have it Your Way, Slap into a Slim Jim.. etc. You get the drift, she always wanted more but at the same time they found themselves with less of the things that they didn't need and it made them both a little happier.

The change that they craved on mornings when they were stiff and stuck in a vapid grave yard on a crusty couch, hung over and sorrowful from fighting the night before. At least they were too old for that now. There was only a few more bad habits to iron out.

Dishwashing Thinking

I'm getting ready to board this foggy staircase
that leads to the hallways poured with colored doors.

My bags are mostly in boxes labeled,"kitchen, fragile, uncertainty, progress and evolution."

The emotions are in transit to a cloudless summer night where I will process
this life-changing moment, greater responsibility with unfathomable commitment.

I'm still sitting here though. I'm taking each day for what it is, a series of sun and stars pegged on a board with opportunity and dishwashing thinking sticky notes. Still trying to formulate a peaceful plan, one that sits well with the rhythm of my stomach, being organ driven.

We have tried to rinse down the spoken fear and anticipation with the juices of fermented grains for far too long. Now I've been scolded for remembering the hiss of the poison that came from your lips before you passed into unconsciousness. You're not accountable for the moments that you don't remember.

I will be very aware in times that draw near to maintain my fierce independence through purposeful movement aligned with thoughts from the woods derived from soil.

It would be easy to feel the power dynamic shift as an anvil strapped to my sternum.
But I breathe out anchors like puffs off a blunt and I still see the part of my picture that I've drawn out. I keep sketching in my mind with pencils,markers,paints and crayons.

Paper cut crunch

This is a double sided hutzpa salad dressing shaking a skank session under halogen bulbs.

There's a logical,yet magical way that we both created this paper cut crunch that splits us through the center of Ohio. I get the side that touches your stomach since I've been faced the other way all of these years.

With all of the embarrassing dangling carrots that have pulled away like credit card you think you have completely paid off, I'm hesitating in taking a bite.

But of course I'm taking everything too seriously.
It is only the flow of life to make choices that challenge
what you once thought was true.
My Calloused hands are not numb yet
but I am conditioning my obsessive trained tracks
to turn and brake in new ways.

There's still a window that I look out of on this speeding bullet.
I see the parallel lines of where I could be. It's a disguise and I know it.
I am not surprised that I am manning up
or sacrificing desire from lascivious lovers.
I have tried to block out the beams of that penetrating gaze
of what could be, like sex on the beach, it's a day dream.

Magnetic attractors are swinging

I'm beginning to let go of the worry
as the sun enters my veiled corneas
in the full production set of the aries-mars
archetype who is midway between equinoxes.

There is a ripening effect of this year already,
the solar return to the galactic center
asking us if we want to pull on the door
that changes your mind or be pushed back
into that crowded room that spins
when you stand and try to focus your eyes.

Our fallen milk chocolate allegories
of where we originate are finally synthesizing
into a hardened story line written on kitchen-greased paper
with blood still on it from the butcher.

You can't lie about blood, clots, arteries.
Even rivers thrive on veins.
I'm surprised the water table isn't saturated
but then again you have fresh and salt water
running through your veins,
why wouldn't your water contain their blood?

A scenic substance is not the Ego

She has turned her head and made the choice
to use her turn-key switch located on the clock between winter and spring.


I just shuffle on the canyon cliff-side above the seasons.
I'm looking for an astounding reason to say, yes or no.
The view from above has more light and clarity on the scene.
Although I'm not sure where the separation between viewing and doing
happens on the stone spine
or if I have already slipped down
the shear wall face and this evaluation of myself IS just me looking
up to the boulders coming towards my skull
and hallucinating my own death.

Every new path can be and is like a rapid of orgasms,
un petite mort. You die and expand
your vibrating lungs into a flowing era that is succinct with the map
that you drew out before you entered this languid body.

But what did the map say about this intersection with her?
Can I force myself to remember
the detailed holograms carved in wax by Metatron?
No, this is what we meant about Risk, it's the catalyst
that serves to complete the karmic revolution
where choice meets fate, where divine threads come together
to battle and weave. This reality is an alpaca blanket.

This life that once was a dream.
I now am convinced of the power to manifest
But that Doesn't mean I am a master at harnessing it.

In the darkness of the dawn I could hear them whispering,
"Make sure it's something that you really want otherwise the circumstances
become wrought with good intentions but poor forethought."
They brought in paths from the past to question my motives,
lucid smoke screens to get me to agree that I should to
wonder and not wander.
And to see the present from all sides
means to be still
and not plan.

What if I don't move forward with the vision
that I've encompassed and colored in?
Will I be punished or rewarded?
Do I sail out to the edge of the sea
to see if staying this course
will lead me to the promise land?
or do I
jump ship and hope to find my new life
where I'm no longer a sailor?
No longer this pulsar
that hides part of the light
to keep the darkness happy.

I don't leave it up to the Zephyrs or Aeolians but I do try to listen.

In the forest of my youth there is a sycamore.
The roots are strong at the base
of this watery tree but some underground
limbs are now rotten and softened by the elements of time.

If the loggers come in to cut it down today they will find
legions of patterned heartwood
as delicate as an orb-weavers web.
The stump however will never be destroyed or wafted by gloved thumbs.
Its entangled root-system still will feed
the microbes and invertebrates that rely on its structure.

Going Direct not like before

This isolation within the heart has brought me closer to the true meaning of my hearts' journey.
The compartments that I've tipped over
splashing my hopes and fears, a child who goes crazy
in the bath tub never thinks of slipping.

My conception of time revives my face
in the eyes of mercury retrograde-right now I'm direct
because my picture is more defined.
Half-way was before with only grey fillings
and erasure marks over our outlines.

There is an Autumn wind that blows and brings
mystery with dark almond eyes from centuries ago.
Even though it's Winter it comes anyway
and soils my perfect drawing, scatters ashes and smears brush strokes.

This karmic thunder that mimics the Spring,
it's a guise to win you over, to make you think
the concrete under your feet isn't something that you mixed
with your own two hands.You have the grey unknown still stuck
under your nails-the illusion is not even feasible.

Fostering the Kinetic

Everyday can be life altering.

In this Autumn rain I can feel the earth eating the dying.

The squash vine whispers to the nightshade hymnals

that concord with the pace at which the maple leaves hit the soil.

This is the season when the people molt.

This season every system dying jolts its transmutation

into a message that emotes, emotes, emotes.

There is finally a wake-up that screams, You are the same as the trees!

Except we are all trying to cut each other down

and this dilemma is nothing short of a cosmic discord

that takes the earth shaking and volcanoes quaking-- your mouth wide open

kind of emphasis on how your life will be changed.

Now that we know that earth with resume long after we're gone.

Now that we know that this season of death rattles

where the dying bodies of plants, people, machines and ideologies

are called unto the valley of the shadow of death,

there is nothing to fear except fear itself.

The phoenix is the anthropomorphic version of your ability to transform.

If the only constant is change

then death is the only paradigm

to total metamorphosis.

Under this energy in motion, our emotions pull the current.

Our waves that change the landscape are capable of great visions

and actions that can sweep away the boulders into the sea.