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.