Life In Transition (A Hope for the Future)

Life is in transition. What was once a living ideal, a fading moment of temporary life perfection, a comfort in an unknown and glorious position of self, has seamlessly woven itself into a state of chaotic readjustment. Thirty days ago I was in Boulder, Colorado beaming with a love I had never felt so righteously in my life. My days were spent by flowing creeks five minutes from my house, watching the pollen of neighboring trees float through the air like drunk little angels, like summer snow raining down in a slow waltz. My nights were cool and crisp wind dancing through my beard like sensual fingers. Never had I felt such a joyous embrace of the Mother Spirit that the Native Americans speak about with such reverent love. Never had I been so at peace within my own body–with my own purpose. I felt empowered. Alive. Vivacious and daring. I wanted to scale 14,000 foot mountains, ski down the steepest slopes, jump out of airplanes. With every mile I hiked up in those gorgeous Rocky Mountains I became more infused with that ancient fire of courage-in-spite-of-death. I felt the tingle of old spirits whose lives had been lost in the search for new and grand experiences and I understood how those who came to be out amongst that wicked beauty of mountain poppies and great birds could easily become lost to the old formalities that bind one to daily life.

My mistake was not being more vigilant of that fire’s overflow into my already unstable life in the “real world.” I began to view the world as a hike. As a challenge which could not defeat me. The folly in this sentiment was that I allowed the wind-tunnel of hubris that I had built around me, to funnel my vision away from the big picture. I believed I could accomplish anything without any plan as to how to actually accomplish it. Call it naivety, call it stupidity or blind action. Truth is I became blind to any possibilities other than what I desired to happen and in doing so set myself up for an unexpected and exhausting readjustment of my state of being. Let me express greatly here that I have no regrets as to what happened nor to how things ended up; however, such was not the case during and shortly after the events. In the turmoil of mind and body against spirit that occurs when one in starving, lost, broken and alone, one finds it much harder to see the whole picture or appreciate the simple beauties of synchronicity and divine providence. With that said, I believe whole-heartily that all things we experience are beautiful and perfect and it is only our current perception within moments of unexpectedness that we experience other-wise.

I say this as I sit 2000 miles from where I thought I would be. Where, at one point not long ago, I had wished to never return. I have had to restart completely. Both in my social/financial situation and my spiritual/psychological position of understanding within myself. It was not easy for me at first and there were certainly times when I questioned the validity of my own purpose and understanding of the world. But as days pass by like breaths beneath my brow, I find more and more strength and confidence to move forward into that dark unknown we call the future. My vivacity and Love for the world and for its people has begun to grow back rapidly.

As the old cliché goes: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

So I am not dead, as far as I can tell, and because of this fact I must trek onward down the rocky trail of life. Over the unexpected cliffs of emotion and down the switch-backs of daily experience. With the knowledge that all trips and injuries are merely temporal obstacles of which I am to learn to overcome. Each step is strength beneath my heel. Each sharp intake of breath is the recycling of old life through the new. Of familiar experience into novelty. The trepidation of an injured soul has faded and through the conquest of my own fear I persevere.

I begin with this story because in my own trails of life I have come to see that the whole world is in Transition. We are all struggling to adapt ourselves to an old world modality that is fading into the worn pages history. We are no longer content within our hearts to abide by the unquestioned banalities of dry Western ideals. The market in which we were trained to abide has failed to provide the most basic provisions of human happiness. All across the world people are feeling the strain of modern ideals against the reality of our positions. No longer do we trust the guidance of our elders-for their ideals and their preparations of us for the future have left us devoid of any skills of which to produce positive change inside their box. The lines were drawn in order NOT to be broken. It is my hope that the generation below my peers, those raised within the limitless boundaries of Internet Knowledge, will learn from the follies our parents’ generation that the capitalistic and self-centered goals of the post-industrial age were necessary for a time, and are now wholly out-dated. It is also my hope that they may learn from our generation, who has struggled our whole lives against an authority who wishes to see us silenced and dumb. We have established the base of a new paradigm through the internet and through our brash disregard for a status quo of which we cannot relate.

With such sites as Reddit, which has, through a most basic format of internet community organizing, helped raise money for numerous cancer patients and charitable organizations, found the culprits to murder before the police, brazenly spoken up against the blatant abuse of police authority, and helped many, many people resolve personal conflicts when there was no immediate and physically present community of local family and peers. Sites such as Reddit give me hope for the future of our society–a hope which can longer be found in the blathering rhetoric of politicians and mass media.

We have all been placed upon this trail of life in which we must continuously climb upward. And though our hands may bleed at times and our legs may tremble under the thought of an onward march, we must continue to trek forth with the hope and passion that things CAN change. That the world CAN be a better place.

We are all in transition. We are all afraid somewhere, deep down, that we’ve taken a wrong step;
followed a wrong path; turned at the wrong sign-post. But we must remain confident that each step we make, on whatever path we choose, is a step of progress. Each falter, each trip and bungle and crash is progress. Each tear, each scar, each broken heart is progress. Every breath is an opportunity to learn, to grow, to change. What ideals do you wish to see for the future? What paths do you wish to see unfold? What mountains do you wish to conquer?

We are in transition. Now is the time to choose the roads we wish to travel. To lead the lives we wish. Even if those lives go completely against the ideals of our current society. Life is too short to play by rules which do not work. Life is too precious to let it whither up and die in the swollen bellies of hungry souls.

March onward, my friends. Stay vigilant and take every step knowing that you are beautiful, precious and necessary.

Stay strong my fellow humans. Stay of Love.

Let’s allow the world to change.

Unity of Being

In the breath of blustery trees,
the silence of sleeping forests,
the rise and fall of cricket cadences:
I find a unity of being.

A wind from mine own lungs,
I watch it wrap around trunks,
fresh sprouts and paws:
A unity of being.

In the wet caress of Florida
mornings, the sensuous heat
of Arizona sand. In the salt
of desert lands and seas:
I find a Unity of Being.

A melody of pressed lips.
I hear temptations and songs–
of Sirens, of Satyrs, of Harpies:

A Unity of Being.

Yeah, So, Dreams…

Yeah, the dreams keep coming.
Like Florida rain, Denver snow.
Falling, drifting, cascading down
my back–like fingers, like knees,
like the sound their friction breeds.

“But they’re just dreams.”
and you’re just nuclei
spinning dizzy in your cells.

Yeah, so, dreams.
of snakes. of trees. of
falling. of white robes
and long over-due apologies.

There is a cave somewhere,
lit floor to ceiling with phosphorescent
spiders, where we’re all naked,
laughing at the silliness of our
parts.

Like classroom pant-less
cheeks, red as topless
high-school cheeks.

“But they’re just dreams.”
and you’re just bits of cosmic
dust, held together by your own thoughts.

Yeah, so, dreams.
of dragons. of fire. of
orgies. of bullet wounds
and long over-due absolution.

There is a forest somewhere,
dark as Spanish past,
where we’re all hiding,
gasping at the shadows
of our minds.

Like lungs of lovers met,
loud as eyes long
since met.

“But they’re just dreams.”
and you’re just neurons, sparking
fires in glob of meat.

So, yeah. The dreams keep coming.
Like L.A. earthquakes,
Seattle storms. Dancing, singing,
a rising crescendo like guttural laughs,
enraptured screams, like the ecstasy
their being breeds.

And yes, they’re just dreams…
and we’re just monkeys half-asleep.

The Hunt: Stage 1

First thing I look for is a little mystery in the eyes.

See, there are those of us that stare at things.

And then there are those of us who stare through things.

You know what I’m talking about.

My Words

My words are the only haven I have. My retreat at night after the door locks. The sheets crumple. My hideout. My lair.

My words are childhood forts built out of sheets and broom sticks, where I gobble down words with hungry eyes.

My words are the realities of my dreams. My metaphors are false attempts. Like Fibonacci attempting to reach Phi. Like men claiming rule over death.

My words are just scribbles. Symbols in a sand box. Like blustery November wind, time washes away my etchings. Did you know that in a cave on the British Isles there are pictures painted 10,000 years ago of buffalo and hunters? Yesterday I lost four thousand words of my life to a small red box with an X inside it.

My words are fleeting.

My words multiply by day and dance by night. My words are pastel Rembrandt parks doused in saline water. My words are whispered mornings and clamorous nights. Chivalrous escapades with horses and poetry. My words are my life’s conceit. My laughter is a hyperbole. So is my cough: A gathering of symbols.

My words are my death and my resurrection. The mythos of my mind. My words are my retribution and my denial. The bible of my tongue. The cross of my ego. The spear my heart wields beneath the cross.

My words are freedom, liberty and justice.

My words are rape, murder and betrayal. My words are scars on soft wrists. Broken Jack bottles. Cigarette burns and wasted breaths.

My words are lies, libidinous and leery. My words are not to be trusted.

My words are my passion. My tears and my bloodshed. My words are the only haven I have.

My words are my words.

And, in the end, my words are just that: words.

Summer Hermetical

She is highly compressed stardust
dancing down from the firmament.
A ballet, swirling bouquet of jasmine,
teal and blustery gray rain days;
I am a struggling Cartesian metaphor
doubting my own existence.

She is tingling triangles tremulous between
a rising baritone brass and a Dizzy lung
crescendo. A promenade Madonna’s
twilight glint–a wink. I am a shudder shoulder
moment fourteen feet away;
a falling glass of liquid memories on ice.

She is a wild call beneath a sauntering
solstice moon. A pondering wanderer skipping
stones beneath my tripping feet. I am bungled,
a sandy column of ancient marble dissipating in
the hot breath of a summer hermetical.

We are lopsided, turned around. Sparkling
ruby promises of childhood shattering beneath
anxious, wooden toes. One hand gripping dancing fingers,
one hand reaching for the exit. We are highly compressed
stardust dancing down from the firmament–

patiently waiting for the other to speak.

Manifest of a Lustful Millennium

A jungle of monsters
tearing skylines, clouds
black barrage against
the sun as if to say:
These are our skies now, we
are the Keepers of the Dawn.

Their cells pitter-patter,
close the eye-lids on whims,
yellow fluorescents, sharp whites,
pale blue eyes pulsing random
rainbow montages against the night
as if to say:

This is our night now, we are
the Keepers of the Torches.

Their cells chitter-chatter
a cacophonous language
without rhythm without
solidarity without purpose
as if to say:

This is our land now, we
are the Keepers of the Chaos.

A jungle land of steel
giants, Cthulhu beasts
beating down the nuclei
of cells, who, for so long
have confused their slavery
for their triumph. Procreating,
splitting, a mitosis of concrete
as if to say:

We are the Mortar of Goliaths, we
are the Blood which Feeds the Muscles,
we are the Pulse which Conquers Land
and Lights the Torches, we are the
the Rhythm Beneath the Chaos
who without the skies would reign.

Their cells chant, their cells pulse
and light and beat against the
walls of their ventricle homes,
all the while the Monsters, the Goliaths,
and Cthulhu with their many eyes cast
shadows down upon their slaves,
with smiles of gold cast upon the lot,
as if to say:

We are the Solidity of Illusion,
the Lucidity of Dreams.
We are the Keepers of the Torches
whose lights are Chaos Beneath Rhythm,
whose eyes are Keepers of the Skies,
whose faces Watch the Land.

We are the Manifest of a Lustful Millennium–
and This is Our Jungle Now.

My People

My People are wicker baskets beneath a Sinai sun,
withering in wait for Moses and the Unborn Son.

My people are dusty red, dry tears caked dead
into seas hungry to be parted; to be saved.

My people are nasal birds under squalid olive branches,
squawking never-mores into the ears of corpses.

My people are giant yellow CATs behind holy walls,
crushing fingers clawing at their cabs.

My people are war tribunals without convictions,
gaily starving infidels under guise of retribution.

My people throw stones, too. My people
know bombs, soggy bread and death beds.

My people know the taste of hunger,
the smell of rubble, the sting of steel

against frightened backs. My people
know Dignity’s heavy throbbing, the humiliation

of cloth labels and designated box cars.
Never forget to always remember:

My people were once soppy piles
of stolen shoes; segregated songs and souls.

My people were once thirteen tribes chosen
to remember, to scribe, to pray.

Now my people have forgotten. And
it’s Giza who now cries remembrance.

Learning to Fly (again)

The act of falling,
like flying towards the ground.

“Flying is learning how to throw yourself
at the ground and miss.”

Like dancing between rods of fire,
with the blushed hands of love
gripped tight against waist,
against hip. As the ocean
of our veins begins to rock,
to sway, to samba.

I’m so tired sometimes,
like I’m somewhere else
and I took all my energy with me.

So maybe I am. Maybe this is all
just as it seems. The insanity
in place the sanity.

The normal in place
the ab.

Perhaps all of this is how it’s
meant to be. Perhaps perfect
is an understatement.

I watched the stars birth here,
so long ago. Before Hermes
knew the name he was given.

Before Michael understood his
realm. I watched the Venus
heads grow tall. The monkey men
ascend into the skies. This is nothing
new to me, this play, this dance, this sight.

Yet in the morning
when the soft caress of dawn
pulls me from my slumber
I still gasp at the novelty of every breath
of every dance of color across
my electric flesh.

I still stand tall
upon my wrinkled bedspread
and throw myself onto the ground,
hoping this time maybe I’ll miss.

Broken Bones and Coffee

Some day I’d like to buy you coffee.
Make up for the cigarettes I quit smoking,
shortly after I missed your plane take off.

Missed the smell of your exhaust:
hot ash of all the words I missed
upon my face as the great salt
expanse of distance took you
away into my dreams.

Some day I’d like to buy you coffee.
Make up for all the silence I created,
while you scribbled words into boxes,
while I scribbled poetry onto napkins,
while we laughed at the nonsense
of our circumstance.

I’d like to say I’d change things:
but I wouldn’t.
I’d like to ask forgiveness:
but I deserve none
and you owe no apologies.

No one does.

I’d like to think we’ll have coffee again,
before the moon sets behind our lives,
into that great expanse of salt and earth.

But I know words are drops of blood
in a desert built on bones.
I know we don’t even speak
the same language anymore.
Or speak at all for that matter.

But I know it’s all alright.

For all of us end up chasing stars
across the horizon, falling back
into that great expanse of salt
and earth and dreams and cigarette ash
and coffee and broken bones and hearts
and secrets. I know we all end up back
together. Somewhere, some time.

Even if it’s not where-when we expected.