Friday, June 7, 2013

Stay With It

Without hesitation,
I rush in with words outstretched,
heart held in my hand.

Devoid of sense-making
and too-full of feeling,
descriptions pour from
all my wounded places,
coloring the ever-changing scenery.

Bitterness emerges immediately,
self-doubt clawing at me
like some dirty, snarling
maggot of addiction,
smearing wide swaths of my blood
across the page.

I write on, persistent.
I'm not always pretty,
to myself especially,
but also to others.

I'm not always ugly, either.

I'm not always anything,
neither love and light
nor fear and dark.

I'm everything,
nameless as the patient union
of life and death themselves.

I expire
and am remade
a thousand times a day,
imagining a continuous trajectory of being
only because my cells,
just like the earth in the body of god,
are spinning too fast
for me to make sense of their motion.

I relinquish my hold on my self
and allow a resting of potential,
sick to death
of new age dogma
and old age karma
all at once.

screams one of the smallest voices inside,
petulant and angry
that he was born into a world
where some men offer ceaseless prayers
to their own greedy pocket-idols
while they feed bullets of deception
into sleek, shiny misinformation-machines...
"Fuck you both"
says that smallest voice,
scared and sad to be born into a world
where so many seem to prefer
to turn themselves into cringing lapdogs
or anonymous bigots en masse
rather than take responsibility
and shoulder the difficult burden
of their own hearts...
"fuck you both"
whispers that smallest voice,
desperately needing
all the blissfull bullshit to be true,
desiring nothing so much as escape.

Done apologizing for being,
done demanding
the heart of the world be healed.

Perhaps it's better off as it is,
for who am I to deem it broken?

Who am I to claim
to have deciphered
our global cardiactic cartography,
much less my own?

'This too shall pass'
is a truism always applicable,
although uttering those words
will not always
ease the sting of the moment.

and I feel hard...
for I am a poet
and by definition
that's part of the job.

I also feel soft.

I also feel everything in between,
and other sensations
you could not even begin to imagine.

Perhaps I am nothing more
than a funnel for the emotions
of the universe,
allowing for a sort of
concentrated expression of existence.

If so,
then I am performing admirably.

The snarling maggot inside
settles back into slumber,
and fades away to nothing
as he drifts off to sleep,
no more true
than the opium-induced ecstasy
of an addict,
and fulfilling exactly the same function:
"I gotta get my fix, man."

I'm not interested
in rebounding from
one overwhelm to the next,
ping-ponging across
the spectrum of dualism,
nor am I interested in taking refuge
in spiritual materialism
or some escapist, narcotic religion.

Acknowledging that my judgement
of both is born of the transient understandings
of my small self,
nevertheless I do not
see either one as a solution -

- for there is nothing to be solved.
While there are muscles to be flexed and stretched,
meals to be eaten and dishes to be washed,
boards to be sawed,
holed to be drilled,
money to be made
poems to be written
wounds to be patched
and flawed systems to be re-imagined...
we may find a grace
in the doing of all of this
which belies the need
to do it in the first place.

Yet we will, for we are here,
and were it not for the dirty dishes in the sink
and the dirty laundry
of our current shared global situation,
we would have no chance
to enact the performance of this grace,
no opportunity
to demonstrate
that despite all those snarling maggots
that seem all too-real,
despite everything done
in the name of 'God' or 'Freedom'
that in fact makes a mockery of both...
despite these illusions of
the myriad of inadequacies, imperfections,
and injustices of life
there is a dignity, a rightness,
and an essential integrity,
which somehow encompasses
the whole of it.

the resounding "YES!"
of creation
is never a "NO,"
no matter who's being addressed.

all of the bullshit and the pain
is enfolded alongside the joy,
and we've no need to choose
between the two,
or insist on one
at the expense of the other.

Let us become big enough
for all of it to be,
for only then
can we make our way forward
without replaying
the same tired scenes
we've all seen a thousand times.

Let us allow all of ourselves to be,
and rest in the steady breath of
"I don't know...
yet here I am."

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