Friday, March 3, 2017

waving/drowning

Hate, hate, hate
We hate, denigrate, as we choose
Blacks, Browns, Jews
and all of youse who
ain’t fools that waste our lives
on hate.
 
 
Journey inward
to see what
stories appear
 
 
Attend to voiceless whispers,
haunting calls to play, to
drift away, become
a conduit for musics,
magicks, passions
sonorously surging
within.
 
 
 
Never a promise.
Lies, fantasy
no genealogy, identity
to cleave, to hide among,
to belong
Stories I must drag bleeding
sacrifice to experience
angst of mutating age,
archetypal choice.
Dependent on destiny of
pain’s transcendence, stories,
fantasies I create
desperate for a world
where I am allowed to matter.
 
 
Thank you, dear friend,
for being
as this new found year aspires
 
 
Goddess queens
exquisite scenes
let’s play!
 
 
It’s not the tribes, but elite rulers who
obstruct tribes from having equal voice
that thwarts democracy.
Democracy is not a homogeneous group
agreeing, but diverse tribes negotiating
for common rule that works well enough
for everyone.
 
 
The tribes are breaking down --
that, not “tribalism” is the social destructor.
People become insecure, frightened outsiders,
cling beyond all reason or sane self-interest
to the remnants, the faux tribes, the demagoguery
to conjure that strong story of belonging.
 
 
Just a hunk of stone
No control over where I stand,
where I go
Falling from place
until I land
to remain or be taken
by chance or agency
not my own
 
 
Pilgrim’s progress
White Anglo Ethos
Petulant brats demand obeisance
to our code of conquest, of dominance,
of hard-assed outcast of deviance
Rule over Earth and her issue
break them to work for our wishes.
Honor, respect,these are authorities’ own
the war lords we place on our thrones to command.
Progress is forward motion on opening roads.
Marching, no conscience nor care for what may explode.
Let our Great Destroyer sort it.
 
 
 
Why would a woman risk
death or other bodily terrors,
social exposure to all the slings and arrows
of frenzied hate,
to end her unborn’s fate?
She is protecting her child, like a good mother does,
despite her own suffering,
protecting her innocent from this horrid world,
from people like you.
 
 
Do not ignite your enemies
Ensnare them in better fantasies
 
 
Under
 
Caught, barbed, mired
in private dramas, traumas.
Sunk, gasping, up just enough to see
nothing to cling to,
grasping at phantoms, wisps of mirage.
How proceed?  No landmark empirically real,
how find relief, belief that’s meaning applies?
How define “wise” as solution to needs;
everyone bleeds, but who decides why,
or how?
No time for such now --
too much to do
to try to break through,
to breathe.
Whatever they say, so far away
from my plight
I assume must be right --
I know nothing of these grand debates
that may be sway to my fate
writ large on the wind.
No my decision nor place.
Far from luxury life at Center Stage
my only power:  hoping to breathe again
with every wave.
 
 
12/18/16-3/3/17  

Sunday, January 29, 2017

opening view

Monk Hill stands smiling in the morning sun.  Early Spring, well-tracked snow still covers frozen ground.
Coffee-stained observations through my kitchen window.
Tom moved me here to heal, to figure out who I need to be and how.  I don’t think he was so much scared as awed by my profound collapse
into frenzied inertia.  He had helped to organize this place, this art-based enclave, to enjoy as occasional recreational refuge as well as
to give free range to special friends that he might be blessed in their blooming.  He seems quiet and controlled, a useful cover for his
beauty obsessed soul.  So fortunate that he has all that inherited wealth to indulge with.  I mean that sincerely.  So many highborn brats
indulge in nasty, even cruel, habits because they can.  Or then there are those obsessed with out-earning daddy or expanding their
empire no matter the cost to collateral lives.  See, I can record a logical progression of thought, sitting calmly, drinking coffee for the
luxurious warmth, smiling at the hill, the valley, the stone and brick buildings, the tracks in crusty snow, maybe a human or critter
intent on their own projects.  This is comfort.  This is breathing deeply, stretching gently, opening slowly toward the warmth of
activity, to explore in search of empowering questions.

Sounds like Eat Yer Pudding is open below.  Guess I’ll take this party public, check out the scene over breakfast bread pudding.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

blood poems for an October 13 evening

Small girlchild, rags and dust – follow
her morning of traverse, this tiny world allowed.
Each tent flap reveals fester of wounds deep
and shallow, ravage disease.
Senses, thought, subsumed to beat of breath
outside rational context.
Stuck in the dirt, her worth a hole where
she bottoms out, tributary blood expelled.
 
 
 
Government happens
Power differentials are natural
Makes sense to attend to these matters
consciously,
rationally.
Hot heads, coarse tongues, flail of arm,
crush of foot, outthrust chest, rancorous
demands
lively show and tell;
Yes, such forceful yell might get bells
ringing, choirs singing, merry pageantry.
After roaring Sun’s descended, crowds
disbanded to bars and beds
to dream lusty victories or private
histories, nobody charged to watch
for this twinkling of time.
Without law, there is no crime.
Without rules, no crown ascends
by common call – but only by
all against all
in squall of terrors,
contests of survival, games
scored in blood.
 
 
 
Muses dance,
explore motion.
Segue to and fro
two steps back; a flurry forward.
Satin cats, tails a’fling
pirouette, scurry choreography.
No tomorrow.  No scheduled glee for
public appearances.
Time’s a’clanging, impatient clamors
for unknown seasons.
Rainstorm howls,
cleanses,
sends tidings, murky repentance and
beard for tears.
Savage rain tip-tapping
rhythms and blues.
Barrels for dipping, for ritual
washing, for tribal hydration, replenishment.
Agriculture,
hunger, health, hygiene.  Sordid rain,
ashen water, terror, pain, diluted
blood.
Storm warnings advise caution.
Cover yer windows and blinds.
Hide in cellars and pray.
Find salvation in fearsome company.
Oh, Hell – give in!  Cave into slippery ground;
swallow and be swallowed.
The rains came, carried fortune to further shores
and supplicants. 
Long into unspoken tomorrows.
 
 
 
Dread – crusty needles eject embalming poison
Stiff, rusted shut, ooze tarnished prison door.
Electrified to molten waste.
Lost wastrel, chased into rough wood.
How could good ever tough through?
Seethe tooth and fang.
Anger will tighten screws, coils.
No mercy to win when cardinal sin is innocence.
Don’t chatter of cruelty,
turn red in shame.
Remember the wise one winked “No blame.”
while wheeling outside reach of stage.
There are no great secrets,
barbed network of lies.
There is this blood bludgeon
of power wielded by minions and slaves
with too little to win.
If a moonlit beach at midnight called siren songs,
embracing melody, calming waves --
if urgent desire brokered change.
 
 
 
Cypher
 
 
O’ evil Man
It is not your gods who make you so.
They laugh at their celestial balls,
silly little mood slaves
primed to vomit sour wine,
feast after bloody binge.
Who is the moral gatekeeper,
the celebrated purveyor of righteousness?
Who the masked scoundrel,
cross-dressed wolves and lambs
in demonic jig?
A lively game to wile away some
vague eternity.
Our children obscured in armament.
So many souls to devour.
 
 
 
 
Tonight’s Impression
Dig, deep into unlikely crevices.
Unsightly blemishes
covered in mud, old crusted blood,
more suffering than shame.
If none know my name,
can they curse me?
Always rehearsing for
untended curtains, productionless
plays.
 
 
 
 
 
Gospel
 
Sally, won't you go
downtown
Pick up some teabag party
clowns
We'll teach 'em tricks of trade
from streets walled in by
degradation
Ain't this nation grand
for glad hands raised in celebration
of shames we dare not name.
 
Hallelujah  Hallelucinations
Hallowed ground baptized
in blood
Saved from the cleansing Flood
by sticking to our kind
however we're defining us today
If we were meant to live
a different way
wouldn't He have told us?
 
 
 
(Hollow) Theme Party
 
Bleeding across the page
Not pretty
Naked self-pity
a turn off
better passed by
Rather, let us speak of
solitude, the advantages
of wealth
kept to oneself
No beasts lessen my load
No supplicants beg to share
Luxuriously wrapped in my lair
laughing and dancing on gold
acutely aware of thin cold urchins
out on a distant plain
They are no kin to me;
out there for atmosphere
I am Deity within this domain
blood you see splattered
on this page
fell from other veins
some poor unfortunate
released from pain
How pretty!  Let's party!
A gala affair, enraptured
alone in my lair
 
 
 
Our Gang
 
 
Outrage
Depression facing outward
Taking power to give it away.
This entrained impulse
See them crackling, jangling
puppets at puppy play,
bite, bark, entangle,
grab and tussle,
growl, muscle in for the kill.
Bloodlust arousal.
Natural as puke, as death,
violation as violent orgy
violation as ecstatic
initiation to the brotherhood.
Life elevated to dreams, goals,
careful weighing of coin and hours,
dependable plans, actions that honor can favor,
love, duty, allegiance to the rules of sanity
and kind regard
have no purpose here.
Men of blood and battle fluid
need no fine speeches, no valor --
only food and receptacles
for their waste.

Saturday, October 1, 2016

blood poems 2006

blood poems 2006

Expand Messages
  • Laurie Corzett
    Dec 30, 2006
    In a Moment
     
    Who am I to become
    when my stories are obliterated?
    When I awaken
    naked and unarmed
    upon a shadowed
    rocky trail?
    It's not that I want swaddling cotton fantasies.
    I want the armor
    consistent with my role,
    both the lessons in the real and
    the comforting warm arms of happy home.
     
    It's more than I can bear.
    I crack wide open.
    The scenery means nothing,
    I hide inside my wound.
    There's nothing left to bind the bleeding.
    I am open to the world
    yet intently blind.
    I sit upon a hillside counting
    rainclouds
    waiting for the lightening to strike.
     
    (c) Feb. 5, 2006 Laurie Corzett
     
     
    Decorating

    Pretty little images
    But I don't reach the core
    of sadness
    of breaking shattered glass
    of bitter calloused weeping
    of dregs gone down the drain
    clogging arteries,
    eating memories,
    etching out rotten stench
    interring my intestinal walls.
    I would love to bleed for you.
    Watch the shattered glass
    graffiti my windpipe,
    excellent sprays of red
    eye-popping splendour.
    I would never want
    to deny you the thrill.
    My craggy dry old heart
    laughs in anticipation.
    Fresh wounds
    always look so fine.

    (c) Feb. 17, 2006 Laurie Corzett
     
     
    Nostalgia
     
    Once Life and I have divorced
    After the estate has been divided
    (I playing noble disdain
    have thrown it all to her)
    I shall find a villa upon a hill
    To paint my masterpiece
    Discarded bodily fluids
    Upon the walls.
     
    Murals carefully sprayed upon
    Bohemian brownstones
    Sauntering down the city street
    Aglow
    Lighting oily puddles,
    Intellectual cafes,
    Art houses,
    Freak show casas,
    Anointing the effervescent night
    Playing to the jaded,
    The amputeed,
    Outcast drifters.
     
    There is a sweetly drifting tune
    Meandering like wisteria
    Is it a dirge?
    A sassy New Orleans carriage ride?
    Is it the beating of my heart
    Spraying a trail of bleeding homage?
    It is a wedding march,
    Played slowly, out of time,
    Beat by beat, more slowly
    Rewinding.
     
    (c) Feb. 25, 2006
     
     
    Battle Fatigue
     
    Honoring righteous anger.
    Not mean little sprites,
    Chironic knights protecting me.
    Cradling me so sweetly.
    "Oh, no, dear, never forgive, never forget."
    Torture is no way to say you're sorry.

    Love whispered to me
    in dreamlike memory
    told me tales
    told me lies.
    I told myself those stories
    whispering in the night
    bereft of sleep.
    I told myself of soft surrender.
    Of gentle caressing days
    dappled in sunlight,
    lusty heat-soaked revelry
    sharing secrets
    so poignant, so intense.
    The anger
    burns me through
    each synapse,
    each myelin sheathe
    blood, guts, lungs, heart.
    Viral penetration, consuming
    strength, vitality, duration.
    I am languid and torn.
    From time to time I rally
    to fight my own tears,
    my own mind,
    my own field of battle.

    No one comes forth for me
    to offer my surrender.
    Battle weary,
    I can no longer breathe.
    The anger breathes for me.
    Gently wrapping me in
    blankets,
    singing me a battle song
    urging me to take respite
    as it soothingly scrapes off
    the scabs
    refreshing my wounds.

    (c) March 10, 2006 Laurie Corzett
     
     
    Penance
     
    For all the painful people
    wondering why god has forsaken
    hanging sorrows from a silent
    winter tree
    entreating penance.
    Still your blood does not flow
    pure.
    Never cleans the wounds.
    Festering.  Poisoning.
    How can there be clarity?
    Peace
    is only equated with
    silence.
    I can not reach you
    through your pain
    through my pain
    through the loud, piercing
    blows, the cacophony
    of cause and effect,
    ruined fields
    seeded with glass.
    Beautiful prismic spires grow here.
    Someday awed children will play,
    sing, tell tall tales in their splendor.
    All we can see
    is razorsharp teeth so tender
    to bleeding flesh.
     
    (c) March 18, 2006 Laurie Corzett
     
     
     
    Sister Scorpio
     
    Black as hate; white and bloodless
    shrieking Fury
    punishing Saint.
    Your patient, erratic torture
    has left me broken,
    bleeding torrents of pain
    unable to move
    forward,
    unable to sleep
    or engage in
    polite discourse.

    Yet you were never satisfied.
    It was not me you wished to sacrifice.
    I was merely inconvenient,
    or too convenient.
    Dressed in a goatsuit,
    queued up to be driven to slaughter,
    how could I expect compassion,
    fellow feeling?
    But it was the Executioner's blade
    I expected,
    not frenzied repetition of
    back stabbings, epithets,
    steel-wielding rage.
     
    We could have been sisters,
    giggling secrets in the schoolyard,
    smoking pcp in the girls' room,
    shooting up the classroom,
    dying in each other's arms.

    (c) March 26, 2006 Laurie Corzett

     
     
     
    Transformation
     
    Transformation is not about butterflies
    flitting about, capturing our awe.
    It is the heart of pain
    you cannot feel for me.
    Searing cauterization,
    what would be condemned
    as unethical treatment
    of secret wounds
    bound up in tattered consciousness.
    Bit by bit, then all at once
    losing the thread,
    spacing out the conversation
    not quite catching the gist of
    why I am here and now.
    Did it ever make sense?
    How could I believe my lies?
    That papier-mache world
    I gave my soul
    sucked dry
    in enduring service
    was never true.
    I would cry
    but that would be too easy.
    The pain would dribble down;
    fascinated by the rainbow glisten
    I would count my misfortunes
    watch them spin
    pennies falling into a rose-glass jar.
    Filled with resolve,
    I would go back out into the fray,
    fight another day, and another
    until by decimating degrees
    I might fall defeated, dead and gone.
    But death is only an act
    of transformation.
    The whole play depends upon
    the spinning out of the tale.
    First you love, then you lose,
    then you do hard labor
    stoking the fires of Hell,
    breaking the rocks of Eternity,
    cleaning the rotting sewers
    of collective untreated waste.
    Stench, pain, nausea
    beyond bearability
    wrenches, renders, discorporates
    transforms.
    Not like changing
    into a bright, enchanting costume.
    Changing utterly
    because no other choice
    exists.

    (c) March 30, 2006 Laurie Corzett
     
     
    heart breaks and bleeds
    scarlet ribbons
    dripping into vital organs
    coagulating breath, thought, awareness
    there is no promised land of peace
    no safe harbour free of misery
    no bed of fluffy clouds
    foretelling happy dreams
    pain radiates
    a dark sun
    blotting out any possibility
    of light-hearted healing
    while leaving a clear stain
    bloody trails
    pooling into dead ends.
     
    (c) April 21, 2006 Laurie Corzett
     
     
    Soldier's Veins
     
    "You have a soldier's veins."  The doctor chuckled as he explained the very good biological reason for my deeply recessed blood vessels, which always caused such a problem when medical professionals tried to take my vital fluid.  Apparently I was made to fight medieval wars.  The hard to reach veins, the slow metabolism keeping down the need for feeding, the ability to block out pain, hunger, thirst, discomfort of any kind, by focusing on the goal and getting there by any means necessary, good traits for those who must endure such hardships for a greater good, or simply to survive in battle.
     
    However, here I am, a 21st century city apartment dweller, fighting mostly in the arenas of traffic and office politics.  The old flight/fight adrenalin rush that wants me out there in the fray has to instead be pretty constantly quelled if I am to successfully fit in to modern civilization.  So, the fight naturally comes to be against myself.
     
    I am pretty well protected against the razor blade.  My overzealous gag reflex keeps out the obvious poisons.  I have found a way, though, through incremental poisoning of my soul with a fairly constant drip of despair.  Slowly, insidiously, it eats away at what had meant to be protected, dissolving those veins from within so that I may succumb to internal bleeding.
     
    (c) May 28, 2006 Laurie Corzett
     
     
     
    A Cure for Cancer
     
    Consider the single cell microorganism
    Motilely absorbing sustenance, senseless
    caught up
    in the acrobatics of immortality
    growing, dividing, growing, dividing
    accumulating ancestry
    without reflection.
    Life imitating life
    accumulating complexity, diversity,
    cells opening out from infinite regression
    demanding expanding territory,
    redefinition, delineation, demarcation.
    Cultivation of domestication implies
    devastation of the wild weed.
    Pruning the power of the divine monarch
    Poisoning the wellspring to discourage
    unfettered proliferation of perceived antagonists.
    If life is the disease,
    surely death is the cure.
     
    (c) June 9, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
     
     
    Dharmic Drama
     
    8 billion souls
    intermingling, interacting
    playing out roles
    through life ever-lasting
    each moving through dangers
    never dying 'til the end
    of their scripted scene
    then by any artful means
    dictated by dharmic drama
     
    in the endless essence
    in a crystal snowglobe
    glowing with stardust
    growing in pristine clarity
    allowing brief glimpses of serenity
    before again shaken into a confusion
    of fantasy snow confounding
    the grace of vision unbounding
    back you go, into the thickening crowd
    into material purgatory
    into malice and dread buzzing
    swooning to the stench
    of burning flesh
    was that me?
    flashing in and out of reality
    ghostly voices in and out of dream
    repeating:
     
    respect the fire that keeps you warm
    enjoy the calm
    enjoy the storm
     
    I enjoy the frenzy
    caught up in ecstatic dancing
    beating, faster, faster
    than my heart can be broken
    eternally bleeding internally
    onto the scripted page.
     
    (c) July 2006 Laurie Corzett
     
     

     
     
     
    hungry zeitgeist, part 1
     
    slivers, splinters, falling meaning
    catch it, send it spinning out into the stars
    bleeding rags catching fine red droplets
    shredded hands, hopes, hearts, dripping meaning
    I can't hold on, hold out, hold a good thought,
    dripping through agonized neurons,
    shattered mirrors
    unable to provide sustenance
    hold suction,
    bind the wound.
    embrace me
    hold so tight and tenderly
    as blood drips through your fingers
    touching my raw eroding senses
    with gentle rain, dripping,
    obscuring the view.
    I would curl up into destiny,
    locking my lacerations
    in dreams of false skins,
    tightening, holding fast to the edges.
    I would fall immortally into space,
    dripping inward.
    I would lock my dreams in pasteboard boxes,
    too tight for mortal breath.
    the words whirl around, whirl around, whirl
    like scattered bits of paper tears.
    I would hide in the deepest hold and
    keep to life slowly seeping through.
    but the hunger calls.
    it growls and jumps in fits to battle.

    (c) October 20, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
     
     
     
    Again, I Demand, "Merry Christmas"


    Merry Mass of Christ
    riven upon the four-fold way
    cut into deity and man
    on the crossroads
    at the witching hour.
    Sing praise of all things holy
    Make us see and feel the pain
    the horror of wrenching heart
    from soul.  Of blithely obliging
    demonic Angel Fate
    that each generation may descend
    into fiery pits of degradation
    reaching, reaching
    into and out of the story, the path.
    If Christ is love,
    if love is what we worship, eyes closed
    in holy communion,
    what keeps us riven
    on the crossroads?
    What keeps us from reaching out
    to bind each other's wounds?

    (c) December 10, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
     
     
     
     
    Pandora's Box
     
    Encapsulating
    bubbling up the molecules
    into fairy stories of creaky old goblins
    sorrowful witches, ancient deities
    with too much to prove,
    coalesced and coated with
    bitter medicine.
    Caught in an instant,
    latent pain layered in ages
    bubbling up corrosive through
    epithelial walls.
    They are calling me, again.
    I pretend not to hear, not to feel,
    not to want to believe.
    They call with raucous derision:
    "Dear Hope," they spittle,
    "a flying thing, a winged chariot
    pulled by clever orphaned doves."
    Thirst pulls me to my poisoned well.
    I dare not drink.  It will never kill me,
    but torture, weak and broken
    I will never be whole enough to
    move forward, to find sweeter remedies.
    Jagged mirrors encapsulate my heart.
    Viscous blood held captive loses oxygen.
    Blue and cold wintry depths
    I am held, hidden, a free-falling metal box
    cruel icy stinging denying the gift
    of sleep.
     
    (c) December 29, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
     
     
    Burnt Offering

    Killing me by degrees
    Each hour the executioner
    tears another piece from
    my life fabric.
    She aches for my heart
    tasting the sweetness
    of raw blood and pain.
    I have done the unforgivable.
    I have demanded my soul
    Uncleansed
    Unanointed for prayer.
    Hell is the mirror distorted
    refraction raising the temperature
    sucking oxygen into flame.

    (c) December 23, 2006 Laurie Corzett

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Remember when we

Remember when we
 
 
Remember
when we
were refugees,
martyrs in transition.
Road hypnosis.
Steps incessantly stranger.
Walking unhinged, barbaric terrain.
 
Home, family, streets to meet and trade,
perks of urbanity
cultured humanity
strong lanes of history,
tightly wrapped common milieu
as small daily rituals.
Now obliterated, markers
of place, of purpose.  Constrained movement
of uncertain destination,
I walk enclosed in walkers’ formation,
consciousness optional,
entrained within we of unsettled duration.
 
Brief touch, short awareness of a face,
faces, eyes almost blind, shrouded by terror,
destitution.
Why be human, cling to burdens of the flesh,
of aspiring?
Herd cattle, we pretend have no pain,
no mindful fear, no sense of personal
reality.
We walk because we have no landing.
Long past exhaustion, grabbing at pity of
strangers to attend our exhibition, to watch
over, protect, accept, that we fall on their streets
desperate for sleep.
Tattered skin, fragile bones;
reviled by foreign merchants
expecting quid pro quo
wherever we’re pressed to go.
Who are we, bleeding identity, to plead
salvation?
When we must stop, drop to the ground,
do they walk over us, or around, or humanely
offer shelter, bedding? 
 
Redefine home as space to sleep, keep
what we own (until stolen).
Ever diminished, with no where
to root and grow,
without resource of comfort, nothing
worth waking, yet another dire day descends.
 
Small girlchild, rags and dust – follow
her morning of traverse, this tiny world allowed.
Each tent flap reveals fester of wounds deep
and shallow, ravage disease.
Senses, thought, subsumed to beat of breath
outside rational context.
Stuck in the dirt, her worth a hole where
she bottoms out, tributary blood expelled.
 
Once accustomed security of work and love
(pre-war normality).
Today’s reality denies those lives.
Turned from tribal identity to nonentity,
just another body, broken in the fray.
 
Yet over yonder years, alliances twist,
resist, recombine; we adapt, regroup.
Each here/now imbues with further
circumstance, eternal dance of fates
suspected or surprise.  If we could
visualize as from above, masked for day’s
occasion, but behind gathering whole
panorama truths
as moments of clarity, 
whom are we assuming our self story to
include?
 
Summons, ambient clarion 
to public  acclaim:
Lives matter, private pain
sad desperation that never
fully heals though it ebb, sway, regain
purchase.
Surge of defiance over uncertain destiny,
advance of industry, if we might find that energy.
Realign expectant gaze toward peace, plenty
-- planetary necessity.
Eventually to remember as poignant history,
ritual song to somber tidal drum,

when we were refugees.
 8/14/16




Remember
when we
were refugees
martyrs in transition
incessantly stranger
Walking
Road hypnosis
Step forward
through this unhinged, barbaric world.
Civil norms in revision.
Home, family, streets of commerce,
perks of urbanity
cultured humanity
strong lanes of history
tightly wrapped in our world viewed
as small daily rituals
Me within we, clear as air.
How recognize an I,
broken from web of familiar
connection, now obliterated markers
of place, of purpose.
Constrained movement of uncertain destination.
I walk enclosed in walkers’ formation,
consciousness optional,
entrained within we devoid of sentient time.
Brief touch, short awareness of a face,
faces, eyes almost blind, shrouded by terror,
destitution.
Why be human, cling to burdens of the flesh,
of aspiring?
Herd cattle, we pretend have no pain,
no mindful fear, no sense of our own
reality.
We walk because we have no landing.
Long past exhaustion, grabbing at pity of
strangers to attend our existence, to watch
over, protect, accept, that we fall on their streets
desperate for sleep.
Who are we, bleeding identity, to plead
salvation?
When we must stop, drop to the ground,
do they walk over us, or around, or humanely
offer shelter, bedding?
Choice not ours to demand.
Demand if you’ve nothing else to give voice.
How will such rudeness affect the treatment,
respect encountered?
Ever onward, diminished, with no where
to root, become.
Battered, disgraced, wasted;
stripped of livelihood, consequence,
continuity of plan or regimen.
Tattered skin, fragile bones;
reviled by foreign merchants
expecting quid pro quo
wherever we’re pressed to go.
Redefine home as space to sleep, keep
what we own (until stolen). 
Without resource of comfort, nothing
worth waking, yet another dire day descends.
Small girlchild, rags and dust – follow
her morning of traverse, this tiny world allowed.
Each tent flap reveals fester of wounds deep
and shallow, ravage disease.
Senses, thought, subsumed to beat of breath
outside rational context.
Stuck in the dirt, her worth a hole where
she bottoms out, tributary blood expelled.
We’ve known security of work and love
once called normality.
Forward reality denies those lives
Who am I (are you) without my neighborhood of
affirmation, without mundane commiserations
and routines?
Turned from tribal identity to nonentity,
just another broken body in the fray.
I respond to each absurdity,
each broken line as I become less
and more.
Bonding anew, as we humans do,
each here/now imbues with further
circumstance.  Eternal dance with fates
suspected and unknown.  If we could
only stay unbound, masked for day’s
occasion, but behind gathering truths
as moments of clarity. 
Whom are we assuming ourselves to
include?
Summons
to public ambient acclaim:
Lives matter, private pain
sad desperation that never
lessens though it ebb, sway, regain
purchase.
Real lives yearn, feel need
for some promised warmth of care.
Shared extremities that nurture hope
of shared deliverance, hands and minds
together strong.
Surge of survival over uncertain destiny,
return to industry, if we might find that energy.
Realign expectant gaze toward peace, plenty
-- planetary necessity
Eventually to remember as poignant history,
popular song, reverie as respite to somber tidal drum,
when we were refugees.

7-8/16

Saturday, July 2, 2016

5/24-7/2/16

Traveling Artistic Reason Derived Imaginary Space
 
 
Unable to pass
I make most folks uneasy
No privilege here
 
 
Just move on through
to get to the end
What more can you do?
 
 
I share what I know – no interest in convincing --
a free gift.
 
 
Trump for the worst of us
Sanders for the best of us
Clinton for those who stick with
the devil we know
 
 
 
 
synchronicity of thoughtstreams as Neptune goes retro square Saturn
Old enemy a friend in waiting -- teaching if I will but listen
instead of running, silent screaming, beating my breast from within,
re-breaking, re-breaking a heart so shattered, not to reset but to bleed
and then, a whisper: "yes, reset, remember with new respect for who you have always been but feared to see"
This ally silently screaming within my deepest heart, my darkest dreams
"Listen, love and revere this wild child who laughs at whirlwinds and dances to life's changing, challenging melodies.
Be free to sing along without inhibition or internalized mockery.
This is our time, yours and mine, to be wonderfilled."?
 
 
6/13/16
 
 
Spirals out to airless space
No way I survive
I become oblivion
 
 
 
I see enmity where alliance could be nurtured, if only we were certain of honest regard
I attend to those whose end of days wishes wreck all lives, and derive only sorrow,
tomorrows' wars assured
I extend sight to advocates of right who accept might as sword and god,
cannot abide word or deed of peace,
minor issues screamed exceed all reasonable discourse
with no courage to avert these burdened eyes nor speak
 
 
6/21/16
 
 
 
Deep in sunless woods, tree roots and leaves overgrown intertangle
Damp, swift silent stream’s run, continuous lubricant
Creepers crawl, curious rodents sniff for predatory hide, toothsome prize,
oracular signs
Wanton child, wandering far from home; kinless kitten alone --
drawn in by stuttered incantations of smoke and mist (she won’t be missed)
Daring darling of effervescent fae, spritely imp skips to play her tune;
her mischievous pipes guide, glide, entice gay abandon, theatric swoon
Summer’s bliss Mythfolk holiday, untimed, no line to cross, no whine of loss
Dance, scream, flail and toss, feel the forest grow inside, assimilate
Nature’s wisdom unlike tales of man derides morality, mortal hate
Sheltered in endless adaptation, sensory dilation, slipping from human
skin to untamed consciousness
 
 
6/30/16
 
 
 
The issue of the war of man against man
Negativity dwells on our differences of skin, religion,
nationality, sexuality, any little difference we can define
rather than expend our time and energies on developing
benefic policies based on our commonalities
Common human needs, people above things,
a planet we can thrive on – air we can freely breathe,
water without poison, food that nourishes, schools that
instill skills that give us confidence to make our way,
tools that enrich our minds to grow and learn
from each encountered idea
Better to cower and hate in fear?
Or deal in peace?
 
 
7/2/16
 
 
 
 
 
 

Friday, June 10, 2016

Hekate's gate

http://www.reocities.com/Athens/parthenon/8401/

Not one for idle chatter
Words are items of utility
or tricks of the trade
Slight, yet strong, calm
intensity, always in action
in motion, clearly here and now
What purpose could be served
by weighing down such
buoyant energy?


Light, airy, unfettered
ready to fly



Root of Desire

Chthonic wilds, primordial, ancient castings, building over eternity, silent, archetype of will, ponders life. Intrinsically senses despair, bottomless sorrow, waste of intent of expression on such a merciless plane. She is challenged, gives challenge to her wards. Find me, at the root of desire. Your truest wish of will to be fashioned, you must give only the price of who you were made against your nature. ----------------- Renata would not get her breakfast today. She was being unbearably willful. Certainly a Princess is expected to want her way; but there are some subjects a child of any class should be taught to shun. Poor, motherless child. She is really such a sweet soul. She just does it for attention. She must be taught. We don't want to attract attention of the wrong kind. Born into royalty is just being born, thrust into a time and place, people, conditions of behavior having nothing to do with survival, other than it is learn or die defying. "No time for me" wasn't in Renata's thinking. Accustomed to her own company while all hue and tumult went to her brothers' training and vying for dear King Papa's throne and favor. She carried secret smiles, knowing her bravery and sharp wit belong to her alone. No, not alone. All that she can mean belong to the Goddess who carries her, from within her first principles, before awareness. This motherless daughter, before the end while birthing her, last and only conscious gift from death to birth, was consecrated to her mother's Protector, Friend, Purpose. "His precious sons are his, to carry his legacy. I have paid that price. You, daughter, are mine to gift to Her; and She is my gift to you." Renata feels her mother's gift as the air of life, flowing through, in, sparkling energy, surety, allegiance. "My life is mine," a sweet phrase she might sing, even knowing that in this world it is anything but.


Look at them, the twins, ambitious, rambunctious, ready to the rule besting each other; little Terrence, bright warrior in the Queen's (his mother's) eyes -- sons, heirs, worthy by their birth.

Renata knew she had been sold. Nothing so crass was said, or thought by any but her. She was betrothed to a man she had hardly met -- seen perhaps on numerous occasions in close repartee with the adults who had sold her. She was part of a treaty, a sealing of a deal for mutual gain. What should she complain of? She was to be a Queen, of a nearby Kingdom -- with all the rights of a young and pliant slave. Though she had not engaged in conversation with her husband to be, she knew enough of him to understand he would not be seeking her counsel, consolation, or companionship. He would expect to enjoy her body at his whim, at least while she was young and comely. He would provide the comforts of his opulent home and the companionship of guards and gossips, watchfully assuring her loyalty and continued ignorance of any means to power.

It could be a pleasant enough life, one certainly admired by girlfolk, frivolous women, or those in need of romantic fantasy. There would be no lack of the kind of luxury she had grown up within. Another woman would have been content if not thrilled by the prospect of such a destiny. Renata was not that other woman. She had always believed in a special destiny, perhaps implanted at birth by her dying mother's promise.

Long that Full Moon night she stood on the balcony, staring at Lady Moon, breathing in sweet night blooming herbs from the garden. She fancied hearing faint music in the rustling wind. Slowly, not knowing that her body moved, she danced, the wind carrying her like a lover's arms caught up in dancing slow and closer than a kiss. She felt helpless, unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow, undulating anger move through muscles and mind.

"Goddess?" Her voice quavered at the audacity; but she felt surer of her course.

"Goddess, I am your child." Nothing had ever felt more true.

"I am of you; and in need of your aid. You know I have not asked anything of you before. We are an independent, self-dependent kind. We enjoy challenge, figuring out the puzzles, crafting our own prize, facing the demons square on with defiance and grace. I know these are your attributes when I seem myself thus behaving.

Tonight I am lost. I have lost my lust for challenge. I am defeated, unable to marshal the means to fight.

I beseech you, turn to you in supplication. Tell me, what can I do? How can I escape this false fate that will seize and drain my very soul, if I can find no exit?"

She continued in the ecstasy of the dance, eyes closed still facing moonlight. She felt a calming presence, so near, palpable. The perfume was like sleep, intoxicating, evoking dreams. That funny way that dreams have, half-baked images, fragments take on narrative.

She was somehow, without memory of travel, deep in the forest, archetypal forest. It was deadly dark; but the trees, the moss, flower petals, glowed, an unearthly light from an unannounced source.

She was drawn to a particular tree, indistinguishable from many others, yet a presence unto itself. Without segue, a shovel was in her hands, shoveling. Her apron pockets (an apron that had apparently fashioned itself and appeared atop her dress) had supplied themselves with a mixture of particular herbs, most of which were unfamiliar. Somehow her arms and shovel had excavated ground to reveal the roots of the tree.

Strange roots, these, alive. Yes, I know roots of a growing tree are alive; but these were lively. They wriggled, pulsed, seemed to dance, though in circumscribed place.

The shovel was now a knife. She cut open a finger of root. It bled copiously, a brilliant green. She mixed the root blood with the herbs from her pockets. A song came from her lips, from her throat, from her gut, bubbling through her as the herbs and tree blood mixed into a viscous paste.

"Root of desire calls
infinite melodies
binds the seven seas
spills through centuries
cast out among the stars
essence of who you are.
Feel the root of desire
enflame your heart
realize your part
play its haunting melody
charm vibrations repair your fears,
released from harm, from chains
of foes,
find your destiny
rooted in the throes of desire."

She recognized the Goddess's chalice that held the potent mixture as it touched her lips. Drinking the potion of the root, she felt light and free. Viscous green light poured through her, igniting every capillary, every neuronal fiber. The dream receded; and she slept deeply.

The Goddess smiles, spent for this evening. She fills her chalice with consecrated wine to drink, savor intoxication of liquid fire, as embers of her night's workings settle, gently, into history.


Chapter 2: Challenge


Renata awakens. She is lying beneath a tree, on a summer morning. Her clothes feel strange, different. She has no idea where she is.

She hears other people's movements close by, smells their animal odors. She open her eyes.

Around her she sees people in brightly garbed array, some lying on the ground, perhaps a sack of belongings as a pillow, or not, some rising upwards from sleep to activity. She looks up to sky, through dark green of healthy leaves, becoming light, going through shades of hues fractured by a rising Sun. She breathes deeply, taking in what she can. It seem best to do away with expectations.

"Figure out the puzzle. Look at the pieces for clues. I am awake; and in a foreign place. I must be careful in my actions while I learn how things are done here. These people appear relaxed, not hostile."

She allows herself to rise slowly, circumspectly surveying her companions. This is a very small forest, no, not a forest, but what? Trees, benches, wild flowers, an ornate fountain not too far beyond this grove where people appear to wash and play, strange odors, strange sounds, she restrains from compartmentalizing. This must be some sort of magical kingdom the Goddess has transported her to, to save her from her dreaded fate.

"Thank you, Goddess. I will not let this strangeness detract from your great gift. It will be my challenge, my gift to you of my profound acceptance. I will find my way here, as you have opened this opportunity."

Smiling, joyful in a way she had never known before, Renata becomes aware of the curious smile of a young man in her path. His attitude toward her, she feels, in puzzlement and gratitude, is that of an equal, a potential friend.

"What shall I say? Who am I in this place?" she wonders, nervously. Experienced as she has been with listening noncommittally to those around her, she is still too overcome by all this sudden change in her circumstances that nervousness takes hold.

"Rory, I'm Rory. And you seem familiar, too. That is why you're looking at me so pensively? Because you can't remember my name?"

He is jolly, well met, fine and sandy, easy to smile with, to feel cheered and comfortable. She likes him.

"Of course you are Rory. And where are you off to today?" She delivers a breezy tone filled with sunshine and a kiss of morning dew. He seems pleased.

"Let's go get some breakfast, Sunshine." He grabs her lightly at the arm. "I know a place where the donuts and coffee are free if you listen to their boring sermon. You don't really have to listen, just pretend while you're eating."

It seems a reasonable way to learn more about her surroundings. She is hungry, but had put that off until she could learn enough to focus on food. This Rory obviously wants company in his little scam. She would give him a more pleasant focus than the dreaded sermon, and she would pick up what she could of local customs.

"You don't say much, Sunshine." He comments as they walk along roads paved of various hard materials between large structures filled with wares. Vehicles of various sorts carrying people and more goods appear on these roads, sometimes moving at alarming speeds. She concentrates on moving nonchalantly, letting the ever-changing scenery wash over and around her. It will all become clearer over time, she hopes.

"Haven't anything to say just now. I'm sure you'll hear me plenty when I do." She replies flippantly, or at least so she hopes he will take it, without question.

"Or maybe you're the strong, silent type, intense and ready for action, or too cool for words?" She feels as well as sees his easy smile, and knows they are in sync.

Concentrating on this repartee, letting the scenery be scenery, Renata feels herself falling into place. So far, so good, following through.

* * *

They arrive, enter a door next to a large glass window decorated in bright colored paint. It is a portrayal of a man on a cross. Bloody red holes mar his hands and feet. A thorny green crown sits on his head.

Inside are cakes and hot black drinks on a short table. A few others are also eating and drinking. On the floor, next to a large, tattered chair, a woman sits, rocks, dirty and worn looking. Her shaking hands make attempts to feed coffee to her lips, but more is spilled on her worn and spattered dress. She has been mumbling incoherently. She is getting louder. Renata starts to make out words.

"They fill yer belly with their babies. No more babies. They hurt and make me so sick. The men, they fill me with their nasty liquid babies. They make them grow in me, take over my body, make me sick, and cut so hard to get out. I won't take them, horrid demons. So they throw me back in the street for the men to fill me again, hurt me again. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. No more babies. No more pumping out their nasty babies. I won't. I won't go there. You can't make me leave." She burbles, gasps, cries, mumbles, and repeats her litany. She rocks her body, suckles on her fingers and strands of long, lank hair. She seems in a trance, perhaps poisoned, perhaps cursed.

From further back in the room, a man dressed in black, prominently carrying a black book, approaches the group around the table.

"Don't mind Betty. She's a hard case. We can't find anywhere that will take her." He seems perturbed by this inconvenience, embarrassed by this woman's plaint.

Thoughts of keeping still while learning how to blend in have flown from Renata's mind. She goes quickly, yet with gentle motion, to sit beside this Betty. Close up, she is surprised to see this woman is young, certainly no longer a child, but not the old used up hag she had appeared to be. Her burbling snot and tears mixed with spilled coffee and older stains make her an unappetizing sight. Yet, there is something so fragile, so sad and affecting in her defiantly defeated form, Renata can not help but reach out her arms to comfort.

Rory ambles over with more cake and coffee to share. He is awed by this instant, by Renata's compassion and Betty's plight. He wants to be a part of the drama, the connection.

"I know a squat, a place that was abandoned, people stay there. Really, it's a cool space. We could bring her there, stay ourselves and get her settled. The people, they're ok. They won't hurt her. They'll be fine. Unless you have somewhere else?"

Of course, Renata has no where else. She is still adjusting to being in this somewhere else. Why not take what is freely offered and also helps this sad soul she seems to be taking on? Perhaps this is all part of the Goddess's plan for her, for the destiny she must fulfill, the reason she has been saved from a life that she has no further need of, that was never really hers to lose.


Chapter 3: Community

Renata has found her element. Her element is air, the sweet breeze of creative activity, the place where dreams grow up.


"I wasn't aware that we had a leader. Something needed to be done. I took the initiative, and the responsibility. That gives me no authority."


Backstory

Rory - mercurial, self-defined, needs to be free (Gemini, Uranus)
characteristically bright, curious, a man who knows where to find resources because he travels around the blocks
He takes care of himself, expects no back-up. His deep desire is a cause or community we can believe in. He strives with his need to serve, for his energy to be part of worthwhile endeavors.

He's got people, family; but they never got him. Maybe his mom did, sometimes. She's mostly spaced out on prescription happy pills. They help her hide from that constant anxiety of desire to be doing the right thing, to behave well, to fit the mold that never fit her quite right. Brought up by abusers, a long line of alcoholic losers, she feels so lost in an overwhelming world.

Dad wasn't like that. She thought of him as her savior. He tries to hard to make her be right, fit in, not embarrass him. He comes from a decent, hard-working, family values clan. She was so pretty, so vulnerable, so in awe of a secretly frightened about his manhood boy. Once she was pregnant, he had to do the right thing, for her and that molly-coddled boy. It became alright with the others, children that took after him and his. He could be a proud papa in the appropriate places. At family gatherings, football games, dance recitals presented so charmingly by his little princess and her talented friends, he could beam out his true worth. Elsa and her Rory might be disappointments; but she did make up for quite a bit with the rest of the brood she produced for him. At least she knew enough to keep quite, nondescript, not drawing too much comment beyond a pleasing sympathy for his long-suffering benevolence from concerned friends and family. He assures himself that it is just the right kind of concern that honors his position, not overly solicitous denigration. His Elsa is likable enough, if pathetic. She does obviously try so very hard to please, to overcome her inadequacies, even if falling short seems the best she can manage.

But that Rory, though certainly of his siring, was no son that Max Salinger could claim with pride. Mama's little helper, cute when he was barely more than a baby helping to care for younger baby brother (who later making papa proud, came to despise this caring brother for his womanish ways), became more irritating when not outgrown. The kid wasn't even pitiably gay, as far as Max could tell. Girls seemed to like him just fine, and he them. But the boys who ought to have been his friends, brothers of his brothers' good buddies, wanted nothing to do with him. They weren't actively hostile. There was no call for hostilities. Everyone in this social circumference understood his place. Rory's was that of the tolerated, but not accepted, fool. The girls that liked him did so more for his attitude toward them as interested equal, though not put off by his, if effete, charming good looks. Regardless of his social standing, he was happy to be on his own, following his bliss of the week. His busy mind abuzz with curiosity, with chance adventure, could not be bothered with tiresome bandying rituals, small talk going nowhere, the popular qua popular. He danced to his own drummer, thank you, because this drummer is cook, hot, and right where I want to be.

The street can be all the theater one could ever need, for free. Why waste time striving for so much less?

Finally 18, so they can't touch him for being underage, he's feeling fully good about himself, his proven ability by now to land on his feet, keep his eyes open to danger and opportunity, go with that old cosmic flow and enjoy the ride.

Hear Rory roar.


Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in our heads and groins).

Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are capable of. Gang-raping children because we can doesn't appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened, with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies, hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted, tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she need to be defined by what has been done against her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim, hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing, calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one's own desired destiny?


Chapter 3: Community

Renata, Rory, Betty have what is understood to be their own room in this large house. They reside in a crumbling neighborhood, rats and weeds and broken sidewalks battling with bits and junk for identity. One assumes this place was once cared for. The structures and infrastructures must have been built with reason, with belief that they would become part of a thriving system of shops and homes. Now their reason seems to be these hideaways for throwaways, away from the eyes and minds of the good folk.

Here, people with nowhere else come, go, stay for awhile. Some few seem entrenched, even familial.

These three are acclimating, solidifying through routine safe structure for exploration.

Though the oldest of the three, Betty is as helpless as a small child. She is too disconnected from the here and now to act effectively. Rory is an effective forager. He has always figured out his next move on the run, kept in touch with where what might be needed could be found. He is happy to be a helpful friend, and stay out of trouble, under the radar, easily fading in out around.

Renata has found her element. Her element is air, the sweet breeze of creative activity, the place where dreams grow up.


Candle wax melts into layered color sculpture, artistic side effect of lighting our room and conversation. A very different home and family from what I knew is becoming my touchstone here. In this short time, I am more connected to, comfortable among, these erstwhile strangers than the people I grew up knowing as blood.

Marcus gets Betty in a way I can't reach. It is more than the different cultures. They are akin, in some tribe of survivors whose lives have been shell-shocked into ever struggling in a dark mud of unacceptable circumstance. I have no desire to go there, or anywhere near. Yet it pulls me into strong love connection as I perceive their call to battle with respect and awe.

Rory is a dear and a darling. He preens so self-consciously. I know he wants to be too proud to acknowledge need. He wants to be the magickal genie -- everywhere at once, granting wishes. He doesn't want to admit to having fears, inadequacies, or craving for connection to lean on when energy palls.

Perhaps I am still but a child. Certainly I lack experience in this world's history, customs, moral code. I can still love, feel empathy for human psychic tragedy that transcends social cues. No one here seems to care, or notice, that I might express myself strangely, have serious gaps in common knowledge. Whatever their personal self-flagellations or angers, they reserve judgment against others for hurtful qualities. Mere difference is cause for curiosity and celebration. Even my slight understanding of the majority of the locals gives me grateful confidence that I have been greatly fortunate in falling among these exceptional friends.

Janna is so sweet. She makes me dizzy with her rapid dance from idea to idea, moving so swiftly, so deftly, to leave a whirl of orderly beauty. Our room is transformed with colorful scarves and cut-out picture collage, candle drippings, whatever the day might bring. Her every motion, every smile, every word is a prayer of grace. Her touch, her kiss, her breath like a desert spring, encourages life as celebration. I am learning so much about how to be this new me, outside of this world looking in while creating a sense of how to be, with Janna's calm excitement as example.

Of course I know Eddie gives too much. No, there is no way I could tell her that. She is practically bleeding, psychically, from invisible stigmata. These people, givers, spiritually pure, idealistic innocents ready to die to save the vilest of sinners, feel dirty. They don't realize that they are designed to accept and transform ambient evil with their wealth of purity. In ignorance, they too often succumb to the poison that gladly pours into them for salvation. No one told them, gave them reason to believe, their holy vocation is not about blame and castigation, but about transforming love -- which must first be learned through joyful love of self. How do I know this? I am filled with these images, interpretive stories, in Eddie's presence. She exudes for sensitives, such as I seem to be, what she does not experience for herself. She has closed herself off from her own urge to healing, to nurturing. As a result, I want to strongly to heal, to nurture, her. That kind of giving is not in my nature. Is she concepting within me, creating new traits from her influence? Is this part of her gift, beyond the obvious will to sacrifice?

She is a "she" to me, despite anatomical differences. She feels like a sister. Men can be giving, sensitive, tragic, even nurturing, able to lovingly self-sacrifice. Women do it with a denser style. Women, like Eddie, Janna, I can even see it in little, old virgin me, feel it in our wombs, that enveloping protective instinct. We want to make it alright, make it alright, MAKE IT ALL right, so everyone can be happy, so it';s not our fault, so we can relax and just be our adorable selves. Obviously, it's not about genitalia. It is about the stories we tell ourselves about who we are.

How did I get so perceptive? Well, traversing worlds might do that to a girl. Goddess, I know you imbued me with wisdom beyond my years at my birth. But, it could just be my self-applauding mind making much of what everybody is born knowing.

Isn't it marvelous that I have this new, alternative family that happily encourages me to voice these thoughts, to honestly probe confusions that might otherwise paralyze me. Goddess, thank you my soul mother for looking after me, giving me what I need to survive and more.

And here is Karl, soothing, energizing, always knowing how to move us. He never seems quite there, quite connected, quite grounded in the every day real and earnest life. He breathes a rhythmic eloquence I can not imagine. Yet, here he is, talking, laughing, eating, shitting, carrying on among us.

I have been cast into an enchanted life, here. I feel responsible for these people, as if my presence had influenced them outside of their previous destinies. I feel grateful to them for taking me in without question despite my outrageous strangeness. They don't make me feel that way. I am home. We are kin. I hope I know better than to expect this will last beyond the moments that we serendipitously share.

My mother and I shared such a moment. No one knows I remembered so early in my consciousness. I don't know if it is true of everyone. I have always been aware. Now I am aware of these dear creatures around me in the candlelight.

We talk and argue and sing and spin and share our stories. Who could be more wealthy than we?

As in prayers, Renata explains subvocally, in reverence, her emerging relationships, her rooting in her new life. She is not wrong in supposing that her presence has become a significant influence on the destiny of her new friends. They had not before thought themselves family, or otherwise in organized connection. Her natural regality needs no trumpeting clothing or pageantry. Her natural empathy, reason, grace, and substance have not been lost on this bumbling group of perceptive outsiders. They understand, each in individual metaphor, that they have been granted access to a miracle. Beyond conscious consent, they know their allegiance, up to and beyond the forfeit of their lives, belongs to her.

Don't tell me their lives were going nowhere, and now they have a purpose. Don't tell me to spit on these brave souls simply because they were vague and unconnected to a greater cause. Catalysts are not so rare. A call to purpose can arrive any day.

Renata is a gift -- that is intrinsic to her destiny. Renata's new found family is her gift from the benevolence that is also intrinsic to her destiny. Gifts don't need to balance. They are better when they synergize.

They had been searching outward for salvation, or looking inward to identify and cast out flaws. Accessing the possibility of creating a self-fulfilling clan could offer a different kind of salvation. If it's okay to be me, how might my flaws be assets? How might I transcend labels and their limitations? In my innermost heart, I feel infinite. How far can I go if encouraged by circumstance, by the courage and comfort of true companions?

Families form over time shared and exploited for knowledge. How do I fit in? How do I matter? Not intellectualized, it is lived, inculcated, in the day by day. If a family is fortunate enough to be real, held together by mutual love and respect, the day to day can be quite beautiful. Work that flows, hardship that feels like treasured challenge, every little victory a celebration -- every defeat an opportunity; along the way, most days get to be gifts of surprise.



Betty has bonded to Renata as a makeshift mother, much better than the one that birthed her and left her to the world's cruelties.


Swift bare feet pound and release hot, gritty pavement.

Hot, gritty pavement. Feet pounding to the beat, to the swirl. A small crowd caught up in the trance, poetry, simple music, a lady dancing, glinting with glitter and smiles that light from her eyes. Just as the hot summer day slides into night with welcome melancholy rush of breeze reminiscent of dismembered yearnings. It helps to get caught up in ritual, undisciplined ceremony. Make a break from responsibilities. We don't always have to be running to keep up with the plan. Thrown another dollar in the gypsy's bright woven basket. Her exuberant craft reminds us to delight in the moment ecstasy, a feeling of being here as a part of shared energy, a tribal peace. If we could each dance, sing out our own creations, move completely from our centers, unconscious of pressing time or important matters, how could we continue as the people we have come to depend upon to sustain the world we know? We pay for the service to our soul, and hurry on.

Renata learns this city in excursions, finding objects to fashion into musical percussives, colorful craftworks, collaged art. She finds open air markets and parks where performers display their wares. People gladly throw coins and bills into her open basket as she dances charismatically to the tunes of her extemporaneous poetry. Betty enjoys playing musical accompaniment on the instruments they fashion and garishly or arcanely embellish. People also gladly buy their crafts. It can be amazing what people freely throw away that can be put to good purpose with some love and imagination.

Her natural authority is obvious on an unspoken level to everyone who sees her. It is one of those mysterious that she, who counts on her awareness, is oblivious to her own power.

Betty plays rhythmically, supplies beats and counterbeats upon their found object percussion kit. Her eyes turn downward, her vision inward.

By instinct Renata knows just when to disperse her audience to avoid unwanted attention. The spell descends, sending people flocking back into the thoroughfare of public space. She gathers up their proceeds into her pockets, art and instruments into the basket with its convenient sling for carrying.

"Let's get some dinner to bring back to the house," she urges Better, who, pleasantly worn out from drumming, is happily compliant. On the way new objects for their artwork might be serendipitously discovered.

Happy children play.


It's getting colder. There's no heat or electricity going to this abandoned home. There is always the fear that the owner will materialize and throw them out. They need a better option.

Janna works part-time at the Mercury Diner, does textured collage, crayon and chalk drawings. Karl sells weed, fashions musical instruments, to play for coin or sell to the fascinated, out of this and that. He enjoys teaching Betty about music, which seems to be more about awakening a language natural to her. Marcus is a middle-aged street revolutionary collecting a less than subsistence government pension for his wounding in a previous war. Eddie, often Edwina, happily scams the marks, sells her sexuality on the street, performs in opulent drag, and comes home to Marcus her soul-mate and mentor. Collectively building up a pool of cash they are looking to rent a cheap artists' loft space, then promote events to get the community supporting further payments.







"You rush along, prodded by demons of dissatisfaction, longing for those brightly shining baubles. Then you are struck by pain; and you know -- all you want is for the hurt to stop."

"Or are the barbs of dissatisfaction and longing distractions from existential pain -- the great tear out of ethereal paradise into this mess and muck of materiality? If we've got to deal with the stink and sweat, we may as well go after the silk and pretty prisms, and perfumes, to make it all bearable."

"Then there is the old creed, you know, 'man's search meaning'. 'There must be more than all this stuff and nonsense.' We must have a purpose, to make this place better then when we arrived. But does this place ever get better, despite so many best efforts? What would better mean? No more clarifying pain, would that be better? If we could be free to pursue the baubles that excite us, without the distraction of pain, would that be better?"

Marcus

He's learned to love his demons -- best of drinking, drugging buddies. They do give him an old familiar scare. Keeps the heart pumping, the adrenalin junkie ready to rumble. War wounds.

"It's not my fault -- it was war. I had to do my job, what was commanded. It is my fault. Of course, it is my fault. All mine. I could have let them kill me. I could have done the honorable thing and ended this stupid life. I could have, should have, never joined to serve my nation, to be a bully for democracy. I could have been a different man."

Belly laughter ensues.

He is a very different man from back then in the field of battle. He is broken, but never ridden by any but the demons he calls his own.

Great friends, good listeners, demons hang on every word. Every blessed word of profanity, gives them little shiver dances, enhancing their macabre smiles.

"God, drugs, that's the thing, the binding force that nature allows we buddies at arms, in my head, on the ragged road we call the street.

We need a home, guys. Sneak into this likely empty boarded brick and mortar. Just make sure there's no gypsy boarders to give us a fight.

Yeah, we can have a good old time, you demon memories, you story screamers, and me with this sweet LSD that kid laid on me. That kid I laid. What was his name? It will come to me when I see him again. It's good I have this pint of cheap brandy to keep warm. No heat here, in this abandoned homestead. Sewer and water pipes, though, are flowing. Get to take a real bath at last -- can't remember when. Good for these old bones to find some comfort. Not much here; but great wealth of privacy. Law enforcement doesn't even bother to extend an appearance. Nothing left to steal -- no one to exploit. No one know we're here."

Marcus parties, lets the world morph into dark hellscapes he knows well.


Eddie/Edwina


He/she secretly calls her/himself
"abomination"
Cat calls constantly claim "Pretty!" in fascination
A pleasure to the eye, the hand
appeal to fantasies all men have
far from procreation.
If life be sin, why not cash in on
that wage.
So much more than whore, though, this
child man who would be womb
to chosen kin.
Those wise enough to seek treasure
of intimacy such as she can express,
they bless by permitting her
to give.


Snidely disrespecting others' views creates unnecessary problems by obfuscating what needs to be done to create better options.

Morality is not about some superseding law. It is an ever evolving system for successful social cooperation in a world of others. Like an unwanted cat abandoned on a desolate highway that somehow always finds its way home, we learn to find our way through far from ideal lives.


Even the most empathically aware of us do the reprehensible when it is the least evil of possible choices within the situation.

We might murder to spare our victims and theirs fates worse then death.

We might steal when theft of property is a less onerous crime than property as theft of essential resources.

We might rape to be a more gentle assailant than our pack mates, to give some human compassion as context for the victim -- or as an alternative to death for them or us or others.

One never knows when a seemingly stable social world might turn feral, vicious, beyond easy imagining. Post-apocalyptic stories are not about unthinkable destruction so much as unleashed manifestations of demons we all know too well.

Lynch mobs never needed nuclear winter's devastation, nor did the ubiquitous Third Reich.

It is not about evil. Relegating solutions to an impossible realm of absolutes denies our most human gifts of creative adaptability. Anyone can be taught appropriate behaviors, and thus be given opportunity to expand their consciousness and consciences beyond what life had previously taught to be acceptable or even required for survival. We are born to respond to changing requirements with growing comprehension. That growth, though, needs grounding in a greater social bonding to turn negative to positive regard, to expand our repertoire of reactions from limiting to exuberance.



Born into storm, voices thunder through these echoing caverns
Hekate paints onto cave walls through my hands
Jovial Dandy (JD): "Come, honey, sit on Dandy's lap. Tell me your sweet little stories. I will tinge them with blood for immortality."
Losing enthusiasm, need infusion of starlight in my brain.
Alone. All one within.







work and love
expression and assimilation
need for food, air, stimulation
ideation, imagination, succor
self-aware cells, each with place
and passion
busy interchange
at market and field
combine, wielding power, grow
beyond boundaries
permeable to trade, elation
creative generation
each lives to give
essence




I don't crave to be mean
I mean to be kind
but the words go obscene
between mouth and mind
Don't know what to say,
what to do
not below or above
centered here with you



She was the living spirit of our small community, fierce and bright. Elderly and frail in body, after so many decades of caring for those struck by illness, encouraging recovery, she could be comfortably retired. We loved her, admired, understood her growing outspokenness as entitlement and necessity of her latter years. We were too ignorant to understand the hatred.

People are desperate, frightened, overwhelmed. Well-paid work is ever harder to get. Children whine as families do without necessary comforts. What we offer is not what they expect, is unacceptable. We are heathen, hated.

I still see the bullets fly from the arms of brave warriors of order, protected in kevlar, lips twisted in anger. I see her, savagely torn into bloody meat painting floor and walls. I can easily believe her spirit remains, wails in outrage.

They tore apart that house, took her books, herbs both living and dried, to fuel a triumphant fire, a celebration. They rejoiced in the defeat, the murder of their enemy. The old witch is dead.

Nothing was ever the same again after that.



This empty chalice to be filled by spirit's essence, placed open, according to ritual, waits for its turn.

The Goddess stands over Her cauldron, deep in this hidden chamber of Her chthonic cave. She tosses in the herbs, recites the liturgy, long-practiced but never without supreme concentration.

Sprite sparks, disembodied voices, curls of smoke stained with potent ash, swirl about, crazily careen, above and around Her pot of charming, of magicks.

Goddess of so many duties, many eras, supplicants, sorrow-filled worshippers, She bears the longing, the emptiness.

"I cannot fill you. I can not fill your chalice of emptiness. That is not my gift or purpose. I can offer only to guide you to what is already within."

Nearly quiet, sea sounds, dank odor of lowtide, creeping Spring carries melt of harsher climes. She stokes the fire to remember when the Sun was high and strong, and present. Fire has its own secrets, its own order. As do we, each our own furnace, nurturing a flame that is destiny. So old, She has been burnt by many flames -- blistered, scarred, hardened. She still tastes every fiery spice, seasonings, marinades. It all moves Her to cackling hysteria. You don't want the pain of knowing what She endures. You just want soothing fantasies to believe in.

She understands your fear, withdraws. No need to escalate sorrow. She is self-contained in her work, close-knit layers of exquisite aeons, sense memories, distilled lives.

"Was I a woman, then, upon the Earth, feeling succulent breeze of early Spring uplift me while returning birds and budlings rushed into new beginnings?"

In the dark, in the cold, enclosed below that hopeful ground, stirrings still find Her. She can not miss Sun, Sky, open fields. They are ingrained in Her, as immediate and intense as ever they could be. There is no yesterday, no tomorrow. Always all times, all places, all emotions, overwhelm, yet gentle strand by strand amuse. She has no pity. There is only action, including the action of long enthrallment, of stasis within unfolding storms. There is no room for judgment, no excuses. She sees beyond all the rationales, the weak flailing attempts at blame, at justification.

Laughter takes Her. It makes so much more sense to revel in release, expelling, cleansing for exploration, for readiness to take the next step.

The rampant confusion clears. Her eyes explore moving scenes; Her ears hear the clamor of supplications. She feels, breathes, their stories. She cocks an ear, widens the circumference of her eyes, takes in this kaleidoscopic landscape, cacophonous data. Minutely, she discerns cloying strings of powerful souls as yet unaware of their gifts, gladly grasps familiar flavors. She narrows in Her focus, becomes more attentively intent in Her seeking, images of journeys to be undertaken. It has never been that She demands worship. She is fully aware of Her responsibility to those few who demand Her influence, those who, knowingly or from inchoate intuition, claim kinship.

Chthonic wilds, primordial castings, build into eternity. Silent, archetype of will ponders life, intrinsically senses despair, bottomless sorrow, waste of intent on such a merciless plane. Invigorated, challenged, She gives challenge to her wards. "Find me, at the root of desire. Your truest wish of will to be fashioned, you must give only the price of who you were made against your nature."

*************************************

Long that Full Moon night she stood on the balcony, staring at Lady Moon, breathing in sweet night blooming herbs from the cloistered garden. She fancied hearing faint music in the rustling wind. Slowly, not knowing that her body moved, she danced, the wind carrying her like a lover's arms caught up in dancing slow and closer than a kiss. "Goddess?" Her voice quavered at the audacity; but she felt surer of her course. She felt helpless, unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow, undulating anger move through muscles and mind.

"Goddess, I am your child." Nothing had ever felt more true.

"I am of you; and in need of your aid. You know I have not asked anything of you before. We are independent, a self-dependent kind. We enjoy challenge, figuring out the puzzles, crafting our own prize, facing the demons square on with defiance and grace. I know these are your attributes when I see myself thus behaving.

Tonight I am lost. I have lost my lust for challenge. I am defeated, unable to marshal the means to fight.

I beseech you, turn to you in supplication. Tell me, what can I do? How can I escape this false fate that will seize and drain my soul, if I can find no exit?"

Reveling in the ecstasy of the dance, eyes closed still facing moonlight, she felt a calming presence, so near, palpable. The perfume was like sleep, intoxicating, evoking dreams. That funny way that dreams have, half-baked images, fragments take on narrative.

She was somehow, without memory of travel, deep in archetypal forest. It was deadly dark; but the trees, the moss, flower petals, glowed, an unearthly light from an unannounced source.

She was drawn to a particular tree, indistinguishable from many others, yet a presence unto itself. Without segue, a shovel was in her hands, shoveling. Her apron pockets (an apron that had apparently fashioned itself and appeared atop her dress) had supplied themselves with a mixture of particular herbs, most of which were unfamiliar. Somehow her arms and shovel had excavated ground to reveal the tree roots.

Strange roots, these, alive. Yes, I know roots of a growing tree are alive; but these were lively. They wriggled, pulsed, seemed to dance, though in circumscribed place.

The shovel was now a knife. She cut open a finger of root. It bled copiously, a brilliant green. She mixed the root blood with the herbs from her pockets. A song came from her lips, from her throat, from her gut, bubbling through her as the herbs and tree blood mixed into a viscous paste.


"Root of desire calls
infinite melodies
binds the seven seas
spills through centuries
cast out among the stars
essence of who you are.
Feel the root of desire
enflame your heart.
Realize your part.
Play its haunting melody.
Charm vibrations repair your fears.
Released from harm, from chains
of foes,
find your destiny
rooted in the throes of desire."

She recognized the Goddess's chalice that held the potent mixture as it touched her lips. Drinking the potion of the root, she felt light and free. Viscous green light poured through her, igniting every capillary, every neuronal fiber.
Suddenly she knew what she had always known.

There was that moment when her Goddess spoke through her, to her, seering, branding with faith that all she could ever need was hers.

The dreamlike night receded. She slept deeply, curled above hallowed ground beneath protecting leave laden branches.

Her immediate fears and cares no longer matter.

She will awaken into a life she does not expect.




The Goddess smiles, spent for this evening. She fills her chalice with consecrated wine to drink, savor intoxication of liquid fire, as embers of her night's workings settle, gently, into history.