The mind makes this hand
strike this head
as if to say - See! I am here and you have to listen!
We invite all sorts of ugliness in
to protect us from who we think we are
and employ others
to help with the job
knowing nothing
What am I writing?
Doesn't matter - I am always writing
I wish to go to a place
where the mind cannot go -
where the mind does not matter
and the mind couldn’t help
even if it wanted to
Much better to let things go -
fall to sideways -
than to keep fighting
Life just goes that way anyway, right?

The mind - roving, moving -
always looking for next
Eat smoke drink blah-blah repeat
Little agitated thoughts come -
shouldn’t this - must do that
Poke, poke and prodding along
To where?
Like the poor cow - to my death
I can smell the blood
same like she could
I turn - try to turn away
from the death they bring -
eyes mad with fear - humanity’s disease
But the walls are close - so close
Didn’t we make it this way?
For security and comfort
and to keep us all moving in a straight and steady line?
A lineage of unbroken sleeping zombies
drunk on our own separated imaginings
The world you see shrinks smaller
You start to touch the edge of panic
Yet steady in the storm
and no long feel it
Yet see it go rushing past
and leave you where I am.

Yet still and I see the mind
throwing up moments
setting up forms for my perusal
wasting its time
For what?
Isness minds no time
Why some times I get hooked?
It’s just this world - no need for fear
I am free
Did you think to make me
believe I was the worst?
Ego - mind
all deceit and trickery
Yet, I see you
Will I take you again
to yet another life -
some other dream
No this time is done
This mind is set aside for no person
This mind is made for only bliss

Is it okay to only be in this self;
my own self,
without noise and interruptions from other ones -
other not things that wanna be things?

The mind reaches out?
No, it is not the mind.
This ego grasps and clings.
It doesn’t want to end.

Do I want to see it end,
or only just not see it?
There is a difference:
One is only real
and one is more of the same nonsense.

Is it okay to be what I am:
What God gave this Spirit to witness its world?
Can I let this here be enough?
Let this truth and real matter
be what it is?

It is a difficult thing to be what we are
in this culture - in this world.
Is that more better,
sophisticated and such;
to make a world
where this true being’s self
is never home
and crowded out
of the picture
of view?

Is this what you crave -
with bloodied nails and
ground down teeth
and tight and  leathery, stiff muscles
and electric jolts juicing down your lips?
No, no - a thousand times no!

Show me away
out of this mess
and a way to the self
that can live in this moment -
this space and this time -
which Conscious Love
has already provided.

Those who stand to oppose will crumble
from the weight of their own foolish weapons.
He said, Build your house
with the stones thrown by your enemies.
We are the ones
we have been searching for.
To speak only truth is a challenge.
Can you live up to this?
Or, do you choose to die at the bottom of lies?
What must be done to survive
when there is only us and the dust that we are?
We are the ones.
We have been silent.
See what we are and live.

I must come back to this Self - again and again.
What is the thing that thinks it is tired?
Am I tired? No. Now,
I no longer give it a name.
Now, I no longer make believe
it is a second or one other.
This is the only sin - I see it now.
The original sin. It is
the turning fully away.
A door seems to shut and
even suction into place with a slurp.
Like rubber heavy duty caulk
blocking everything from everything.
And still, I am here. As beams
of light shooting out from all edges.
I pretend I am it and I give it a name
and I sort of kind of in a way -
step into it. Just to see.
Just to feel and somehow play
with all there ever is to be.
I can’t see really anything. Only
blindly I seek. Blinking in then out -
groping, reaching, jumping there and there then over there.
And I begin to remember that this really couldn’t be
what I seem to have been fooling my Self
this life is what I see. And I start
to look for a way to get out and come home.
Done with chronicling and conquering. Now
only prodigal stories gain this attention.
It isn’t time. That’s the last thing
one gets. It’s forever that’s wasted.

I am the sun
You are the distant star of a sister world
Our light collides with the others
And creates our heaven
You turn to hold your world in stead
And the universe breaks to pieces

I am a goddess poet
brought back from the void of time
I am lost
Where is my David
my Solomon
my Judah?

My heart was placed in a glass cage
for breaking at a future time
Show me the love I was promised in the womb
Tear open the flesh of your chest
and show me my own heart

These little pieces of myself will all burn away
After looking again and again
After taking it all to be real for so long
Not really looking at it
only just wearing it
even though it felt scratchy and ill-fitted

Now to give it a new sort of attention
the kind it gives to its concept of god
Not curious but
critical and cynical and carefully contemplative
the little pieces don’t get hurt feelings
or bent out of shape
cuz they lose it
They don’t cry or get depressed
Only they fall away
like overripe fruit
never picked and eaten
They are not what I am
Only the pieces that make up
who I once thought myself to be

I was never abused or depressed
Never victimized and alone
I was never ugly or stupid
or worthless or a hot mess
a **** or a lame
useless and insane
These pieces aren’t like a puzzle
See that’s what I never was told

I am whole already
Completely alive and free to discard
those adjectives that I don’t care
to describe this being
Which in reality can’t be any
or even all of those bits mashed-up together
Miracles can’t be picked apart and
named and labeled as what they are not
And a mirror only reflects
what might see it first

How can there be
what is clearly not seen
when I peer back into this so-called me?
So actually the truth I can see is
I can’t really look and see this I am
but truly can only be this I am
Because when I look back and see
all the pieces they say I am
the only conclusion must be
that these so-called pieces of me
are not at all in reality
that which I am

I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
me me me me me me me me me
you you you you you you

All of this seems so silly now.
Why are so much of the important things in this life not spoken?
Why do we choose and remember to forget our true reality for a shadow of our own light?
This that we have made is not better or even just as good.
Who is tired of the lie?
Souls lilt as flowers from poor soil and no sunlight.
We are drowning in thunderstorms of our own tears,
yet we keep drinking and drinking.
What else do we know?
How else were we taught to live?
Show me a reality I can sink into without losing my Self.
We are the ones we have been searching for.