This poem has been wanting to be written
for quite some time
rumbling and churning around inside
and mostly burning me
from the inside out
A child sat across from me
told me she didn’t agree
with a sneer and evil intentions
breaking through her windows
I said
let me do to your son
what he did to me
and see if you don’t call it abuse
That child is no sister of mine
Sometimes I think it’s been too long
for these ghosts to be hanging around
still after all these years
I cowered half naked in a basement
alone and afraid
while a white woman
stood washing dishes upstairs
That woman is no mother of mine
What did I do?
That’s all anyone ever asks of me
and then they say
but black people discipline their kids like that
Like what?
I think, black people are brutal?
Not me.
A black man said, pull down your pants
Her beautiful new body
bared for the pleasure of vicious lechery
I’m sure it was some awful deed
for a 7 year old to have done
The wooden planking comes down
for the first time
on tender exposed flesh
and the next
after that it’s all just fun
Isn’t it? For him
No cry can escape
or scream
She isn’t allowed even that much
If you cry, you get more
Take what you deserve
Take it and take it and take it and take it
You getting hard yet?
That black man is no father of mine
But, yeah, that’s just how black people
discipline their kids
No wonder I just laid there
when the black boys told me to
lay back and relax and enjoy it
Doesn’t it all make sense after the fact?
The people god gives you to love
are the people
God makes you hate
by the ****** up ****
they do to you
If you chose to go that route
Sometimes I dream
of butterfly effects
where she finds her voice
in the strength of her hands
and snatches the board
from his nasty hungry hands
and hits him dead in the head
and runs up the stairs
past the woman dressing a chicken
out into the street
still half naked and screaming
WAKE UP - YOU FOOLS! WAKE UP!
and never stops
till she finds who she is

Letting God write my story makes it so much more beautiful than it ever could have been if I’d tried to wrench it from the loving arms of the Universe. Looking back. I can’t even pray, help me! - let me! - be! I already am if I only look that way and watch each thought that might arise pass away. And this body, this sense of filling up space with matter, and breathing - of endless, endless breathing - will go away. There are other experiences to sense. Hold nothing in the mind and watch what arises. And don’t analyze it. There is no need to. Not now. You can only look at it. Hmm, that’s interesting. And then it just kind of fizzles out. You’ll see. And there will be ones that you’d like to grab onto. Oh, they just are so delicious, so sensual! And you can begin to feel parts of your body awaken just to the distant tickle of a thought. And you draw it near. Mm Hmm. Or, let it pass. Or, maybe it’s just still distant and didn’t even come close enough to pass. You just saw it off there beyond the misty mountains - Mordor. Where the horrors live. Oh yes, it is there too. What is there to talk about? As Mooji says. There’s nothing to talk about your experience. And what does that make it? Another person. Shaping it, telling it, solidifying it in a million different ways in the minds of these different people and then they recall it later as if it were their own and they always get it wrong every time. Just keep quiet about it and, I mean, you can write, but only write what comes from the silence. Like this. You don’t know what you’re gonna say. You don’t know what’s coming. Nothing is planned. Nothing is thought out or PFFT - it just comes. I don’t even know. And who is I? Puppet. His mouth. This feminine energy is very strong. It has the capacity to do a lot of good and a lot of evil, just like anything. What is good and what is evil though - it’s all God. All this tumultuous weather. I felt it inside me. Is this what we’re going through? I just want peace. I want calm seas and starry nights. The fireworks have stopped. I haven’t heard as many gunshots. Maybe the shootout at the funeral, maybe that was enough to wake some people up. I don’t know. I hope so.

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.