A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.
Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?
Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?
Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?
WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?
WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?
When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?
What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?
Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?
I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.
Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.
Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.
Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.
A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.
When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.
When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.
When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.
For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.
Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.

Its a sweetgrass serenade
singing up serotonin
through the cavalcades
and ramparts
that I have been using to
barricade my heart

It's a sweetgrass serenade
when I let those sweet words
slip off my tongue
just like syncopated honey
into the three-stranded braid
of me and you and Him
taking us into those outer places
where we can occupy other spaces

It's a sweetgrass serenade
on our journey to the moon
where I wonder who
is following me cause
on our way back

I'm feeling the exodus
of my past, you know
the part that
no longer serves me.

And in its place...

It's a sweetgrass serenade
singing up serotonin
filling up that empty pocket
with a force of positivity.

Looks like I found a Lifeway
time to let it shine and
step into deep play

Dawn lights the seventh day in June
and darling look how you've grown
Harvest the life inside of you
It's time to reap what we've sown

Now I've got my honey
suckled on the supple breast
of my lover in our quiet nest
I'll spark a fire to keep us warm at night
and offer long arms to hold you tight
Oh, my flower child
you've got the sky in your crystal eyes
You are soft like the moon
and then blazing like the sunlight

Let's go to the whisky springs
Where I've been given joy like no other
Living inside a dream
Close your eyes and feel your face
kissed by the southern breeze
Let me inhale with you
The aroma of the sweetgrass
Laying in the pool
Of the cool whisky waters
with my wife and my daughter

Take me back to whisky springs..
I wanna go back to whisky springs..

I was playing a game with my kids the other day

I asked:
What do you use to see?
She said 'your eyes'
He said 'your brain'
Both right
Next I asked what do you use to hear?
She said 'your ears'
He said 'your brain'
Both right, again

The wisdom of children!

The game ended there but it got me thinking about what we use to feel
The most straight forward answer is our skin
Your brain is what processes the sense of touch so that has to be included
What about your heart?
Where does it fit into the big scheme of things?
Isn't the heart the space where we process feelings?

I have to loosely define things and often turn them upside down
ruminate
reorder my worldview to make it copacetic
I'm pretty sure that I often walk in two worlds
If my mind is simply locked in the western paradigm then people look at me like I'm bizarre
I'm not joking when I say they've wanted to lock me up because of my views
When I allow my mind to get locked into this western paradigm,
I sometimes even feel like I belong in lockup.

That's even worse than being held against your will
You're being held because you've lost your will

So I play with definitions to better suit my needs

When you do this however, there is a risk
Last summer I unlocked a spectre as I drank deeply and greedily from Crypt Lake

Crypt Lake is a real place on this planet
How did it get it's name (you might ask)?
According to the Blackfoot, placenames aren't given,
they come from place

Let's contextualize ~ this is all part of the journey
The physical leads to the spiritual and vice versa
To get to Crypt Lake you have to enter Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park
Found in the southwest corner of Alberta and the northwest corner of Montana
Once through the gates you have to catch a boat at a certain time
You have to be in the physical plane of existence at this point otherwise you're not getting on that boat
Once you get to the trailhead, then you can start to drift

That's what I did
As I walked, I let the stories come into me
I let them flow through me
They were sitting there waiting to be told
A spruce, arm in arm, with a pine
Hawks circling overhead
An ever present alertness for our bear brethren
Always open to the wildflowers
Indian paintbrush (I have red hair could I be considered an indian paintbrush?)
Pollinators flitting about
Oh, the water

Listen to the stories the water told:
First we come to Hell Roaring Falls
Next Twin Falls
Next Burnt Rock Falls
And to reach the Crypt, we have to pass through a mountain tunnel
Opening up to Crypt Falls
and finally Crypt Lake

This is a regular heroes journey if you allow it to be
I was in that place in my mind where I allowed it to unfold as it may

This is a place that's also known as the Crown of the Continent
Not far away is Chief Mountain, Turtle Mountain, and Crowsnest Mountain
Also Writing-On-Stone and the Milk River and Sweetgrass
These are holy names, this is a holy land

What I saw at Crypt Falls was the backbone of the continent
I saw the backbone of Turtle Island

I was floored
I had been on a continent wide spirit quest a few years previously
There was talk that the Deed for Turtle Island was coming due
And maybe it would be produced at one of these gatherings
We all waited but nobody produced it

I ruminated on that idea for a few years
I'm pretty sure that the Deed was there
Those who held it, just didn't realize

I learned something at the Crypt
I wanted answers and I made an assumption
I assumed that the water held the answers
So I drank deeply, even greedily from the Crypt

Right there in the international peace park, on the crown of the continent
With the Old Chief and the Crowsnest not far away
Writing-On-Stone just a sashay away
What about writing in calcium?
If I were the earth, I would encode important information in something
Transmutable

Not blood.
Bones

What I learned up there on the mountain as I gulped down knowledge from the Crypt was that the deed is written into the bones of the land and into the bones of those borne of that land

This is indigenous knowledge

It's in the water, the water is the medium for the message
The bones are the stock
But just like a double helix
A genetic sequence is an expression of time and place
On a certain spacetime continuum this innocuous looking structure
(take a look in the mirror)
Has all the necessary answers

The peaceful shepherd
dozing against warm
wood of a pasture
fence.

Where sheep live like kings
in a peasant's square
protected and fed
and led.

The shepherd's kin
cries weakly - but why
are you not in the
world, living?

A crinoline reply
floats above the sweetgrass.
Where would I
be without them?

Mother, forgive me
I have not been reverent
Burned your sage without ceremony
Tore your sweetgrass in haste
Greedily spread my roots
and drank your water
without giving thanks
I am both the feet that touch the earth
and the earth itself
Mother forgive me for not remembering
Forgive me for straying

nestled in its comfortable corner of the marsh,
lays nine-thousand acres of soggy southern soil and sweetgrass.
here the hands of the clock carelessly play a lazy leapfrog
as tranquil transformations of pidgin make for musing murmurs.
the clangor of crickets lulling the weary ears to sleep,
as nocturnal creatures nimbly parade over placid, brackish water.
rotting wood stilts sink softly into the not-exactly-quicksand,
the last ferry makes a wake while winding to the next *******,
father time is in no hurry here.

substitute your mind for the divine presence
open you eyes and gaze upon the unknown
I speak for a plethora of overgrown gardens
are we cartons of cigarettes or bundles of sweetgrass
answers like these are never necessary
yet we borrow everything from life's apothecary
i am among the tired lions
who offer their music to your dynasties
its a weekend campaign finance escapade
to bring farms to your table and then go back to the basics
i wish you could see the benefits
that only exist beyond these earthly dimensions
for limits expand whenever we question them

I give thanks for the earth
i give thanks for the trees
i give thanks for the mother
i give thanks for the bees
i give thanks for the soil
i give thanks for the work
i give thanks for the passion
i give thanks for the hurt
i give thanks for the smiles
i give thanks for the children
i give thanks for the flowers
i give thanks for the silence
i give thanks for the power
i give thanks for the rain
i give thanks for the sunshine
i give thanks for the pain
i give thanks for the anger
i give thanks for the rage
i give thanks for the strength
to never separate myself from you

There is no God
If there were, every smell would be sweetgrass
and lemon.

and

If there were not,
we wouldn't have noses.
So there it is.

It must be that
I failed to notice the shrinking days,
the ever smaller liaisons,
the patches of silence.

Then there came the equinox.
Everything was eight hours long,
and you were nowhere in sight.
Who is responsible for that?

If my skin is soft to the touch
and unwrinkled
if my hands work faithfully
and my heart also,
then I must be blessed.

If I have my heirloom ring,
if I have a blightless history,
if our galaxy is still cold in the
right places, and hot in the
right places, then I must be blessed.

And if I remain troubled
with all those gifts -
then I am doubtful, sour, ragged.
Not worth the love I crave.

I am a child at a magic show,
second-guessing the theatrics -
There he is, behind that screen,
with a dove and dowsing rod.
With a tiger, and a cage, and a key.

So I am troubled-
it seems that everything came
in the lapse after a kiss,
where everything which could be touched
could be ignored.
Then the kiss was gone -
and there was the world again
stark and unholy,
bright and blue as a bruise.

How brutal it is to live
on that third planet under the
sun, behaving poorly. How failure
meant nothing, in that orbit.

How brutal it is!
never to face the thing that sustained us
(not even to thank it)