As I pry the hardened grey idea
from her attachment,
divorcing my mind with exploited appearance,
my pen pinches paper.
She has risen. Freed.
Hear her roar! Feel her scream.
She insists on being listened to.

Show me the sun, prisoners of my mind!
Find me a truth so high that I may live in awareness pure, transform in justice to the scathed world.
Give me words to describe
the fierce composted glittering insane expanding ferocious female idea I see before me!
LET THERE BE LIGHT!

PREHEAT oven to- actually, forget preheating
Earth's already clambered up 1.6 degrees Fahrenheit
and it will rise more

STIR INTO LARGE BOWL:
3 ounces looming catastrophe
6 cups all purpose fear
1 large, orange ruler
3/4 cup civil disobedience
1/2 cup hope, preferably white, use with modesty
a tinge of spiritual desperation

MIX IN SEPARATE BOWL:
1-2 cups oppression
2 tbsp. government inaction
1 tbsp. unspeakable terror
a dash of existential dread

Fold wet ingredients into dry bowl and mix until smooth. Kneed like you need it.

Bake in oven for 50 years, or until crispy brown, OR until the house burns down because you baked it too long, because you're out of time, because the planet's on ******* fire, because we've lost all touch with ourselves and you need the rest of the human race to lose their pride and politics and
devolve
into
simplicity


the promise of bread
burnt to a blackened
crisp

nonmeditation
is the best kind of meditation
not doing,
just being
not listening,
simply hearing
simply here

How do I write poetry
simple by being?
effortlessness is effortful
How do I show to the world
the way my brain should work
so that I appear
                          smart
                          ­         articulate
                                                   thoughtful
                                                      ­                 d
                                                               ­        e
                                                               ­        e
                                                               ­        p
when really I feel like spurting a string of thoughts that would not make sense to anyone, including myself, in any moment but this one

**** appearance

here's me:

    -
  (      .     .  )
(           >    )        ()()
(          =      )  __ (   )
xxxxxxxxxx            )

light
it whispers in yellow commas--
a piece of waning moon
to grasp
to climb
down from heaven

shards of our abdomen
itching, writhing,
crawling upwards
up
up
like a pillar of caterpillars
piling on caterpillars
fighting to get a view
of
of
of what?

"I tell you, Sir, there's nothing there!"

an echo from an empty room
nothing
nothing
no.
only swirling colors
patternless wandering
the flesh of a lost man
the Earth
is a woMan.