Dear America

Are we becoming so willfully individualized that we are willing to abandon our democracy?

This Blood

If this blood could share my life
But to waste the colors do despair
My feminine figure eclipsed by a giving
To the earth the remains absorbed

I crawl from the night a new woman
Whose given a path of effort
To climb from this early birth into the arms of new life
The death of a world decays before me
Fields of grace spread pleasantly
Take these aching arms and wrap them in bury
This night has come to a close
I have felt you adorn my heart with the warmth of the rising sun

Never could this day burden me
My arms have strengthened
I listen carefully to you
Blessed with the wisdom to listen
I know what is holy and free
To reign with the wisdom of kindness and compassion
No reason to enslave

I am free from worry and shame
Free from the brier patch of defense
No man can catch my worry
For worry is not mine
Heart capture this intellect
For I see so clearly
Pass your graces to others
Pass your graces to see
Others standing before you
Needing what you perceive
Needing what you see.

This I have learned from observation; if a speaker utters words that are designed to change the fabric of our existence for the better, the listener's natural response is to be moved-to be moved to be of service, to be moved to make a difference, to be moved to examine the grace that moves within their life and the lives of others. If, however, those words are lacking integrity, the listener's reaction is one of defense. And, this defense could be in a reactionary case against the speaker or for the speaker. Defensiveness is a weak proposition. I shall never live in that space for very long. "In the beginning was the Word..."

The Fourth Dimension

The fourth dimension of spiritual inquiry entails the realm of contradiction.  We experience time as a reality, and yet, within the fourth dimension there is only now. All that ever was or will be is occurring within this very moment as your eyes track across these words.  When there is no time, there is only place. The placement and order of things contributes to the illusion that there is a progression of time involved, separating the order of things. Without time, imagine a world of place, where everywhere you have ever been, every molecule in your entire body, every substance you have consumed has found new homes, new positions in space, when your body dies these molecules disperse into new spaces.  Imagine if you could see all of this in one image, removing the illusion of time. Now, another contradiction is there is space as we perceive space, and yet, space is a dimension.  Within the fifth dimension, there is no separation of the order of things, and yet this separation of things is necessary in order for unity to self-identify.  The origin is indeed alive and true within the fourth dimension-not as a theoretical impulse, but as a living and breathing truth setting your every cell ablaze with the wholeness of this vast and unified field. 

Container of Time

Contour maps stretch across my hands and curl around my knuckles

A texture defines my flesh as worn and weathered

Prayers clasped intertwined by the cascading dawn my breath breathes into you

You the air that takes and feeds this aspen rattling like a snake above me

Shaking out the wild days of summer 

heat cooking unripe leaves green dying into tie-dying amber, orange, and burnt ember hues

I have learned from watching the mountain jay to call for you relentlessly

Frenetically my heart rates the day accordingly when I fear that you have not heard

I am that racketeering parade cawing for more 

Far more from you 

that flaring galactic appeal you who stands in the enigmatic corners of each miscalculation of eternity a distance I cannot see

You measure me with your genetic codes your divine Leggos 

You who has mass appeal but no mass can appeal to what you are

You who is the glue or the field

I drop my head to say,

"You are listening." But, no ears receive the sounds

The sounds have ears; they are listening to their own body

They inhabit space because a habit of space is to find shape

empties itself of space to make place for your form

See, room is made for every creature or act of creation

I look at the contours of my hand curling around a container of time

One day that container will break and pour into you.

Steep me in your holy fire
Ablaze the cacophony?
Ablaze the trembling plain cascading down to
The city erupts with temptation
For more
For me I confront my gain my needs my necessities
Who be gone? Who woefully sins like a tired vacant lot empty on a busy Sunday morning
You who be gone on this day of plenty
Deep down into the face of your name, your calling
The breath of your infancy curls into many steaming signals into the air
Suspended, holding out for your soul to come forward
Step forward before you die
Little men pouncing in big suits wearing lean ties
Little men, step forward before you die
What matters to you?
The bottom line or the soul that had descended into you?
Every measure that you take calculates
Every lie that you tell drains from your face
The power
You amongst the many are empty
The many chant the prayers of their ancestors
The water that feeds this land is protected
We are everywhere.

Prayer

Steep me in your holy fire

Dusting Yourself Off

Love is a collection of every affection ever known to humanity
Does love grow?
White is every color reflected on the spectrum
Does color grow?
There is whiter than white and a greater profundity than love
Is there more to what we have felt and seen?
Nature's genius unveils tiny surprises
As if we have not quite lived entirely
And our eyes take in routine mechanically
But the world has not yet been seen
And the world has not yet been heard
And the world has not yet been created
And the world spins around a wildly elated gas ball
Self-luminous expression teases the plants pulling towards sky stretching from Earth reaching for that primordial gasp that leaning towards freedom
We are humanity. Pulled from the rubble.
Why are we so angry? Pushed deep into an arid creativity,
Our thoughts are filled with second-hand smoke blazing from the pipe of the devil cascading poison into fragile minds
Deceased mental functions, a mind filled with darkness and distractions
The world has not yet been seen
Your world has not yet been created simmering in protoplasm
Echoing your name in every act of every choice
You are the designer cutting from the same cloth that was worn by your ancestors
You the designer who has not created any world of your own
And god reaches into the ash and pulls us from the rubble again and again
You with that same cloth dusting yourself off.

Make Me

Make me colorful teach me to touch your song
I want the sun to roar through my hair wildly free rays spray
In rapidly inclining spine I want to lift my limbs heavenly
I want you to touch me rush me take my breath and flood me
I want you to take my anger and make change from fire I burn the hostility
Make me rain make hot pavement steam stung by wet kisses from above
Make this simple mind grow from dirt and dark to seek more than the trodden paths splayed before a winding story of disgrace
Craft me fairly cradle this humanity in your hands
Unlock the deeper desire to know the spindly twine of time and wisdom run our fingers across the contours of your mystery and help us understand
Before it's too late come to the meeting where the scribe tasked with notes echoes your heartbeat as matter performs
Devour my heart and leave the burning hunger to flare into the atmosphere and ignite the air
Make this an evocation
Make me

Serpentine Men

The fortune of the gods brave the storms and reign 

In the flood of magic scribe told;

The symphony of riots shout the believers of just cause

Relinquished the fear of being portrayed as lonesome in the movement towards change

Of hearts can only be known through intimacy, but of hearts can be brave in symphony

The chest of the worthy open to claim the treasure of lore and privilege

Decency do, decency do not

What matters is the empire that clashes with right 

Serpentine men shall wither in chains.

You Take Me

Your mighty grasp gripped my tiny hand

pulled me from the storm into warmth where flames flickered forms

dancing shadows played like restless children on the walls

hand in hand a peaceful language spoke

wisps of contemplation bent my brow

and I rose in an exhalation of a life work

the vulnerability of my trembling hand shook

and you strengthened me with vision 

and I could see you in my fear beckoning

come to me, unto me, come to me, come

The ocean curled beneath 

renewing my tears with a salty mist

the sunlight lifted my drooping head 

bowed in prayer deep and faithful

a mysterious cloak of unknown province draped my shoulders

underneath the newness of penetrating quiet a butterfly lifted

and as delicate as these wings may be 

the earth's gravity had no bearing 

though on many things gravity did weigh, but not unto me.

The Visitors

The mist is absorbed into my lungs
My flesh burns
My forehead and mouth tingle
"They are back," I realize

They float gracefully about me
Smoothly transitioning in and out of forms
In and out of dimensions peaking into this one
They surround me, swirling about me
I'm in the center of a wildly mystical merry-go-round
They visit as smoky figures here and there
"Why are you here?" I ask, "What do you want?"

They do nothing but encircle me
Make their presence known
They are silent
No message to share
No request
They simply peer into this world and leave

Sometimes I wonder if they enter through my atrium
And exit through my arteries
My heart feels sensations of deep but beautiful grief
The kind of grief an artist feels when they are creating a transcendental piece
Emphatically makes love to the transitory where fall shall dethrone trees and winter shall weep
The kind of grief when the gentle brush of life sweeps into my most despairing places and cleanses my heartache
The kind of grief when saying goodbye to a great love wakes me into the invigoration of absolute presence
Because there is no leaving someone who was never there
And the earth trembles with radiance and an aliveness that creeps into my every pore

They tune me into their world
"I see you," I whisper
I feel like you want something from me, so I offer you tea
Am I a poor listener
Am I dense
All these years visitors for reasons unknown
Perhaps I am too complicated to understand the tradition
A visitor is always welcomed and not to be questioned
I should be grateful for their stay.