Monday, December 17, 2012

Productive Destruction

In a hot world of hard nocks let's not set locks on the x-box.
Human nature is as natural as danger. We set fire to cleanse and demolish to build afresh. It is within us to wreck but not to excess. Remember we are blessed with fire in our chest. It's needed to be whole, to ignite and refresh.
Yet this balance is sometimes left to forget. Life includes destruction and our muscles lend force to the unstoppable torque that each person represents. We hold within us stored energy of reciprocity, meeting the universe with equal forces. We are built to kill to eat and to protect our people. We are innately designed to understand the need of destruction. As a healer I feel the need to destroy. It's part of my instinctual pattern. It's part of the balance. Video games allow me the space to use my natural instincts in a safe way. Let kids play. There's dragons to slay. Let them wrestle and jestfully test their own strength. Let them understand the importance of the tensegrity in our stretch. We need to teach them that its ok to fight for what their hearts know to be rightous. Not to stand by idly and video tape monstrosities appearing more and more frequently within our kinespheres. We have a responsibility to stand up for each other, to use our might so that we can save one another. We can't confuse peace with passivity and apathy. There is a balance.
But we must take notice of these imbalances, take heed of the need to make change every day. Don't stop looking from every angle along the way. Don't stop creating smiles wherever possible. Hug a stranger. Don't snub the love of an unlikely savior. Don't pass by an opportunity to renew our community. Be a part of it all! It's your duty!

Saturday, December 5, 2009

The Alchemist

I’m renderin’ medicine.

Questionin’ if it’s better than this hook; this book it’s embedded in. I’m tender and sensitive but I’ve mixed potions of emotions like sedatives. Let it give. Walk asleep like the weak, yes; it’s better than finding hobbies in robberies and amphetamines. Dodgin’ bobbies and future hotties that see within. Ear muffs full of cuss words that seal the din. This yellow brick road never ends. The end of this rainbow is bent way low to 82nd.

Gifted misfits dance along this heightened tightrope. Every chance I have to yelp I spit it out and I choke. Every pen is a needle and you tighten this tourniquet and I hold still while you poke. Its ok, you say. It's ok, it's how we cope. You are one of us now so bury your shame and corrode.

But I reached into my pocket and I found this glow. Wrapped up and braided into bondage rope. And I built myself some wings to fly over this moat. I'm over this show. Drop the mic and mumble it slow. "I thought better of me". Yes it's time to go.

It's true, America, I’m building a new machine. Starting off slow and sequencing genes. Let the world wait patiently for my NASA vaccine. Picked blindly from the fruits of rare trees. Yes, This is within and can breathe. A cure that originates from the most lonesome seed. Lend me your veins to feed this new need, this gift that drips from the corners of my grin while I grip to your thighs on my knees. Indeed.

See, America, I never gave up on you. Quite the contraire, I'd never dare to hang up on you. You laugh too loud and run your thick hands through your hair while the grocer rang up my orange juice. That special kind that means that I’m done with you, with that label that states I’m unstable of late, too much on my plate, it’s not you, it's mey. Go out the back way, lock the gate behind you. Everyone knows where to find you. But it's so smoky nobody can breathe and you gotta close yer eyes too. Don't ask me to go inside, turn right and pass through. Quit asking me to do things you wouldn't want to. Get up out of your uncomfortable chair, stand straight and drop that uncomfortable stare, walk the line you have strewn although roughhewn and insecure. Decimate, eradicate your disabling fear. Smile and relax your fat sneer. Your face is locked all cocked and you look like you might tear. Look like you might crap or you just got a pap smear. Drop this see through exhausted veneer. You have any idea what it takes to stand here? Let me explain. It’s insanely granduire.

I threw all my armor into the grandest of canyons. It blew to the corners of that vast expansion. So now I float in this moat of my unfathomable mansion. Noticing I took with me not a single companion. And I’m dancin’. Reverting back to the roots of my passions. Not quarrelsome but I’m sensitive to every interaction. Testing the grounds of my foundations of friends, family and familiar faces.

Don’t brandish bullsugar with me cause I’m susceptible. Surveying more closely a situation that’s acceptable. Keeping company with folks that fill their vessels with lessons and choose to flourish with effervescence, blessing you with their presence. I guess at East West you can expect this. And I’m aware that I’m not prepared to acknowledge a lot of your questions. America, you manifested this feral dreamer’s only confession. It’s as strange as your facial expression. I walk tall holding a golden ball of Pure Intention.

Silver Tears

I bent my head as forward as it would go till I felt my pulse gurgling through my neck. My windpipe closes off and everything else fades into the lumpy passage of the blood making its way through my corotid artery. I wish sometimes I could slip out of this blasphemed casting, unfold my arms full of feathers and leave this place in rays of light.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Dear Delicious Cigarettes,

I have missed you. You have always been there. Right there in my pocket, between my lips, begging for my fire. And I loved you. I love you, still. You, with your sleek dark smoke drawing mystery into bar scenes, drawing deep into my being, drawing us closer, America. Damn we looked good together. Your sweeping cloak of armor around my soft body. And it's not that I truly believe that you're such an enemy as they all say. You never hurt me. It was I who invited you in. I offered you room and board. I offered you no choice.
I am not so self-rightous as I thought I would be. Yes, I continue to gay bash you. Because smoking is gay. But I guess I figured I would want more credit from letting you go. But this was not some whirlwind death chant like methamphetamines, no, this was a romance. It has stood the test of time like no other has. Even whiskey can't hold a flame to your evergreen underbelly of succulent lust. Too long, lover. It has been too long.
Maybe I am not quite as proud because I secretly never left you. I still have a half a pack of organic spirits in the kitchen drawer. You know, the drawer with the epoxy, and tape, the scissors, flashlight, rubber bands, cowgirl spurs. Way at the back where I can't seem em real good is that little box of choice. I have to do everything the hard way. I refuse to be stripped of my choice. I refuse to be an addict. Not this time, America. I'm not taking that on.
So, yes, my friend, you may bum a smoke. I'll even go outside with you even though it's -2 degrees out and my nose freezes quickly. I'll do it, buddy. Because America has done it for me. And I love making the right choice. Living with my half a pack of organic american spirits gives me a million times a day to make the right choice for me. And that choice is no thank you.