Welcome to It

There was a fable of a blinking star gone green in the distance, across shore and simple sea; self indulgence alights our enemies. Thoughts process to grow while ego choking hard our castle with its single diamond room. Because just thoughts, simple chaos, in the far reaches of what's happened to our bodies, letting those minutes in time eat up our minds-insides : color coding
trauma equals drama, offers a good impetus to curtain call.
Sing yourself home; no one can rise up from your ashes for you. None, but you. Let the thorns binding up your heart's pelt trunk down, twindle, swarming, free. Your arms, they're bleeding happy trails to mark the way behind you. You'll find yourself always watched over.
Heart born again a lump of dust mites in clay, without sculpture or circumstance. Etchings over ridiculous arithmetic parameters of breath and mistakes.
Indeterminism is a clean contract.

Why Holiday Thoughts are Simple

My mother told me rather non-chalantly that when they were younger,(*), the plan was for my father to die around 85 or 86; she would be around 80 and this would be just fine.
Also slightly in jest (but you never know) she suggested he stab her and then shoot himself (a loud, rambunctious, slavic romeo and juliet but funnier).
That she didn't want to be part of the f*cking widows club.

(*) represents the even more simply uttered aside of
"because you know, he was my whole world".

I dreamed of him in their bedroom from my childhood home, with our german shepherds, his roosters and chickens from his childhood and some fresh running water, waiting for her, and for us. Mismatched shapes like the shadow seahorse I saw the other night in silhouette, and groggy disciplines. I was saying to someone who'd never met him that "he could find the best and most pure qualities in you, he'd just find them right away and connect to you on your best level." Then eyes opened, tears, too many blankets, cat drinking the water at the side of my bed. Bristle ring, wet snow. It didn't stick.

hope

I hope this is what you really want.
Still hope all your dreams come true.
I hope you are yourself, always.

bitters

Rainy days of country music just aren't enough.
Sweep out the ashes, choke on the filth and the dust,
clean air is all I'm hoping for.

To miss is one thing, swirling in the curve of nostalgia and the glassy eyes of a memory.

But actually needing the command of Those arms, Those hands,
That tongue...craving
the smell of That skin,
actually still Wanting That One.

The Body and its Heartbeat is not interested in what my mind tells me
to do.

I think I've stopped listening to that system altogether.

You can have the straw and the shit and the dust and your thoughts
about who you think you are.
I'll take the gold instead.

Got him locked up, do you? At the base of your closet floor, suffocating
underneath filthy unwashed clothes and dreams.
I love that man and wish you'd let him out.

I would have $^@%*& you til the end of time.

“On Through”

**The last poem (2002?) of a time that no longer is around. But reminds me of now, too**






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Scales of time enter heartily along the circles of sun;

Downing dragons muddle
like housewives to the jostle of a conspicuous beating.

The throngs of life upon the wet shores of
operatic earth.

Tripping seconds as does the air in our ears – sweet with mindful relations
comatose rapture and ceasing beatitudes.

Look up and away
fall down and kick your skies together:
Trace palms not inward to withstanding but outward
past green battalions of leaves,
our sleeping spirits caress in misty trees
on through, on through.

On through dead earth
on through fire
on through the shock of wombs,
on through, on through.

On through all madness
on through forms of God
on through grace invisibly,
on through, on through.

On through time
on through the sleep
on through the dream,
on through, on through.

Recourso

This is mostly from already posted writing of early 2007 but it feels like a mantra is in order and it's a bit different so as in life, here we go again.
-----------------------
...As I stare down with my high and mighty glare, I did not come here to judge...You can, in fact, Become something else. All the way to your core...Perhaps this just makes me a crazy gypsy bitch who comes from a long line of crazy gypsy bitches, but, well, like a scar, yours is yours until the end of time, and not belonging to anyone but you.

Sipping side effects and glazed eyes poolside while your insides rot and your thoughts dull, dreams reduce into a stock of mushy even-keel thoughts, a porridge of average, a cauldron of acceptance. You can have it. I'll dive deep into that black hole, hear the hissing in all my broken places and bind them every morning, keep diving, curious to know what's to come and knowing that I am the captain gypsy bitch of this ship. And I'll take you with me too. I'll slap, then seduce you into submission, set you free, love and heal you without losing myself, name every of your fears and let them fly off to a country where they belong, and we'll keep on sailing.

I'm strong enough to take you all on. There is no bottom to my eyes, or my heart or the depths otherwise. I know what forever means and I live it every second. You don't know what's out there, but pack a sharp tongue and knife, and full heart, some good strong steps, and GO.

And, as long as my heart beats loud, my body wants what it wants, my intangibles keep on the journey and I know the fact that the mystery shouldn't be dissected on the street corner, operating table, therapist's chair, bar or in the rooms we hold inside our secret selves, you won't be seeing me in the Emergency Room anytime soon. That's a promise.

Spookies

Here kitty, kitty
your fur as soft as silk
let's pretend your blood is milk.

---anonymous 5 year old, many years ago.

7th Cavalry

A fellow gypsy once spoke from the waves, calling himself the seagypsy, shouting the tenets of the 7th Cavalry of Truth. He had a lotus flower growing up from beneath his track marks. They never leave you, no matter if they are etched onto your skin, your memory or your soul's perimeter. Might as well grow yourself a garden to climb on out. You can never forget that it rides down in addition to up. Most people make this mistake.

He spoke of the universe not letting you get away with lies. Lying to yourself is worst of all......

Do you really think you can keep this up? Playing personalities off of one another through your secret chess game between mistaken identities at your own tea party?

Your looking glass may be dirty, but I can still see right through to you.

One thing at a time. One feeling at a time. Not every idea and action can be forgiven by immature circumstance. Those chess pieces are going to boomerang right back to you and knock you across the base of your skull. One by one.

I didn't come here to judge. I want to despise, conquer and deliver the world entire. But wrapping gauze around your wounds, your ego and pretending from crack of morning sun to truth telling lady moon of night, I can tell you, it won't work. No matter how smart you think you are.

It will catch up to your skin and your insides one day soon.

(Hear it?)

.......the quietest whisper of a march.......

{Rumble, rumble}

Dust gathering, feet stomping louder and louder.>>>>>>>}}}}}}}]]]]]]]

They're coming for you.

You can't stop the 7th Cavalry of Truth.

And when you've been warned by a seagypsy whose seen the depth of the ocean floor, and the darkness sprouting beneath, disguised in ego by the grandest clouds of the false skies you think you know, you think you own, you know its no lie.

Be sure to expose your hissing holes, smile without fear, and outstretch your arms wide when they reach you.

Seems like there's no way out of it.

(*dedicated to J. Valdivia)

Deep Sea Diving

Billowing down the levels of psyche til you find your outer shore.

Climbing along treetops and telephone wires, your past hits you right in the face. Bloody nose trickles down your ego and childhood circumstance until you’re knee deep in a treasure chest of toys, painted with old fears and seen through new desires. Your dreams are your reality and there’s nothing stopping you from thinking so.

Scratch to the surface of that faded old photograph. Who are those people and why is there a cauldron of blood between you? Why do their actions need your forgiving, and why must you miss them so much. Some pairs of eyes belong to us and others just swim on by. The mermaids are old, and their scales tattered, as they try not to nod off every night, preventing the theft of your possessions from the chest, deeply rooted in the ocean floor. They’re not getting raises anytime soon, and the pills aren’t keeping them awake as they once did.

So what did you find there? Past that old scratched up photograph and those security blankets? The same belonged to your parents and the same to theirs. My father didn’t know his father as well as I thought he did. His father came to Farrell, Pennsylvania, up from Pittsburgh and just over from Youngstown, Ohio. Worked in the mills and factories. Sent money home to his family in Croatia. His wife lived with him for a time in Farrell, but for the most part he traveled back and forth for months at a time, from being an American to being himself, a Croatian (then Yugoslav). I am made to believe he was a good, honest man, but hard to think he was completely loyal to my father’s mother. The dark one blamed for my eastern looks. Whenever he came back, he’d find my father a little older, a little less scrawny and much more rambunctious. One such return found my grandfather not recognizing my father who had dark brown hair like me, but was born blond. He told him “you were a blond the last time I saw you”. So, the many things he missed flew past, as did the rocks my father threw at the soldiers when scampering across the water, a fatherless creator of his own pathway.

You found a story which told you that your father was not just a provider, or an over protector, and more even than just an adventurous child. He slept on the streets on Christmas Day, he got everywhere on his own accord, and he, like others, got fucked over by our economy, by George Bush the First King. The story will find a cycle and that joyride can take you to the end of the forest, the crux of the desert, the worlds beneath the ocean floor and inside the mind’s eye. Everything reflecting on everything else, as a dream reflects on the water at which a child gazes through her grandmother’s eyes, which held secrets that conquered men’s hearts and informed their decisions, who then dreamed up goals to live and die by. And more dreams each night, all the same, filled with numbers lost in history and families of every universe across these great divides.

Hurt is a strange thing. It feeds on you as long as you feed on it. Hurt, like ego, belongs in a performance. Without the curtain falling and the roses pricking you on your nose as they sail to your feet, you won’t know what to do next. Whirling dervishes also eat supper and bed their wives. Memory is a swing line, low and repulsive which gathers moss and seaweed around the treasure chests of our youth. Time to let the mermaids take their ascent. They need time off too, and it’s time for a tag sale. The contents will always remain; some more so than others. Like the touch of a fabric you will never forget or a smell that is burned into the fire pit of your nostrils, they never leave you. But you have a choice in the arrangement of the show.

They move into dreamtime, which makes me wonder – we can fly in our dreams, soar and experience supernatural occurrences, events and stories. We can have a million faces and experience a million lives, but how does living time affect that of the dream? Could the cave men have dreamed of the automobile and think it a fantastical sleep voyage? Could the Romans have dreamt of the Second World War and thought it a demon or a sickness that was at their constitution? Just because time in the world is progressing, does that mean that time is progressing in the dreaming side of things? As far as dreaming in the ‘other’ world goes?

I wish my father were here to talk about these things with me. I look at the old photograph of him now (and I have dreamed him a dozen times since as I knew him, as he was when I was a child, as he was before I was born or even near gazing a star) and separate my life from his, my choices from his, his choices from himself and see him as a man. As someone I would give anything in this world in order that he could have shared a night staying up late, drinking with you and I. As a great and loyal friend. As a friend I miss very much.

Nazdravlje.

The Nature of Sacrifice

It was a moving train, stilled as its home station. Old, Bettina green and black like the piers, but filled with thick woods of ceremony, blood and dirt, bark reaching up high past the open ceiling, where the others invisible in trees found themselves watching us. No windows, but pale, far off sunshine. It didn’t matter, I wasn’t Here anymore.

The experience was a ritual simple and pure as the snow that fell. It fell from a higher sky, like golden stars shimmering in neutrality, floating down and changing from gold to white, a rushing stream. All over us. You were there, and you were as Christ. I was too, though I couldn’t see to tell. The snow came down harder in its stars, caking on your hands, which were mine. Hurting, from the intense cold of it. Stinging our faces. I told you without speaking that we had to bear the pain, and you did.

Then, you were in a hot fiery furnace, aching your eyes and tumbling limbs at me as to why. I placed you there, but I was in the fire with you. You rolled around as a pig without a spit in that rusty orange barrell and came back again; you were re-forged, made into yourself once more. The cold was gone. We joined up as humans and tried to make the train connections to the show. Timetables, conductors and our starry snowfall; Christ burning alive without a cross - we came back from the abyss like gods, though still ourselves the whole while, and not on time.

But we had each other for the long train ride out east, smelling like ocean.
It was a good show.