Sublimation Bloodbath: A Poetic Treatise on the Faith of Living

It’s a sublimation bloodbath out here,

And the only one I’ve murdered is me;

But I’ve heard you gotta give to be free.

Or in technical computer science terms…

              What do ALL the Good Books say?

The whole universe is a slave hard drive,

A host of confusion about primary and secondary

Greater memory of meaning, master communication,

Ghosted onto galaxies in stars.

              Psychologically speaking, a continuum, of

Binary signals clustered into complicated plots

Beyond human comprehensions, allowing projections,

So I can attribute to everything, what is on my mind.

              So ALL the Good Books say, sacrifice

And sublimation, is an essential task in life.

There is no authoritative right in sight

And I’ve got to cut out certainty’s heart,

Dismantle the very bones of clarity.

Offer the choicest morsels of my Ego

And my Id…

To the GREAT MAW of the UNKNOWN,

To the infrared spectrum of invisible truth,

So the light may devour my vagrancies.

              I must slaughter the fatted lamb of knowing,

To dwell in the home the Heavens sent

Between nothing and everything to repent.

It’s a sublimation bloodbath.

              The old kidnapper’s demand,

I've got to cut certainty and just pay the ransom,

If I ever want to be free,

If I ever want to see the rest,

of me, alive again.

Tough Enough?

did I toughen up?
scars so thick
a second skin
burned and burned
to begin again
I remember when
existing hurt
every day I lost my shirt
I had no history
so everything was
a dangerous mystery
but now...
did I toughen up?
metaled in
head armored
to bleeding heart
so foolishness
can't even start
I remember when
counting doubt
was so devout
I had no pride
so nothing was
on my side
but now...
did I toughen up?
or just, age out?
Stand here,
Hold this,
Let's fire another round...

Oberon singed curled his whiskers a lot as a kitten too.

Dear Dandelion, a poem to my inner child

Dandelion, don't be lazy.
Why are your eyes so hazy?
Powder Puff,
your hair should be crazy.
Don't let 'em tell you otherwise.
Fighting your nature only causes cries.
Every word is just a way to say something still comes next,
so keep your look alive.
Endings are written all the time,
without actually reaching The End.

Dandelion, don't be dull.
Isn't your heart still full?
Long Stalk,
you could bend to the bull not to break.
Don't let 'em tell you otherwise.
Thinking you have to give up for the good is a greater sink,
than trading over your battleship. 

Dandelion, don't reign in,
Got your breath of hope?
Sunshine,
let float!
You can tell them otherwise.
Whatever you water
goes and grows.

Taraxacum is a genus of flowering plants in the family Asteraceae, which consists of species commonly known as dandelions. 

Artifacts

Sunlight on broken glass inside your empty house
Is as jagged as the uncertainty
Nagging at my belly.
Are you gone?
You must be.
There are only dust motes and ghosts of your intentions
Here near your teacups drying in the kitchen.
I study the upside-down enameled mug,
The one with the rainbow kitten on it,
That Adrian bought in Prague,
And the empty silicon manatee tea-infuser,
We gave her for Christmas,
Both gutted like me.
Every artifact spells out you were just here.
You planned to reappear.
Andrew’s notes above the desk outline two more years.
That picture of my uncle cock-eyed is on the magnet editing board,
Amongst the parrot from Costa Rica, a Joshua tree,
And those two of Adrian reading in a red dress by the waterfall.
Why those, all old, I wonder.
A battered wet-suit is draped over the chair on the patio
That smells faint,
Mostly of, the sea.
A book from that bookstore in San Diego
That you loved
Rests on each bedside table.
A regency romance for Adrian,
A comedic fantasy novel for Andrew,
But both bookmarked
Only a few pages in.
I can’t quite remember,
Are these books from the list I recommended to you,
Or among the ones you recommended to me?
Are voracious readers really allowed to die,
So ephemerally?
The stained-glass penguin window Laura crafted for you
Is still in a crate, as are your framed family photos,
In the one room that you still haven’t unpacked.
There are sheets on the new mattress you both complained about hauling
Into the upstairs guestroom,
Waiting for some of us to visit.
Maybe us next, or maybe Angela,
Or Kathryn and Levi with a toddler in tow.
Adrian was already worried about the Thanksgiving menu
Meeting everyone’s needs.
Andrew’s voice still echoes in my head,
Our last phone call,
“You and Laura should come. It’s only a three-day dive trip.”
I wished, but we had a wedding to attend.
“Ah well, we’ll do it again in November or April. We can have a Google hangout next week to figure it out.”
But we won’t.
You are perpetually out?
That isn’t what these artifacts say.
These trails of you evidence so many things
We have left to do
And the hopes still in count.
How do I reconcile
These artifacts
With the evidence
Of your absence?

Artifacts 

Someone I always thought would be here

Like the smell of rain on the grass,
or diesel in a crosswalk,
They were inevitably,
Part of the family compound.

Like a scorpion in the shower,
or changing flat tires,
They were always,
Part of something I'd maintain
awareness of how to handle.

Like the best book I ever read,
or the taste of malt on my tongue,
They were usually,
What I turned to,
When nothing else seemed familiar.

Like the start of an ancient hymn,
or the fold of my favorite jacket,
They were known,
As the backbone,
That would sustain my faith.

Someone I always thought would be there,
Most likely to help me survive,
Even stranded on a desert island,
With no place to buy beer,
and abysmally small Key Deer.

Someone I always thought would be there,
To ensure my desire to love,
Never went hungry for long,
And hope had a home to belong.

We are independent,
But part of the same song,
Even as I am alone,
Still singing along,
There are still,
Somehow,
the ghosts of my will,
still here.

The Magical Fruit

*NOTE: sung roughly in the tune of the children's chant, "Beans, beans, the musical fruit"

Words, Words, the magical fruit

The more you imbibe, the more you can describe

The more you spill, the better you feel

So we have words in every spiel!

Words, Words, the magical loot

The more acquired, the more ideas squired

The more we squeal, the better we feel

So let's have words with every deal!

Words, words the miracle fruit
The more you repeat, the more you beat
The more you bear, the better you wear
So leave good words with every share!

Words, Words, the musical fruit

The more we churn, the more we learn

The more we learn, the better we earn

So let's burn more air on words together

before we ash our final urns!

#BeMightyWrite with magical implements of any sort!

Hail Mary

Heaven Harsh

The blood waters at sunrise

when the Universe cuts Earth’s cord.

The gory birth of each day

reflects back on the same seas

that mothered all land.

We don't see the difference

between Stone and Bone

after 10,000 years.

Time makes the extreme tones

of heartaches and heart-fulls

equally, equatorially weird.

Heaviness is a harshness

of Heaven by necessity.

All births are messy,

but some are a real Hail Mary.

If you give me a minute,

a tiny strand of time,

I will look for you in it.

The dawn of friendship

is only

a haven of moments

when we,

you and I,

mean something in the flood.

The right wave

is a long pass,

but even if you catch it,

every offensive play,

there is no such thing as a touchdown.

What goes up only comes around

in our harsh Heaven’s heaviness.

If I give you a minute,

a bare fray of rope,

I can only hope

you'll find me in it.

Irrespective of tides,

we could rise and pearl,

flash,

then curl,

a crashing wave,

feeling the heavy birthing pull

of Heaven’s sweetest harshness,

light, and inevitable,

as a baby's breath.

All births are messy,

but love is the real Hail Mary.

Blood waters when the Universe cuts Earth's cord, reflected on the seas that mothered all land. 

Doing the twist inside

I'd like to feature a poem by a friend (who would like to remain anonymous) this month, that I think captures the scariest aspect of battling any truly traumatic stressor or mental illness. I hope reading it makes it easier for us to empathize with each other, knowing that others get stuck on the roller coasters too. We all get twisted up inside, but we also each have a chance to #Bethe1to

Twistin' 

That swirlin' 

          whirlin' 

dervish,

spinnin' round 

won't slow down

expands and contracts 

insanely fast and laser focuses 

into 

a persistent loop 

    that just keeps wrappin' 

itself around 

and around

 and can't be derailed 

with comedy or tears 

won't be deterred 

with silence or swears 

it insists 

on accompanyin' you 

to your dreams 

and throws random 

                       chaotic 

   images 

and minor chords 

screechin'

 through your mind 

and it won't abate 

or fade 

and i'm just 

so done 

with this 

unendin' roller-coaster 

i never wanted to ride.

Even the twisted have some beauty.

Owning The Adventure

You will never believe

The things that I have seen,

Though, I could tell you a hundred stories

of

Days when everything Is sacred And pregnant With hope. Grass stands Thick, cool, and green Beside a burbling stream On a Siberian slope. Trees older than Jesus Reach to the sky Gnarled high, Mid-Nevada miracles, Stark clear and dry. A mother, A astronaut, Reaches the stars And shares the trip So that more children Dare the slip From the surly bonds Of gravity. Free to see Earth’s blue marble beaming. Underpaid firefighters Stop traffic To rescue Blossoming Squirrel puppies. All God’s creatures Are small, Are great-- Small on judging, Big in faith. And I believe In everything.

Days when nothing Is sacred Nor born With good will. Rival owners Firebomb strip clubs Killing sex-traffic victims And booming their business. A trusted official Commits the felony And not only goes free, But doesn’t have to flee, And still gets re-elected, While the Under-Represented Minority Remains unduly suspected. Fundamental attribution error Breeds increasing cognitive bias Like plastic pollutes the sea And millions in apathy Toss on billions of straws. Camels aren’t just beaten Bloody and raw In fables of Shahs. A Grandmother, A hater, Brutalizes a baby Breaking bones zero to 206 Per angry shake, But she gets to demand The doctors finish Killing the kid slowly On life support. And I believe In nothing.

What does it mean to believe?

There once was a fork in the road…

I choose my own adventure.

There is never enough time to choose, and yet we must choose again and again each day.

Every Time I Hear Loony Tunes

Every time
I listen
to The Cure
I think about
the boy
that got away,
like Wile E. Coyote,
over the edge
of a car crash
in the dark of night.

Every time
I listen
to Tricky
I'm sure about
the love
I've given up,
like Bugs Bunny,
knowing I should
have taken
a left turn
in Albuquerque.

Every time
I listen
to Morrissey
I'm crazy about
the day
fading out,
like Yosemite Sam,
hollering when
I say, Whoa!
I mean, Whoa!

Every time
I listen
to Lucinda Williams
I'm sick about
the way
grace slips by,
like Sylvester
lisp suffering
succotash
while Tweety Bird
twitters.

Every time
I listen
to Wagner
I'm mad about
the gray
given sway,
like Marvin the Martain
sneaking in unnamed
for two decades
until Warner Brothers
needed to market him.

Every time
I listen
to One Republic
I feel about
to hope,
like Pepe Le Pew
fondling faith
despite rebuff
from
the millionth face.

Every time
I listen
to Everything But the Girl
I remember
what it's about,
obnoxious but true,
like Foghorn Leghorn
bellowing
that's a joke
to the bewildered
book Chick.

Ever time
I listen
to the music,
I hear
a Loony Tune,
a siren song,
about life,
and keep
living
like that's what
it's for.

Another nostalgic siren song source.

.

Anthropo-Quality?

an·thro·po·cen·tric

ˌanTHrəpəˈsentrik/

adjective

1. regarding humankind as the central or most important element of existence, especially as opposed to God or animals.

I believed humans were kindest,

able to put others lives before our own.

Until I saw a Mocking Bird attack

a Rattle Snake 

to save a Blue Jay's baby.

I believed humans were most playful,

socially animating objects to share laughs.

Until I saw a Lamb and a Blue Healer 

play Soccer

with a volleyball.

I believed humans were most eloquent,

creating new language to represent ideas.

Until I saw a Gorilla

signing "water-bird"

to explain a Swan.

I believed humans were most creative,

fashioning art and tools that solve problems.

Until I saw an Elephant

use rocks to build a step-stool

for an undersized calf.

I believed humans were wisest,

mindful of goals and masters of plans.

Until I saw Gibbons 

sort cards in patterns

to obtain a prize

and Magpies adapt 

caching

for contingency hints.

I believed humans were most complex,

synthesizing sciences to birth robotics.

Until I saw ancient Aspens

cloning colonies

via Rhizomatic roots and nodes.

Now

I suspect

my Grandparents were correct,

in that all creatures,

great and small,

live of central importance,

if not singular intelligence.

Now 

I believe

all molecules matter.

All beings created to function,

qualities always evolving

into more beautiful forms

the universe requires. 

Maybe reptiles write poetry too and we'll learn how to hear it one day.

Baggage Wall

Build your walls of baggage.

Try to keep me at bay 

but still

secretly hoping 

I'll save your day.

There isn't enough drama 

in your closet 

to fence out my heart, 

not enough skeleton clubs 

to cleave us apart.

Stack up your baggage, Baby.

That wall will make great fuel

for the flame we're gonna burn.

Bring me all the hopes 

you thought you'd have to urn.

Stack up all the things

you thought better left

in the dark,

because we're still

gonna make a great embark.

I'm your two by two,

and this is our story's arc.

We're plenty slick enough 

to slip these customs agents. 

Our good intentions 

are sly enough to slide those gates.

We can afford the waits.

Stack up you baggage, Baby.

It won't wall off our world.

In or out,

I want to know what you're all about.

We'll establish an ancient trade route.

Go ahead,

stack up your baggage, Baby.

Throw in the kitchen sink.

I've got a torch and a wink.

This is how we step 

                            over the brink.

Cat's have no boundaries. They're good at love like that.

Things we've lost

We've lost

Another sunset lost.

all kinds
of things...

Your keys,
in another state.
My ring,
in another country.
Our way home
at night
and once,
in broad day light.
But never
one another.

Our tempers,
in another fight.
Our patience,
in another minute.
Lots of sight
of the whole
point.
But never
our love.

My will power.
Your courage.
Our fortitude
in a storm
of grief.
Our place
among the flames
of too many
disasters.
But never
our hope.

Plenty of time.
Yesterday,
and occasionally,
even tomorrow.
Maybe some
memories.
But never
today,
this chance,
to find
ourselves
together,
again.

We've lost
far fewer
things
than
we've gained.

Active listening

I scoured every word you uttered.
I scaled carefully in between lines, staking out each possible path toward discerning
all of your hidden meanings.
I chalked the hands of my focus, ensuring I could catch and grip
each of your non-verbal hints long enough to climb the mountain of our misunderstanding
until we could reach some shared summit.
I avoided all unsteady crevasses, hasty assumptions, and crumbling interruptions so that I might hear better the toe-holds to your thoughts.
I was so careful, that you laughed and said that I creeped like a creep,
I treated the plain planes of your intentions as if they were an Everest.
and that left you wondering
if it was you that I feared such a moron or if I was the dullard
to require such safety measures in active listening.
You couldn't decide if you should be offended,
but you were any way
out of principle
unwilling to be metaphorically scoured and scaled.
It occurs to me that I do not need to attend every word.
Even in the dark I could find your heart,
just by stilling my mind,
and closing my eyes,
to find the steady drip, drip
of what you want and why
letting the rest dip away unheard
like stone wearing way under water
at sea level.
No climbing required to actively listen
and echo you back
until we know we're understood.
This act of active listening
is less action
and more
listening,
than implied.

The peak of Mt. Wheeler in Great Basin National Park, where climbers frequently stack stones while listening to the wind together.

Yea, Verily

The world is going to hell in a hand-basket,
Rolling like a stone with no moss toward the crack-ass of doom.
Because of those lily-livered, over-educated, snowflake liberals?
Because of those myopic, misanthropic, red-neck conservatives?
Because of all the apathetic insufficiently engaged ditzes in-between?
Maybe.
But more likely,
We'll wipe out the human race,
Yea, verily and pass the peons please,
Because of our self-fulfilling prophecy,
Of a world whirling toward gloom.
Yea, verily and pass the pity please,
Because we are convinced,
the problem is too big, spread and deep,
For one person to make a difference
And that making a difference means
Convincing others to see things
From our point of view.
Yea, verily and pass the prejudice please,
Because we don't realize,
Making a difference should mean
Understanding others well enough
To make them secure enough
To find the rare courage required
To do their own internal reflection
Without caving to cognitive bias,
Or debasing in debates over what is fact.
Or I could change course,
Yea, verily and pass the peace please,
I may be any one
of my brothers and sisters
only keepers.
So Yea, verily,
I will own my responsibility
To ask,
"How are you today
And why?"

The Human Recipe

Directions:
1. First, start with the First Law of Thermodynamics since energy is conserved and can neither be created nor destroyed. Mix one part light, one part heat from common sources of decay (e.g. earth, dung, clay, ancestors' ashes, masticated chloroplasts, etc.)
2. Begin kneading the soul, the essence or embodiment of organized energy until photon pair production coalesces into a visible matter and cells begin to shape.
3. Infuse resulting Mitochondrial structures within cells to convert the energy from food into a form that cells can use because there is going to be a lot of replicating. Wait until replication results in egg and sperm cell.
4. Preheat and line a willing womb before gently folding together egg and sperm cells.
5. Embed the fertilized egg into lining of the prepared womb and gestate for approximately 37 to 42 weeks or until aura is golden fresh.
6. Plate Being upon arrival and nurture neural development to keep warm.
7. Finally, garnish with love for a lifetime and serve with a side of entropy to induce recycling.
*Note: Recipe yields ten-fold the expected servings of hubris and hope.

Golden light casts a deep human shadow.

A Poem about Real Regrets

Not what I failed to achieve, but...
The dappled light in golden shine,
Sweet bird calls wavering on
The hot Spring breathe of Balsam Pine,
The laughter of children ringing
Cool spells casting under ancient oaks,
I missed.

Not what I failed to accomplish, but...
The thousands of silver coin fish,
Shiny scales glinting madly in
The Summer twilight's cooler wish,
Bright joys exploring open water,
I missed.

Not what I failed to fix, but...
The mottled leaves smelling of Earth,
Crunching under feet fixed on path,
And smoking sultry on home's hearth,
The brewing tea and steeping fall,
I missed.

Not what I failed to find, but...
The whole days getting lost,
Giving time and chance to Love,
Happy despite Winter's cost,
Curled beside warmer forms,
I missed.

These regrets are
The real guilt 
complex.

#BeMightyWrite and explore.

Haiku Influenza

Warning: Poetic devices are often contagious,
even to seasonally pleading vegetation.

Spring blossoms light for
Hope flutters like a wet moth --
Eventually.

Golden Summer brings
On bright heat and strawberry skin --
Thoughts are lethargic.

Thunder raises up
Hazy Autumn intentions --
Evolving conscious.

Fresh snow marks Winter
Leaving narcissus fever --
Under the weather.

Haiku's generally contain three elements:

• 17 syllables in 5, 7, 5 line form
• a seasonal reference
• juxtaposition of two images or ideas

An acrostic is a poem where the first letter of each line spells out a word or message. On the other hand, the alliteration, assonance, imagery, metaphors, onomatopoeia, and personification contained in this work are mostly gratuitous -- unless you like that sort of thing, in which case, I sincerely mean it.

Riding Through It.

My bicycle's tires glide over glossy blacktop, a whir of black on black, as they have for so many miles. My feet on the pedals are as distant as two pine trees at the base from the peak of a mountain. Bands of muscles in my legs compulsively continue pounding out a road-eating rhythm that intertwines with the primal beat my heart plays against my inner ear under the melody of my ringing breath.

Somethings make no sense because you don't know why--once the why appears you understand.  But then there are things, like your suicide, that make no sense at all whether you know why or not.

I ride on. My forearms and wrists are only iron clasps, designed to clench these handlebars right now. A fresh kiss of wind from a nearby rain storm proceeds by with a promising caress.  This altitude in barren rock and startled heat before the storm.

This is rain you will not feel, like all the rain you will never feel again.  I cannot imagine a soul, pregnant with such promise, bending to that sickle free of will.  The effort leaves me ill.

I ride through it. A droplet teases the seething flesh on the back of my neck, evaporating in the salt already collected there. The roads roll on. I am lost. Below there are lolling hills, heavy with the grace of sun-ripening corn and an endless spill of think cotton leaves. They slide toward me in a silence that screams against the wiring of my wheels on wet asphalt.

You are not here now. Only remembered. A laugh as I suggest that you are right. Metallica is the best heavy metal band ever because of Nothing Else Matters. Few metal heads can make a symphony rock like that.  How could you forget?  Nothing else matters. Life is ours to live our way. Life was yours to live.

The roads ahead of me are all mere winding traces going somewhere uncertain, but certainly somehow the only eternity is riding on them.  Time means nothing, and nothing else matters, but a chance to continue. Suddenly, I know, this is a not about a ride in the country anymore.

Its not a ride to get over the loss of you. Life is mine to live.

On a bike, in worn out shoes, ragged shorts, and a beaten Ani DiFranco concert t-shirt proclaiming, "here comes naked little me," I have reached another existence.  I am in the heart of grief, savoring something that feels like life. It is without promise or rules, offering only choices. I continue. I ride through it astounded. Frightened at the ease of it. Guilty for seeing through the complexity without you.

How could you forget? But I remember.  That is all that matters, and I am comforted by that simplicity.

The wind roughs the edges of my ears and slaps against my cheek, encouraging me as I turn east out of treacherous terrain toward the valleys of green.  Broad black top spills downhill over the down-lands in a hurry.  All there is. I ride through it.  Nothing else matters.

The view from the top of the ride.

Safe Haven Sanctity

"Elusive as blood moonlight."

On the dance floor

we are all created 

equally impetuous,

eager to move,

caught up 

in the rhythm and the lights.

There is only one kind of down 

beat we seek

on the dance floor

free of beat downs.

Life is

Enough

on the dance floor.

The tradition

as old as war
as stark as battle.

The act serving
every function and phase
from anger and despair

to love and hope.
Anything floats
howling
on the sonic boundaries
amid audial tides
because the dancing is a truce among souls,
a guaranteed right of asylum
for a second to seek mindfulness
as apparent yet elusive
as blood moonlight.

Dancing
is a sacred temple
in the darkest night,
where we thumb our noses at death and blight,
if only for a few measures
meandering in the beat
hearing our heart
pound at the tips of our fingers
with right now in hand.

No matter how many terrorists toss the place,
shattering lives like bullets,
some things cannot be robbed
point blank.
We will rise to the tempo,
shimmy, sway, swing,
and pop-n-lock
no matter what the threat is cocked.

We have no better choice,
no safer haven
even under fire.

We will dance.
It is as imperative
to our existence
as having a pulse.