Sweet Milk Redux

Back in 2015, I wrote a poem while listening to a song, which I often do.

Tonight I recorded it:

 

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To a Lost City.

I am myself,
And you are the past
Yet, there are nights when I cry in a rain-filled mudhole,
Wildly calling out,
For the two we were –
Four with the dogs –
For they don’t make ’em better than us four,
I’ll tell you that

If only you or I could have accepted our small, struggling life –
A life of nothing promised –
How hard that is,
It decided our seemingly little fates

As for me, I got the dream writing life, in the mountains
It fell in my lap –
And you were gone
The four, now one

But I can’t shake it,
The lifetime we lived,
It was mine, it was real
And I’ll always be wildly missing it,
Carrying it with me

Our map back to the great lost city,
Of Lawrence and Sarah

Avatar Master

There are two main pieces of me:
The boy, a child-god, who lives on the inside
And the man, an animal, who lives on the outside;
The boy, omnipotent yet a god, imaginary…
The man, capable yet a man, flesh…
The age old question:
How to reconcile these opposites (The magical and the rational), which often pull us apart, unhealthily, for years,
Lifetimes…
I think it starts with consciously integrating these archetypes into our self – as our poles:
The Anakin and the Obi Wan,
The puer (or puella) and the senex:
The eternal boy and the wise old man (or woman) –
The two opposing modes of self, which, if left unconscious, inevitably live at odds,
And are then felt only in the quiet pain of unspoken misery…
These two sets of energies express (In opposite directions or as a split within us) whether we are aware of their existence and influence or not…
To bring them into consciousness, to open the possibility for a truly symbiotic, regenerative dynamic of self,
This is the begenning of something mystical, healing
Like the power-filled magical interplay of male and female selves made conscious…
Puer and senex are not mere metaphors to understand but deep-seated truths [realities] to be lived,
Powers to be used,
Life forces to be loved, felt, expressed, and cared for, in the sum we call “I” – But united, whole, and undividedly honest;
For the boy deserves a real life and the man deserves outer security,
And so they must exist consciously with one another,
In the service of the living one,
Who, slave no more,
Becomes their diety,
Avatar and master.

For Money We Do.

I burned all my walking sticks tonight, like old crutches

And I burned a book called The Veneral Game too
This, also, literally
It sells for $187 on amazon
Value is subjective, truly
I found the book not worth the paper it was on
And I’m glad I burned it,
Because, had I known what it sold for, I would have sold it

A betrayal of values
But for money, we do

LMFAO.

Bosom Promise / Transient Coyotes, Home: Unafraid.

I met the coyotes,
Past two days

Today I was out deep –
Knew it was deep when the grade got steep –
Met two in a thicket,
Tall as wolves
Their heads turned (For me!),
And I yelled, “Git, skat! Skidaddle!” LOL…
And I turned back down the mountain,
Away from their territory

But they’ve been with me since, goddamnit they have

As yesterday, when I alone, to the east, and he alone, to the west, passed,
In silent gaze, amazement
Mutual caution, timeless wildness,
He like me, Me like he:
Loners, Transient Coyotes
Both with our reasons

That bosom promise of a den we’ve never seen,
Which calls us to go on, nobly enough – unafraid.

Postscript:

I dream of them, in their den tonight, living as they have for millenia – and I think of them out there, and I think of me here – and there’s something connected – this great metaphor of the wild-masculine and the journey back home, to wholeness, to the den-heart and all that matters. But also, the boldness of going it alone to get there – but also of being here, of knowing that on my way home is also home.

TBD

A person asks who they are,
Who might they become…
And years are lost this way,
Spent in abstact thought rather than concrete action

To declare ourselves
As hero and author of our story,
In deed rather than word,
Is to know we are not who we think we are
But what we are, as we have made ourselves.

Satan’s Loneliness

Woke to a map of Mexico on my desk
Newton’s world on my chest…

I am a satan to myself,
The immortal adversary
Irrational, passionate –
My most potent emotions my lowest, the finer qualities still wanting…
Would she be lucky?
My exes hate me
But now I want to know,
Genuinely want to know
What about what I was or what I wasn’t was that bad,
What made my qualities irredeemable,
What made me dead, ?lo que me mató?

I’m out here trying to birth a gentleman from wild west genetics
The pestilent past, full of fuckery, unspiritual things
And now these chips on my shoulder, these pieces of me,
How will they be turned to advantage,
How will the way out be written, seen
And will I have to die to myself too?

Are these past lovers just that classy and me that trashy…
Me not worth knowing
It’s a goddamn crime;
I wanted to be free so I pretended I didn’t have a shadow, and in doing so,
Gave myself one

So I have to figure out how to remember I’ve been forgotten,
So I don’t get lost;
For what is unconscious posesses us, and the light doth sanitize
And what writer was ever a simple lover but a bad one
Maybe I’m supposed to be as polyamourous as my gods
But I am not meant to be forgotten, killed off in your finale, cast down from your heaven;
I baphomet, serpent of the garden,
Know the loneliness of the exile that is hell

FountainHeart

The house is dripping moonlight
The fire pops and snaps softly..
Manipura healing music ensconces me

How easy to be zen when the dao is with us
But we must too learn to hold space for the dao in less daoist conditions

Your whole life is the way, the path,
Even your work, even the things you do not want to do
But we must learn to bring our hearts to them, for where the heart is, the way is with.

Don’t Fucking Suffer, Son

Spent my whole life getting laughed at –
Thought love was where life was at:
So I found myself last,
Till I found myself at last –
Now I’ve finally passed my own past

I returned to innocence in a sense
But I also got Belly opening scene with my big dick energy

Like Cardi B:

You can’t fuck with me, if you wanted to…

But listen, you can be your own hero too
So save yourself and let everyone else be themselves

It’s worth it….
Don’t fucking suffer, son
Because life gets fun,
When you love number one

So say it:

I deserve my dreams…
I deserve my dreams.

33, Reminder

It took 33 years for me to learn that emotional security is the center of my cyclone,
And that without it I am simply detached and disconnected,
On the spin cycle
Off-balance,
Like a sneaker in the dryer.. tha-thud, dud-dud…

Emotional security,
Not financial –

For Maslow’s pyramid is inverted for artists and creatives..

I speak from experience when I tell you your pity is not wasted on the sad sonofabitch for whom creativity, actualization, and being are her bedrock and cornerstone

Took me 33 years to figure this out

Imagine living in a machine built to spit out the lowest paying job you are qualified for,
Wherein you loathe the activity that extracts 70% of your waking hours,
Only to leave you worrying for the remainder

Take this as a reminder:

Don’t worry.

Be secure.

Own your time.

Be kind.

Don’t take shit.

And give a fuck about Yourself.