On What Is #8

I'm sick with a cold, and it feels like I'm a completely different person. Stuck, heavy, inert to the extreme. I wonder if the cold caused these feelings, or if the feelings made me susceptible to the virus.

Boogersnot Girl has a life of her own, a body of goo wiggling about inside my body. Mucking up emotions, heating the furnace, stirring the swamp-soup.

Boogersnot Girl isn't pretty and isn't polite. She sneezes and blows her nose and scratches and farts. Boogersnot Girl isn't interested in sex, doesn't take showers, and chews with her mouth open.

Boogersnot Girl doesn't want to talk to people. She just wants to be a swamp thing made of goo, permanently merged with the covers of my bed.

Is that so hard to understand?

On What Is #7

I was told by a psychic that rejection and betrayal are a part of my karma. I am apparently drawn to them like a moth to a flame. This is the first straw to break that camel's back.

I like cliches. So sue me. :D

Go ahead. Take this heart.
Stomp on it. Stomp it to death. Beat it to an unrecognizable, bloody pulp and throw it under the bus.

You will find that what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger.
And what does kill me, makes me stronger.

I will rise a thousand times from these ashes. I will dance wildly on my own grave. No one can keep me from this joyous communion, this passionate coupling for which I need no partner but my own soul.

On What Is #6

This poem is one I want to judge for being too melodramatic and emo, however, when I had finished writing it, I LITERALLY felt my body change. Every old wound, every screaming cell, every scar dissolved into pure heat and just ran down my spine and out through my feet into the floor.

A hundred thousand scars cover this body. A hundred thousand defeats in a world where a single defeat merits death. And I am still alive--if barely. A hundred thousand taut cords and wires bind this body to the grave.

A hundred thousand old wounds cry out to be reopened by the relentless knife of circumstance. Calling in more and more sin, more and more defeat, more and more death upon me.

The universe produces all that is requested and piles it on so high, so wide, so deep that a thousand friends could not lift the burden from me.

Yet one Friend can.

One grain of faith smaller than a mustard seed takes down every opposition, heals every wound.

On What Is #5

Home

Call in my home
As sunlight shines down around my prone body.
Kissing the earth,
I feel safe within here.
Safe deep within myself, from the life of the surface world, where I run, without stopping, for eternity, as though a tiger is constantly at my back.

Disconnect, and find the place of sunlight which you can never find by looking for it.

On What Is #2

I realized that the imaginary man I have been calling Makani is in fact something else entirely. I am just now getting to know who he really is, just scratching the surface. Is he an aspect of me, an aspect of the Divine, or both? Is there a difference?

Makani is two men.
He rides the wind through my heart and body, he touches the deep, dark, hurt places and sets the waterfalls flowing.
And yet he is a distant man with a harsh lesson, a man who kicked me off the pier into the ocean, a man who stays out of sight and out of reach while I wander in the wilderness alone to do the work I must do, to find the answers I must find.
The promise of his love is like an endless smile from heaven. He carries me to faith.
And he leaves me alone in the water to sink or swim.
He is the Beloved and he is my teacher. I know him intimately and I have just now met him.
Something is beginning.

On What Is #1

I've been inspired to write a series of poems on the current state of things--on loving and accepting exactly what is existing in the moment. Here goes~

The bottom has fallen out of me. I am a cup overturned, a gaping abyss. All falls through.
Can't hold on to a thing.
The walls clutch tight, uselessly.
Lava under pressure rises up my spine.
All is in motion.
Nothing is certain.
I dance in the void with my Divine Mother.