July 2011


Collide becomes

invitation

on the porch at 5 am.

 

Monkeys howl

as the shadow of night recedes.

No search for answers

but silence at dawn.

 

3 weeks ago

I wanted to leave,

every cell in my body

pushing for relief.

 

Today there is Wind

that moves the highest branches.

Last night I lay on the hardwood floor

listening to Rain, feeling the rush of air,

mesmerized by skin.

 

The paths that have widened

since my arrival,

showing more clearly what is outside

what is in.

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The Punk and the Sublime

learn to ration

experience thru time.

I can say

there is much I don’t like

about the jungle.

The humidity
the ringworm, staph infection, and tick.
Smelling like unbaked bread…
The wildness in living that I’m unaccustomed to
-the tarantula on the fridge two nights ago
the snake eating the fog in Marc’s room
The things that bite that I have no name for.
Yet,
there is a youth here.
A vibrance that
in the desert is distilled
as if living is only a memory.
We grow younger
like the children of Pan.
Louder and more animated
We hear
the invitations of water
speaking thru land….
of the living.
The dreams arise.
Creatures bring wisdom…
Our lives give way to
living.
We cohabitate with the Sublime.
Bones
crushed
begin
to bare fruit.
Marrow thru skin
and bone
the mixture, the medicine,
the point of reference
the return.
The flesh to bones
that experience the staph,
the tick, the mosquitos and their kin.

Its hard to put into words thesemoments

Entering the kitchen at 3:38 am
slowly coming around the fridge
heading for the bathroom
silently checking the kitchen
for
toads, jungle mice, have the traps been sprung?
in the bathroom I search the floor and surrounding walls
bleary eyed for
scorpions, jumping spiders, the ants of unusual size
or any thing that my cause me to jump from
my seat.
Its 5:30
day breaks
today I’m let in.
I spill thru the screen windows
to the earth
a marriage of sea and sky.
The sound of footsteps
my mind,
not afraid,
convincing me
are aliens or banditos
mingles with the rooster who crows
at ever hour except dawn.
Cool air drops to earth
again begins to rise.
It is still in this sound.
This screen so bright its like peering
past worlds thru cosmos into a distant
solar system that could forget the
termite nests and cicadas even exist.
We mingle here in sound and sensuality.
With the worlds we came from and
all beings we encounter.
All here for the performance of this lifetime.
Not always knowing but feeling who are we
who we are meant to be.
All time fused… we stop pulling apart
the breathing from the truth.
The words inside
and outside
seem to have stopped
colliding.

As I untie what it means to live,
my impulses give way to…….
“sit”.
I stare out the window from the kitchen table
until the symphony of sound gives way to light
then proceed to the Palapa
minding spiderwebs
grateful for this days lack of mosquitos.
In the Palapa I stretch to sit.
Sit to chant.
Chant to stare out into the presence all around me.
Symphony gave way to light
now light brings forth the day.
Back to house for coffee
to sit and write before the pond.
Lizards, tree frogs, and dragonflies.
Some how the desert seems
much less than worlds away…
even in these lushest of moments. .. ..
There is this part of me that always feels
I’m standing on this world somehow separate
from the nature all around me.
So telling in an environment like this
where the air permeates your being, and the land is so loud
that the constant desire to exhale sound could become a nervous twitch
should you not give in.
Even when I am in the ocean
I see further off its depths
and feel some how its mystery echoing inside me…
I guess … to say
I see the mirror that nature can provide is more accurate
than the alienation of never feeling submerged.
From pond to kitchen table…
keys under fingertips…
3 hours have passed.
I stretch and surface with my environment
leaving windows in time.
I am less and less alone,
my experiences are less and less simply mine,
and there is no distance between this moment and that…
the Palapa and the bench…
the kitchen table or my bed……
the ocean or the sand… this place or my mind.
The inner and outer worlds don’t collide but
remind me of my presence in time.

This morning is sublime,

an invitation

not like yesterday

riding my bike thru the rain in Cost  Rica

passing thru every lover with

pain, vision and tender longing.

Missing you……. though I don’t know who you are.

I have faces for you… masks

thru which I chose to see you peer.

Skin over bone, an invitation to marrow,

heart song and believing

in a nonexistent history.

I see thru eyes that show no passed as love or memory

A theory in evolution…. past does not exist

and when lived in causes disease of body,

turmoil of the mind, and sends the soul for a bounty

it can not collect.

Without a bent for any religious affiliation

I see the past as stories, lessons, not to be lived in.

Still I tie string to the rare gems creating photographs

for my heart that finds longing safer than leaving no

path behind.

Thinking Love is some place I need to again find

What will it mean to drop the weight of  believing that

anything is outside of me, and finally at last have nothing

left to hide… in moment or experience?

Exposed without defending any bodies of understanding.

It will still be sublime

me riding thru the rain

knowing my lovers for their essence

the essence of what was once longed for

its origin revealed and masks again used

for entertainment.

This is where the journal meets the road.

We begin with the bicycle along the Caribbean coast of Coasta Rica.

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