The mango trees and bamboo shoots
Grow thick with jungle light,
And yellow-blue birds flash their wings,
Cascading into night.

The stars that glitter deep above
Surround a dark-skied moon
And glow like silver instruments,
Humming light into tunes.

Sitting next to silk-tangled plants
the two immortal gods
Man Adam and the woman Eve
Passed days in sleepy nods.

Crowned in vines on green-gilded thrones,
The gods drank mango juice
While naming every animal
And giving each a use.

But one day Eve went for a walk.
With curiosity,
She pushed away the jasmine and found
A simple apple tree.

Its branches softly limped with fruit
That glistened with the wind.
Its little leaves floated whispers
Of light with every bend.

Behind the gate and summer leaves
Where life is short and harsh,
The first real human-being was Eve
To lead them through the dark.


A Dandelion’s Metanoia

Spring is born. The exhaling of winter
Into the thick grace of flowers and weeds,
Who grow from memory: silent splinter
Of inheritance, exulted crowds of seeds
One by one leaping from their old mothers
As unique and universal as Mars
And as broken and complete as lovers
Abandoned to the winter full of stars—
Their darkness-filled history like torches
In corridors with muted, longing flames—
Half-beaten, half-holy with scorches,
Forgetting all glory in frosted chains,
That breathed them in and smothered them in cold
To try and break them or make them be bold.

Having a Prophetic Dream

Is like being coaxed out of the shell
Butt first, hands pressing against the walls
As if wrapped in cotton, sliding until
Reaching air. Eyes blinking, gulping
Like gills in myopic waters,
The ebb and flow of memory before
The tension from being pulled
From the brown, familiar-smelling shell
Of wandering dreams, and though nothing
Or no one is to blame,
There is also nothing or no one to praise,
Looking left and right like an experienced doe
With her young before crossing the road.
A return to sleep, but uncovered
Open—seen and seeing like the Earth—that teeming,
One-eyed blue wilderness viewed from outer space
So at ease in herself with purpose
Like a friend, over lunch, letting you know she is pregnant.

Explain vs. Understand

Thoughts are like prayers.

Are you asking prayers of “Why?”

I did some thinking on the drive home after seeing a film, which I felt had no real emotional depth to it–no honest expression of an answer as to why we are here on this earth…

In my dissatisfaction, I saw myself as being a worthy person, rich in experiences of suffering–of rock bottoms. Someone who demands power in art. I want healing and catharsis.

If I don’t have an outlet to express the understanding I have from my own experiences as a human–a woman, on this planet, why did I have to go through so much?

But asking why is in reference to the past and the answers you get from a why question will also be rooted in the past. Potential is stunted. Asking “why am I suffering?” implies on a subconscious level “because I deserve it.”

This is the only sense a why question can bring with it. It’s a logic that can grow deep roots in our psyche and continue the patterns of suffering.

Logic is not the only answer. Our emotions are also important. And this changes the nature of the question we ask.

And that is how.

We are complex, but simple creatures who want to feel connection to ourselves, to come home. Asking “how” includes emotions in the conversation.

And asking, “how” provides a rich ground for realizations, insights, and wisdom–things that make life not just explained but instead understood.  And from understanding there is meaning and purpose to the suffering. There is the transcendence.

A God or Goddess will always be silent when you ask “why did this or that happened to me?”

Because “why” does not require you to embody your highest self. “Why” does not give meaning–only chaos, only more victimhood.

Instead of asking “Why am I suffering?,” ask:

“How am I suffering?”

It’s a gentle turning inward–of finding answers within because that is where your highest self lives and grows.

Perhaps it is just a matter of semantics.

But “why” can only give you answers of “because.”

Yet “how” can give you answers with all sorts of beginnings. Answers that are unique to you and your experiences.

Don’t Call Me Civilized

I should just admit it.
The Faith has worn off
Like sliding fire.

Do I want it back? To again build
Layer after layer of prayers?
But some storms will always wear away
A few layers, will knock in the roof.

And I must endure some months
Of a dripping ceiling, cold and wet,

And the beating of my heart, wild.
I must keep it from running out of the house.

My heart wants to chase
The thunder, rain, and wind,
To howl a prayer at every
Star, cloud, and moon
That I can.

To the Greedy Bastards

To the Bankers, Corporate Junkies, Oil Slicks, Wallstreet Wolves, Earth’s Cancer Dancers:

I’d love nothing more than to sit naked on your faces and press them into my vagina on the 2nd day of my period and remind you where you came from. The blood, the pain, the endurance, believe me, it will purify your souls, for that is where you’ll return when you die–you, Fuckers, just like everyone else.


Big Brother’s Big Sister also known as “Mother Earth,” Bitches

Today’s General Tone

Shifting cuts against
The plastic fury. A brownie sunk
In the grocery bag: The eye of the cyclops
At the mouth of its cave.
“Just a few more pounds
Instead of taking that walk,”
An inflammatory echo from the past. Heavy wooden
Stakes, soft at the bottoms from hushing
Pressure into the curve of my shoulders
Exhausted into silence…into the crooked arms of Time
Until the moon rose, steam-lifted from my coffee,
And my hands, itching for an experience,
Swaddled it’s pock marked face
Into my arms until it took us home,
And I whispered, “Aren’t we both
Just perfect as we are?”