POETRY
The standing and running homeless man,
tattered clothes falling off his body
naked below the waist
in the frigid afternoon
I walked a mile before running out of options
The standing and running homeless man,
leaping from sidewalk to sidewalk
with nothing to claim
but himself
directing the sacred to me
I found left over scraps of food on the train
The standing and running homeless man
leaving his clothes and empty cart,
in front of the business
with the wind at his moving pace,
retracing his self-connection to a moment out of time
I talked to Edward and James in their shelterless sanctities
I listen to mindfulness on the computer
after conflict
and never return
to who I’m supposed to be,
absorbing the sun
with the other side
of the standing and running homeless man.
pg. 1
I am
with the squirrel
who leaps,
rapidly winding it’s tail
up and down
catching the peace
of the forest
in its hands,
with the acorn.
As wars and struggle persist,
the silence in this tree
the countless pine needles on the earth
the constant will to thrive
find me
finding simplicity.
pg. 2
The wooden bench
I sat on
under the all encompassing sky
before your death.
The wooden bench we sat on
in the lack of time.
Me
back
to that wooden bench
older,
standing by myself
watching the waves
hurl into one another
like each crescendo
immediately eliminates
illusion after illusion
bluer than blue
sounding like
the purity of
foaming white, gray and green,
throwing
sand, pebbles, shells and rocks
around
like impermanence’s hand
holds mine
like a standing ovation
to the arena of realization
underneath the sand.
The togetherness
the twenty years
the suffering
the meteor shower we saw
the understanding…,
“The journey of a thousand miles
begins with the first step.
pg. 3
We are
death
birth
in between-
vague, foggy cellars of mud
but you talk about hope;
the hope for something better
while in it’s essence
is a rabbit-hole cause
that sculpts finite expectations
that are not in the Now
I
am
not a catalog
in this catalogued
right-wrong mind-verse.
I’m
like the leaves of a tree in the fog
near the ocean as transferrable as
water
like broken guitar strings
once a playing phenomenon
sitting on the train,
leaving Mexico City
heading back to California
and he tells me of a home
he made of snow and ice
standing stranded
in a no-where land,
with minus degree air
battering him,
while tempering his survival with
self proclaimed, inner-unbroken strength
and imagination,
like
a circular feast served freely.
pg. 4
In the tunnel tonight
are trees,
and lights
in the year of isolation and suffering-
I am this time
and find
a barren park
filled with
silence
like the source of all things
reclaimed
the mass of the womb
that now lies dormant again.
In the tunnel tonight,
are explosions
implosions
in the year of dead bodies
lying inside of time
finding this over-crowded park
we used to stroll in
changed like never before,
awakened and shut down
like the source of all things
has to reclaim
equanimity
and activate
wrinkles of peace
on populations of faces
wondering if tears are temporary shells...
or
the profound
flowing
and
stretching
hands
touching each vibration of
their freed voices singing
to George Floyd; “You didn’t die in vain”.
pg. 5
While the hours are heavy,
the violence seems to never stop
the seeds of compassion
don’t get sown enough
into our inner-grounds of honor
the planet heats up and disasters
swim all around
like fear being inhaled
without being able to exhale
creating
surreal, sped-up deaths
packaged on roads
that no longer
go anywhere
while what underlies is
You
Me
and Us,
at the core
like
untying the noose
of racism
to dissipation,
as the path to take.
pg. 6
If i told you
that the world
is filled with mystery,
I’d tell you
about the Black Crow
out
in the blue, morning sky
flying swiftly
with raw and sheer power
generating
immersive impact
that goes
from flight to sight
from imagining to imagined
from part to whole
like a pool of
rippling pauses
dipping into
the observance
of transition,
isolation
instant appreciation
when night comes
in the different-same symphony.
pg. 7
The starving children on a hill
squatting nearby our table
while we ate
while we gave
what was left
they came and licked every crumb
off the plates
barely able to smile to
one more day
living the life of poverty
as my parents’, parents, parents
once crawled from
or yours
or theirs
or somebodies
or my husband’s.
On top of a similar hill
he offered me an orange
as love gives to love
and I accepted
with an unchartered embrace
like the history
of our dried ashes
scattered
to the future
to the technology of wisdom
to the rarity of each passing moon lit phase
in Air
in Transparency
in Vulnerability.
pg. 8
In the daylight
amidst the traffic,
a white butterfly roams from side to side
and then is gone
amidst the drive home, rushing- rushing
a deer with magical looking antlers
leaps over the sidewalk and runs out of sight
at timeless speed
amidst the freeway
where a river used to flow
now representing
domination and greed
a red shouldered hawk flies on the other side
into the wild brush
and then steadily glides away.
In the daylight, when out of the blue,
I acknowledge I don’t know anything
yet
and
at the same time
I think about the song
I want to sing and pass on
rather than delete
and live in fear.
pg.9
Standing up for the abused women
Sheltering their unsheltered traumas
raising humanism back in the air
to a country, a system, a farce
of forced rape in action,
murder
making unnatural torture a
foregone consciousness…
a turnstile that goes round and round to madness.
Where is she now?
Where are we now?
Where is the core
of peaceful giving and kindness
like the rain
like the sun
that thrives?
pg. 10
She had some unresolved
lying,
some real
self-hate
like having a friend you want to impress
drop you off at someone else’s posh house
rather than yours
too embarrassed of your background
waving good bye, like you mean it
when you’re really walking
towards an aspect of yourself
who you’ve not met until now.
She had some time to kill and
resolved to let her ego go,
lying in torrential change.
pg.11
Today.
The rain
dropped
like
the final tears
in the crash
of her life
I knew
and lived through…
the
Japanese Maple tree
heard this
and
grew
glowing
red
leaves.
Today.
pg.12
I heard the owl hooting in two’s
with intermittent gaps
placing me back in time
to when my five year old nephew’s
first poem
about the candle
lighting his mind’s imagination
while the electricity was out
blew me away
like the power of the ocean’s waves crashing
and then calmingly
washing up against me
with soft lulls
of settled, swooshing water at my feet
standing on the shore
placing me back further in time
I remained awake
while sleeping
In the unchartered womb
of not wanting to be born
until I remained
In this chaos
feeling everything
like the sanctity of breath
like sustenance is collapse
and collapse is the first ray
of peace
fertilizing the carefreeness
of wanting nothing,
to the epitome of my wake.
pg. 13
What if suffering
is really the beauty
of the clearest night
like the north star outside my apartment
that I see
when washing and drying my clothes
in the laundry room
what if every thing is perception
and yet perception isn’t everything
like a walk I once took
that was perfect
because I accepted myself
as imperfect
what if there’s no if
and only
the certainty of constantly letting go
of life and death
releasing inherent love
to
being touched
by stepping slowly in the multi colored patch
of weeds
presenting you to you.
pg.14
“The sun setting into a point of absoluteness
fears not of being misunderstood
fears not of being missed
fears not of being overlooked
because its origin is unspoken…”
I saw this
when I heard
silence
while stranded on a highway I’d never been
like the past
bleeding in to wisdom
erasing time.
pg. 15
She
walks
into
the feeling of water
slowly and gently
going and coming
one that never ends nor begins
She
sees through the stars-
the brightest one
of the night
sinking into
ego
less
ness
like illumination
is a meditation
that
extends beyond the imagination
of alley ways and grave sites
She
finished
existing in real time,
transforming malice
through vision
Into compassion
unconditionally
like Daughters of Copper Woman.
pg. 16
The cold night,
feels like clapping emaciated survivors
maybe even yelling
“Why didn’t I have a chance to have food and shelter” .
The cold night
shone on me, as deep as the seasonal changes,
sounds of nature…
the dynamic swoosh when the geese land
the yapping until the coyotes are at the center of their land
the owl in the brush, making vibrational rhythms
the bobcat staring at me before I fully opened
my heart
The cold night
fading
coming
the longer I sit with it
the longer I reconcile my emotional bruises
that once were abrupt and all over the place
that once were a slap in the face,
like shadows bumping into each other
until confusion
is what I finally understood
Is understood by
everyone
The cold night
in the snow
that my sleep is awakened by.
pg. 17
And I knew then,
after living in the midst
of the canyon’s grace
and power,
dying again and again
and again,
like a prayer, mantra
or affirmation,
that it wasn’t so hard to lie down
and die one more time
like an opinion to hate
gets mixed with love
on a bathroom wall
becoming art…
removing separation
like all the hues of red gold and pink
run with the chemistry of the sun
rising and setting
in impermanence
like the last time
you’ll ever speak
only to truly exist
as infinity.
pg. 18
The gray fog
seals the sun’s light
for a little while
to allow
peacefulness
to allow
breath
like the virtue of
reflection
like driftwood
that’s been collected
for a greater purpose
like the woman
who gave a carved wooden angel
to a stranger
who lost everything
in a fire
and said,
“Collective consciousness
is a necessity
for harmony
and loss
to be a
stepping stone,
that unlocks compassion.”
like drawing circles
in the sand,
learning to dance to
unexpected rhythms.
The gray fog
seals the sun’s light
for just a little while more
like me for just a little while more
washed up on the shore
unapologetically lost.
pg. 19
The Cricket
on the sidewalk close to the park
lying on it’s back
trying to turn to live
I saw
maybe it was Christ, the Buddha or the child
playing on the jungle gym learning to laugh
instead of cry.
The Cricket
on the sidewalk close to the park
with a limp and not able to move
trying to not try
I saw
and chanted to it
gently moving it over
to find it permanently
injured
to find me permanently
caring
in
the physical, spiritual
and expanded
world
of
no context
but purity
no context
but connection
no reason
but equanimity
and chanted
“we are all important
when we are free to feel
this moment through love.”
pg. 20
An Addendum to the invention of
Western attachment…
“the chaos from
colonialism
doesn’t have to be our reality
only the habit to work in this
chaos and believe this is us,
destroys ”…
whispered in my fatigue, stress and loss
of self…
as loudly and profoundly
as the ocean’s moving roar
like shedding skin and despair
into compost
into inner light
driving fear,
the epitome of chaos,
Into evaporation
…and opened my attachment
of hating myself
because of what I learned
and how I passed that on,
not because of who I am.
Who I am is kindness
who my seen and unseen
sisters, brothers, fathers, mothers
around the planet
and life
are…
related to
pure
living
dying
transforming
transcending energies
stretching not knowing
to dance effortlessly
with understanding
a forceless and wide open space. pg. 21
Here.
The salty air
the wind blowing
the Oyster Catcher returning
that I walk alongside
and across
the Pacific Ocean
steeped in
songs of water dances
of sea otters in and out of waves
of pelicans and diving cormorants
of caves carved by erosion
in and out of the sun
of a landmark Cypress tree,
it’s branches
extending towards everywhere
after the rain.
The extraordinary
beauty
is
a living gift
that never dies
that always creates
that is mindfulness.
Here.
pg. 22
Breaking
the floods of pain apart
with
less
and less
less
and less
of myself
like no self
bargaining with silence
to make sense of loneliness
In the middle of a dust storm
entering the loom…
women
understanding
what weaving means,
hand-stitched evolutionary love
butchered to death by dominators
except not their origin
and purest strength,
the Earth,
unbreakable.
Selfless,
the hardest thing to be
circulates
learning
trying
discovering.
pg. 23
Going slow
like when I clenched my hands
and broke down in disbelief
after my brother and mom
said my sister was dead
while the rain poured down
while the empty and sterile
hospital room
bore isolation
stacked on top of more of the same
at 15 years old
at no years old
at the dismissal of the inevitability of pain,
a place that lasted for decades
until it crumbled.
Going slow,
like the enveloping smell of mint
on the mountainsides
that guided my reflection
of depression
through the ultimate understanding
of conflict…
Oneness
a place that mirrors this moment.
Going slow,
like the tarantula in the dead of the heat
in the middle of the desert
in the vastness of scarce life
where peaceful influence originates
from the natural elements,
and awakens something within
me
which feels as though
stillness
is a supernatural teacher
on a dirt trail
emptying the shopping carts
of terrorism of self
of domination of family
of madness of culture.
pg. 24
A way to start
a sentence
about my life
when the moon isn’t visible
and the letters of inescapable sadness
are,
travels inside unlikely places
that seem unimaginable,
confusing at first
like when the rake got put to the side
and the lonely leaves still came together
after my father took his last breath
wandering farther and farther
away from the automatic routines
of regret for countless mistakes no child
can parent
getting closer to the heart.
A way to open up a sentence about my life,
like the ten thousand deaths
I’ve gone through
like the visible full moon I saw
while the blood coming from my brother’s
neck bled, bled and bled
until two p.m. in the morning
stumbling into the vortex
and dropping fear
into
the
depths of me
only to discover I’m energy before, during
and after
dancing to a healing beat
in the dark, calm, soundless Goddess.
pg. 25
Walking
standing still
walking
landing lightly
like a dream that isn’t,
reflects something
I’ve seen countless times
but for the first time
today.
Nay
but a
Canada Goose
skimming along
the entire surface
of a small lake,
egoless and strong,
with graceful speed,
the kind that knowingly
leaves imagination
In the atmosphere
like the presence
of a rainbow,
taking it’s movement
to a level of wholeness
like
a spacious freedom
born from the tendency
of the Fall.
pg. 26
“Let it go”
she said to me
“Let what go”
I replied
“The pattern of holding on to negativity”
She whipped at me, like a dagger sharpened by fright
“So now I’m the problem”
I thrusted out with anger and misunderstanding
“When you let the past be your ruler, Yes”
she precisely spoke,
moving away
until I couldn’t see her anymore
until I couldn’t see myself anymore
but just emptiness,
the kind that leaves you in shock
about losing everything,
getting up at 1 am
and crying at
not being able to pay the rent
or for remembering only one side
because it’s tangled
In the illusion
of
clashing
obligational dogma that isn’t yours to keep
“What’s the point”
I brutally said to her
“The point is
that there is none”
“The point is
let whatever
it is,
go.
let your echoes
be
sounds
of self reflection in your mountain.”
pg. 27
Trees in the green grass
of nourishment and compassionate shade
of what’s always been there…
glistening, healing growth in the sun
and forests of peace.
Trees in the green grass
mentoring life lines
like the Valley of Sand Dunes and me
merging with the ocean
while the wind carried
us
to sit and be
to something greater,
from the sand grain
to the particles in the air the dragonfly
travels through.
Trees in the green grass
to sit and just be
without judgement.
pg. 28
Amid the morning stirrings
the ocean crashes all around
I am with it.
Many others are waiting for me…
the Void
depthless
weightless
and especially
a Shooting Star
falling on my formless spirit.
I am not separate
from living inside a cave and living
in the unfamiliar.
The rocks, the sand, the voices of the wind
and branches bending down
bathe my birth with death and
bathe my death with birth
bathe the beautiful unknown that I am.
pg. 29
The grayish-white, thick fog,
I walk through its immeasurable width
and rise into
tears of harmony
that took years to absorb.
My own temporariness
that lies in the king waves
parallels forces of nature.
This day comes to me
as a broken freedom
that feels like
opaque blood in my veins
only to pass.
Some change that’s not really change
always has been
like meditating on a blade of grass
in the storming wind
comes through
the grayish-white thick fog…
comes as an understanding that I’m
not alone, as I’d like to think.
pg. 30
In being
human
are many different trails.
Mine led to an inner pulse
free of bias
letting anyone or thing
move, move, move, move, move
be, be, be, be and just be
as an embrace from someone you love
simultaneously
goal-less
abundance
coexistence.
Coexistence is abundance.
Little did I know
way back when
the sandstorm that pelted and blinded me
would grow into a feeling
of a cosmic and wise web
that’s been here forever
within many different trails.
pg. 31
You and I
where do we begin,
In Los Angeles
In Las Vegas
In the womb
In the sunset’s loom
In the theater
In the movie
In the classroom
in the book
In the cemetery
In the family we shared over time
In the church
In the song
In your Prayers
In the laughter after our internal storms
In your living chapters
In my living chapters
In the absent chapters we dreamed about
In “I have a Dream”
In your Pastor
In my pastures
In our human caves of compassion
In our human mountains of love
In our last time together
before you left the material world?
With Realizations.
pg. 32
With love to my ears
with listening to this moment of
the selfless body
the singing birds
the walk in the storm before the storm
before there was a before.
Their trills and melodies
in the willow, sedge, cat tail, oak, and redwood wild
beckon universal connectivity
break down falseness.
Listening to a million miles past a million miles
Is filled
with no bias
because there is no agenda
because there is no telling
the wind to stop drifting along.
pg. 33
There isn’t any word that death hasn’t heard
There isn’t any hum that the bio diversity in Big Sur hasn’t sung
There isn’t any lesson the sand hasn’t been blown by
There isn’t any wave whose crescendo can’t follow or break
There isn’t any tree who stands alone
There isn’t any me who lives in a vacuum
The only direction is everywhere
The only direction is healing
The only direction is getting lost and feeling.
pg. 34
Art is being excited to be alive
regardless of hatred, loss and ignorance
regardless of the heated, rocky limitations of health
In our naked strength that
I witnessed…
you,
lying in your fecal matter unable to move
me not understanding your physical decay
but facing this temporary moment with honesty.
Art is being timeless
wherever you are
in the iterations of a yellow-five petaled wildflower
on the mountain connected to the ocean
connected with
and out of the natural rhythm of seasons
like an exquisite dance that lasts for a second.
pg. 35
I want to get up from this table,
walk out
and never return to this wheelchair,
to what I can’t do
forgetting everything
losing everything
The drive down the coast,
the silence of love
without any effort,
stopped and got out
saw the river flowing
while two saddened figures
turned into
the landscape
and went to the table they used to despair
turned it around
in a circular motion
until their homeless medicine
went back into the earth
like the willing experience of
of a story.
pg. 36
The trip took them to never enough time to go through pain.
The ocean rested deeply with clarity
and they said,
“I wish I could go swimming
I love the water
I have no time”
their crying slipped into
the sun and clouds and stayed in their proximity
the dolphin they saw
was the sea lion they saw
was the constant movement they felt
where their journey once had been
waking up on
the old hillside
with the bus arriving at humidity’s pace,
sweat on everybody and nobody
speaking in foreign internalizations
without understanding what they were about.
So pain continued and went through to who knows where
then reappeared in a needle’s eye
held by a peace maker
exploding into awareness
with no desire to hide
the endless depth of brilliance
blowing their war zones into
a woven swim in a timeless stoke of trust.
pg. 37
The Visit.
The Artist’s Mentor
thirty years later
screaming at the top of her lungs,
throwing herself against the wall
and letting anger rage and rage and rage
fueling another reality that no one understands
but experiences with her,
and the soothing shadows in the bright sunlit room.
The Dream after we go.
The friend,
loved by everyone
and dying
like the rest of us
who do not know what comes next.
The Summer-less season.
The vacation
that turned into a funeral service
while the hawk landed next to their sadness
communicating to one soul
that transformation
is the other corner we stand on.
The Awakened Breath.
You stood there in a pink paisley shirt
glowing
with the purity of water and light
not dependent on time,
saying hi to me
not married
not writing
not fearing
smiling, standing, carefree
like the breeze growing into tomorrow.
pg. 38
September
let my heart travel to the sky.
The deep, loud and penetrating hooting
from a close distance
drew me towards the tall Cypress tree.
The Great Horned Owl flew
from one branch to another tree
like the vibration
of a sacred power
shaking off the dust of existence
humbling me.
I stood below, bowing to this moment
while all of a sudden
a shooting star came and went
as clearly as the naturalness of impermanence,
as lasting as imagination.
September
I wish,
let my indiscreet love for the wisdom of pain
travel no less
than the
coexistence of the wild
that we are…
the vibration of a sacred power
that’s egoless.
pg. 39
There are so many things we don’t know and can’t see
Miracle
There are so many drops of rain that last forever in the heart
of human memories
during a drought
Miracle
There’s a feeling when you touch a stone that
listens to humanity cry
like the migrations it made to find you
holding each other in the sun
Miracle
There are steps I climb after dying of homelessness
In the mind
Miracle
There is a pupil of suicide,
Goddess knows where they learned from,
that later
lived in silence in a cave and died
naturally of joy instead
Miracle
There’s nothing left to hold on to
Miracle.
pg. 40
Winding down,
the sunset,
blazing
orange
Winter
infinite strip
across the ocean
across the break
from rain
across my stride
across eighteen years
of dying and laughing pain.
Bright black,
wind of silence
in the earth
in me
like my own self
is everything
in the depth of
light
winding and winding
the music of love
to play
out in nature
where we began
and where
we remain
while
always moving
in harmony
no matter how many times
we’re blown apart.
pg. 41
In my vision, I exclaimed, “hey there” to my ancestors.
The other people
and the rest of the people
joined hands
and danced
like a
dust storm laughing
and
erupting in the dark
like
the girl
climbing the rocky caves
going up
only to fall to the bottom
learning to crawl
with healing languages
alive
and feeling
the pulse of love
the pulse of hovering
moments of rays
lifting life and death
like something always never was
that is a planet.
pg. 42
Take note of
I
Feel my steps
I
Take note of
the light of night
the full moon on the lake
the light of day
the sun on the ocean
Take note of
voices
who no longer need dimensionality
and are unconcerned by conventions
She
my mother,
“Look at the shimmering movement,
like diamonds dancing on the surface of water,”
me,
“What’s underneath and inside?”
Take note of
the Way,
as the sun is fading
as the night is arriving
as the night is leaving
as the sun is coming
for the natural cycles are the breathes we take
without bloodshed, without war, without ego,
without hatred, without blame
but with the organic legacy
of acceptance, awe and depth
Take note of.our
unfathomable human kindness
looking
finding
finding
looking
In the tree.
pg. 43
Rounding out the run
the run that never ends
never changes anything
why does she do this again
and again…
after she cried in fear
on the old worn out rug
in the dark
alone
like the responsibility
of marrying life
shiny on the outside
very disastrously
unclear on the inside
the real poverty was some
mysterious
shame
she’d been born into without
knowing it’s origin
Rounding out the birth-death life
in a dream,
the snakes formed a totem pole
In the center of a circle
and she awoke to the
difference
of not running away
from not knowing
and clinging to something that’s
not who she is and
opened her hands,
for the first
time
in her human history to choice.
The pale-lemon yellow five petaled
wild flower on the mountaintop
she saw
was the moment of truth.
pg. 44
Green,
the rich and painful lessons
when you fade and there’s
no familiar
hand to hold
anymore
but change
the spaces between
your comings and goings
dependent
on how we treat
the earth
of ancient and present universes
Interlocked with love
that dehumanizing laws
may try to deny
Deep, deep
High, high
Side, Side
The interlocked love
is what color is,
round and alive as can be.
pg. 45
The faces in the light shining through
the glass windows on the second story
of the church
burst into it’s own sun
set
set
and let set
beyond places or things
becoming the real living
not afraid to be invisible rites of passage
based in the simplicity of
what the walk is all about;
continual explosions intermixed
with continual unknowns
of cracks, fissures and collapses
on the journey of peace
breaking through the illusory House
of the faces of war,
born and bred to lust fear
at all costs.
Ready or not,
facing your face is inevitable.
pg. 46
Hanging down from the bench
where I loved you
I let myself change
when you died
and shared letting go
with the ocean’s view
looking back at me
and everyone else
like a motion of benign
power
that morphs into countless
elements
beyond comprehension
to the silence in a life
of rocks, pebbles, sand and love,
comprehending
comprehending
comprehending
the purpose of ripples.
pg. 47
Palm tree,
car passing by
dogs barking
nobody walks
somebody walks
laundry being carried down the street
to the nearest laundromat
It’s closed
it’s not open
It’s open
it’s out of business
the lights are burned out
the focus isn’t anything
the memories are gone for good
the next door neighbor moved
and left their baggage at your doorstep
the address is unknown
the place isn’t a place anymore
finding yourself starved
finding a beach you’ve never been to
finding a lost art and letting it go
finding that you don’t have directions
to your destination
and getting into your shapeless skin
anyway
reversing the finite
to on and on and on
and on
until your breath is
something different
that’s never the same
as tangible and mysterious as
the metamorphosis of a butterfly.
pg. 48
The rays of light
circular and everywhere
is seen In one spot of the forest
The native
Waterfalls
channeling
Into the ocean,
like gravity colliding with snow flakes
but are more like
true freedom of expression
to me and the Buddha statue
sitting on a rock with a plateau
always balanced and standing
always reading connections.
The quietude of green earth brown
red
blue
yellow
vibrate back to
the rays of light
like mutually consenting
synchronizations
beyond explanations
rooted in rootless dimensionality
rooted in the human
stepping into nature
the nature
stepping into the human.
The rays of dying
burn attachment down to the now
circular and everywhere.
unseen and sacred
like a tree in the dessert
but more like
the seeds of change growing into
awareness.
pg. 49
There you are,
there you aren’t
blind as blind can be
more than more can give
tasting like when you fell in the shower
bleeding, not able to get up,
me horrified by your pride
only
to turn around as if an endemic chant
was born and raised from within our soil
that helped me help you
that helped you help me
while in this midst of what we once knew
evaporated before our eyes
who we were is no longer who we are
we tumble and fall
fall and tumble to no where
we scream and divorce
we hold each other when we don’t
know what else to do
who we were is no longer who we are
that’s where the transcendence lives
that’s where the broken bench
that got blown away
with us on it realized
we are not who we are without
what love we can give
like the peach colored roses outside
your hospital bed looking at you,
looking at me,
never to stop growing beauty in the veins
of intention.
pg. 50