Stay Shook.

Recently finished reading “Saints and Madmen” by Russell Shorto.

Basically asks the question, why is something considered a mystical spiritual experience in some places…. and a psychotic episode in America / the Western world ? (and how do we change that?)

Very very interesting.  Apparently there was a revolution to look at psychiatry through a more spiritual lens at one time, but I gotta tell you when I was in the hospital that was CERTAINLY not the case. 

Also the book delves into the topic of psychedelic drugs as well.

Always find myself thinking of Rumi, when it comes to madness as a religious experience.  Here is one for you.

Shreds of Steam

 Light again, and the one who brings light.
Change the way you live.

From the ocean-vat, wine-fire in each cup.
Two or three of the long-dead wake up.
Two or three drunks become lion hunters.

Sunlight washes a dark face.
The flower of what is true opens in the face.
Meadow grass and garden ground grow damp again.
A strong light like fingers massages our heads.
No dividing these fingers from those.

Draw back the lockbolt.
One level flows into another.
Heat seeps into everything.
The passionate pots boil.
Clothing tears inot the air.
Poets fume shreds of steam,
never so happy as out in the light.

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saltwater

it took decades
to sharpen your spine
into something that
doesn’t crack on the
high notes

now surrounded by
 eight octaves of pain
through the crescendo of a
phone call

(her daughter is in a coma, it would not be
prudent to
even
visit
stay home
they say

stay
home)

you don’t abandon ship,
leave her to cry alone

you don’t even
flinch

—-
I have only developed a few immunities.  It’s mostly that I wince.  I wince and I try not to let anyone see that things still hit me hard, even after being in this job for over half a decade.  I believe in the power of back rubs. I hold hands with old ladies (and old men for that matter) because being alone is shitty.  Falling asleep by yourself, alone, can be downright awful, especially when you aren’t completely sure how long you are going to be around, or who might be there in the morning to help you get up.

Also everyone should watch the netflix original drama “Derek”.  That show is golden.

365


things are capable of changing
ice to water to smoke
over the course of a year


my heart has unfolded

the way a garden worships

spring

rebuilding itself from multiple
warzones of
a winter that has
gone on far too long

I can’t think where my
demons have gotten to
perhaps swatted dead
like flies while I’ve
slept

somehow
it took
less than twelve months
to finally be able to awaken
feverless
into a dark blue that is
only deepening with

stars

—–


time traveler. The past is looking more and more surreal every day.


you ever find yourself crying on an examination table to a doctor who insists you’re only sad because it’s winter?


you ever find yourself unable to even disagree because your confidence level is zero and you have de-evolved to something almost unrecognizable to anyone who knew you before?

—————-

Submit to love without thinking,

as the sun this morning rose recklessly
extinguishing our star-candle minds.

-Rumi

Found this, love it

I Lost a Bet

The best time to know someone
is when you don’t yet know enough.
Metallic tongues slipping dog-eared
excerpts; cracked smiles sticking
paper masks together.

Moments everything is fascinating;
times every word is effervescent —
we cling.
Discovery is the gentlest unknown,
spine just cracked, the novel’s first third.

Perhaps I do not know you
well enough to write about you, perhaps
I do not know whether you prefer pancakes
or waffles, how you take your coffee
or if you take it at all, what songs
smooth your cracks, or what words
could calm the cratered cacophony
when shattered is the only
best descriptor of your dreams.

But I do know that for one night, if just,
we found a way to make alone
less lonely.

The rest I’m willing to learn.
jayarrarr

Megan Falley – IN MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT A GHAZAL I SAY THE ONE THING I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD

The last thing I expected to write was thank you.My fingers cocked for hate’s hot heat, and all I could do was thank you.

I will never have my bones licked clean again. I can
spot a predator from a jungle away. I am a lioness now. Thank you.

I know that Evil rarely looks homeless. I know it wears the sharpest
suit, spit-shines its own shoes, says thank you,

you’re welcome, and please when it meets your parents. Arrives
a foreign dinner guest, leaves a son-in-law. Mothers thank you

for the wine and the circus of laughter. But now I know how a man can turn
like a coin. How he can duct-tape your mouth and then thank you

for not disagreeing. But the fever of you
was so bad, I’d never kiss your brothers. Thank you.

I will never again let anyone make me small. I am bigger
than any lie you could decorate. I know who my friends are. Thank you

for throwing that severed foot into the middle of a crowd.
Naming it Crazy. Bruja. Most scattered like rodents, thanked you

for the warning. Pretended the foot was a ghost. But some carried the foot
until they found the leg it belonged to. Helped her stand. To them I say thank you

every chance I get. I thank them by never going back. By not forgiving.
Someday I will raise an army of daughters. Thank you,

they will not have your face. Your carnivorous heart.
Every night they will crawl into their father’s lap and say thank you

for loving our mother. For the lilacs in the kitchen, which are only
lilacs. Not reminders of your purpled fistprints. Not a thank you

for not calling the police. You taught me what love is
not—that’s how I learned what it is. Your absolute opposite. Thank you.

happy birthday

Welcome to the new world

And if I was to say that I really, really wanted to get to know you,
it would just be an understatement:
Me, I want to pour your thoughts into a wine glass
and sip them slow with a straw like I’m on vacation;
I want to light candles and bathe for hours in secrets that you’ve just never had the courage
to say out loud—
I’m ready.
I’m ready to grab onto your dreams and jump in a pool head first just to see if
hope still floats—I want to float next to you.
I’m talking like, ten feet above cumulus clouds
so no one can ever rain on our parade.

-Rudy Francisco

in which I try to leave, but am not able to pull it off

you are
a cigarette in a drought-yellowed
forest,
to be gotten rid of quick
the way birds flee from
forest fires that
only you can prevent
but don’t
 —
Finals week.  wrote something interesting but it’s in my journal at home and tonight I live at the library.
also. .. ..
 huh. tonight there is no also.  I really just want to shake my fist at my laptop and not do my final paper.  apply some good old Ctrl-Alt-Delete to my life.  (I think that doesn’t make any sense).
peace.
there’s a fine line between surrealism and pure pointless drivel.  I ate that line and licked the plate clean.
peace again.
I dunno why the word drivel always reminds me of food.  Rice pudding maybe.  Something that shouldn’t be liquid but insists on being so anyways.
last piece AH peace. (p.s.)?  turns out there were a few alsos after all.  And that word is underlined in red and it looks terrible.  The only things that should be underlined in red are the noses of gingers with really nice mustaches.  Surprisingly enough, even in this enlightened age, google will not get you a decent picture of a real nice, natural, bright red mustache.  Perhaps they don’t exist?
food for thought.
afterthought peace/piece/p.s./peas
I’m out.

Island of Misfit Toys

Just watched “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”  with my brother.  The whole time he just kept saying, “I thought this movie was about fistfighting? When are they gonna fistfight??”  And then he got bored and skipped the last half hour.

what I’ve been trying to say is I hate teenage romantic comedies.  They give me bitter nostalgia for something I’ve never had.

I really don’t like movies in general. I only watch them if I’m with a man, because my brain is unoriginal and I can’t think of other things to do.

also! poetry.  I was sitting in church feeling uncomfortable because all the women my age are so ridiculously polished.  They are very un-messy.  You get the feeling they have never laughed uncontrollably to the point of falling, or stuck their entire upper body out of a car doing 80 and screamed at the stars.  I guess exteriors don’t tell you that much, and I can act charm-schooled as well. I did used to be in a sorority after all.  anyways, I wrote this in church. 

Uniform
 
the people I like are the ones
not well put together

wild-haired mannequins
in strange colors
with screws loose and
backward feet

the ones rocking enthusiasm when
calm and cool is the Cosmo-worshippers
first commandment

people who sit on staircases during
ragers, doing math problems by
strobe-light

people who see no difference between study sessions and
musicals

the ones who are so down with
looking like fools
the standard for commonplace
eats it’s own
smothered-in-steak-sauce cliches
for breakfast

you make me forget how good
I am at blending in

you turn “normal”  into
a breathalyzer test
I can’t wait to fail
—-
These are fortune cookies I got.  If you know my history at all, then you should be able to see why they freaked me out so bad.  Also, what the heck King House, my best friend gets “What do you call a sheep with no legs?  A cloud”.  


Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal

I know it’s

*sigh*
(we never talk)

——-


areglsdajgaldg my playlist pulled it up and I can’t hear it without thinking of you and come ON amy don’t make this more melodramatic than it actually is, but dang kid we used to be

I don’t know.  I don’t know what we were.

 

on a happier note:  I wrote this while watching Handel’s Messiah (I PAID FIVE DOLLARS, yeh, big spender)
maybe I should have been paying more attention to the music, but what can you do when your Blood Ink Content is .89?  I had to purge.   Also I am trying to think of a better title for it.

Delight
 

Reason to love life number
three hundred forty-seven
spectacular beards
the kind of foliage that would be
at home on a machete-wielding
safari guide beast of a man
the kind of scruffy fur
that gets up and
drunkenly starts a bar fight
your face is a scenario of
sage meets
bowtied hobo meets
wild jungle vine-swinger
I would dedicate my life to
protecting your jawline from scissors
from sharp edges of any sort
you are lumberjack
magnificence in the key of
something low
more than worthy of the next great
cinematic close-up