the godless form.

"yet to sing love, love must first shatter us." - h.d. doolittle

perhaps now that i have been cracked, edged towards shattered,
i will experience the totality of this, your 'love.'
how cruel the gods must have been
to have thought love, capable for human consumption.
how cruel this dense universe
to make me belong.
were not flowers meant for rain?
spare me,
the gripping nature,
the death of creation.
i would much rather
be with out.
how easy space must feel,
left alone, without force, form, or pleasure.

Love as Question.

It is safe to say that Love has come in a form that I can recognize, something felt and dense to the senses, something uneasy, cumbersome, something to play with, some form of dreaming. A form of man, chiseled like the sun, radiant, yet virgin-like & holy. Love; the Universal Divine Teacher...reminding me that I never knew how to love; that to love- is extremely humbling and a Universal service, one which takes mastery of the selfless service nature. One that mystifies the idea of identity, and radically challenges the form of belonging. To Love is rather a "light" term for "Total Devotion to G-d," and his many myriad forms, even those mirroring illusions of being. Now I understand what 'they' mean by the saying, "You can't Love someone, until you Love yourself." For if my total other is my self, I will never totally comprehend that Love of being, until I selflessly, accept all aspects of denseness, those unworthy of compassion, and give over completely, my total devotion to the Union, which is healing all fragments of self, all perfect in their misplacement.
Love as prayer, meditation, or blessing...
Love as the Cosmic Symbiosis.
Love as Mystery.

Dream Rant.

i haven't written in so long, so maybe now would be a good time to compose my thoughts...
i miss myself, the music, how i sang,
how i had a vision of myself immersed
in melody,
transcendence,
dense purples,
and space-time,
without any dimensions.
I haven't played an instrument for so long.
I've been feeling as if I left myself,
and entered the parallel mundane dimension of reality.
I use to believe that I could thrive in my imagination alone.
I use to have a sense of self,
in my youth, (or ignorance)
that I really felt I could 'hold on'
to something,
even if it wasn't real.
I find with maturation
the ripeness of fruit
submit to a form
of compost,
as if there is nothing
to live for,
like all wisdom has subsided the fairy tale.
I wanted to re-enter the galaxy,
be the child that doesn't see any balance or form,
I want to re-live the world of dreams,
holding on the the songs,
with intense passion,
that made me believe I didn't have to hold on to being here.

the g-d of form.

it is women that were meant for beauty,
it is women that were meant for poetry.

you take my form,
mold it,
I am some clay-dust,
founded on dense ash,
my body swelters at your beginning.

you play some god,
I become a woman
at your finger tips,
a space to fill
your blackness.

you become the sun,
pouring me with the
experience of beauty,
- it is I who
will worship your radiance.

you create an altar
around my form,
rose petals, sage, sea shells,
fresh fruit-
you ask me to fulfill you,
you beg questions with answer,
I begin to understand what
G-d must feel like.

dear love,

it is only with this feeling, that i have come to embrace,
our existence, that no longer is "ours,"
but a part of the infinite universe.
as we disentangle our faith,
release the body from it's embrace,
will you feel my form float into ether?
I will vanish to your senses,
but to earth, I am still here.
It is in our death,
that our bodies will merge into being,
shatter all light, and create possibilities,
of Divine Union into existence.
Dear Love,
I have welcomed you here,
now moments have bestowed upon us,
only memories,
gardens,
a yearning for dreams.
Must we always part so illusive to the eye?
I cannot grip my hands enough
to engage memory.
It is here and now,
that I sit with the sorrow
deeply lit above the rib cage.
I ask of my becoming,
why dost the journey tread with pain?
The journey, the voice says,
in search of love is,
like the journey in search of God.

bird man.

i will seat you at the ledge of a cliff,
and whisper at the base of your spine;
your body will shutter
at the speed of my breathe.

It will tantilze your mind,
into believing,
that a light body is real.

you will press your hands
upon me,
to clear all memory

now.

I will be your arrival,
when Holy Light
comes into being.

You will walk the distant sun,
into the shore,
where the dead birds fall,
bodys for the sand.

The conch shells of mermaids
will drawn you in,
to the whirlwind
of eternal fire.

I float with my body there, a green printed dress,
as if the earth will succumb me.

You gaze into me from a distance,
you know I will be the woman that bears your children.

You can taste my legs,
as if the budding honey suckel,
will only wither with time.

I become the pavement,
figured in the stone-sand,
my feet bare the sharpness
of ocean earth rock.

We become the tobacco
that you infume,
the misdirected post-signs,
the endless pathways that leads
to a difference in crossing.

I am home,
where the rivers are contant,
and there really isn't
a place of 'belonging,"
to a person ,
place,
or thing.

You follow the north wind home,
you are a bird,
towards the center of the sun,
you become,
a pagan to the distant moon.


II. a dream.

You forwarn me, that the time
is coming,
the gates are closing.

A dream of your hand disappearing
into the distance...

Imagine a tunnel,
black, lit at the end
with a glowing white light.

an ascended being
stands before it,

you cannot tell
who it is,


but upon closeness,
that being becomes you.

I remain here where
the light is closing,
realizing the death,
of becoming alive.

I stay tuned into the radio waves,
but your shadows disappear.

I am this, I am.
I am, I am.

a new home to call home.

i seem to have left what was home and familiar again. i believe i like the discomfort of the strangeness of land. i enjoy moving from my attachment to stillness. always pacing from one earth to the next, i will re-write the map again. i look back to the moments in my life, and how much clarity there is from a distance. sometimes i regret so eagerly going as if there was no emotion in the movement. but then i think back to my dreams and how they are never encumbered by one station or one exit sign. perhaps i was meant to be like a stream, moved by gravity, in the direction of earth patterns.

It's a strange fruit.

Part of me wants to buy a one way ticket to somewhere, anywhere, and leave my life, forget everything, my love, my family, my dream, and beg and pray as I follow the sun, going to the next place G-d directs me to. Living like a vagabond, ready for adventure. Forgetting the signs, the fortune tellers prediction, the life I've mapped out for myself (including the apartment, the dog, the college degree, and the career), drop all the psychology I'm sorting out in my life, and just live in the moment, totally unattached to the outcome or what any of it means.
It just seems totally cliche for my personality to do something so typical like that, live a circus dream, on the road, chasing rainbows, pretending like G-d is somewhere on this escaping pony to Nirvana.

The path of engagement.

I wish I could become the skin of my child, when it was new,
before it became torn and bore battle scars of self reflection.
I wish I could love the part of me that never got it together,
that never figured out what or who to devote myself totally to.
I wish I could bare the tongue with ripe fruit,
and exotic verbs, but I never learned the language of the world.
I wish I knew how to express the parts of myself that you'll never understand,
but I trip so clumsy every time I speak with effort.
I wish I could lay in bed, next to someone, totally engaged,
without pretending my life couldn't exist without them.
I wish I could forgive the parts of myself that have been wounded by my mother,
and the parts that she has engulfed of me.
I wish I could become the lotus, with a breath of silence,
fully realized,
and forgive every part of my life that I haven't lived truly,
and every part of it I have.

so many things.

I've been helping others get organized in their lives, but I feel like such a hypocrite because I need to be doing that for myself. If they only saw my room, and the state of my mind, and how dis-organized my life is. I have clothes piled, scattered mail and documents I barely have time to get to, a list of to-do's that never get done, a pile of books I start and barely get through. I have a travel bag filled with clothes right by my door, as if I'm on my way out. Maybe it's there to remind me of leaving soon, and not getting too settled again. Perhaps my subconscious is ready to go on the road again... But yet the thought of leaving so spontaneously feels like the wound of my unsettled business... I'd love to just leave it all and travel like a vagabond to nowhere, but that's pretty much what I've been doing my whole life, except standing still. I'd love to call the shots, be on the road, forget responsibility, but what am I really trying to be with that? It's not just about making these emotional reactive decisions. It's about being clear on where I want to be and why, which is really confusing because that could be so many things. I guess that's why people get into ruts, because there are so many things to process, so many roads, so many road maps, so much information, it's almost easier to be disorganized in a sea of dis-illusion than it is to sort through it all. I have this idea that one day I'll be clear, it will all be easier, I'll wake up having it together and be able to just be like everyone else, I guess... It's a lot easier to pretend that you have it together than it is to actually have it together, but for now I'll pretend. The universe definitely brought me these dis-organizers to examine myself. The reflective mirror of my life. Now I just need to put it together.

do adventures call for such love?

we laid beside each other,
in a foreign bed,
in a room that's been visited
by many traveling hippie folk.
we finally made it into bed
after a seemingly endless night
of psychedelics, our heads throbbing.
i wanted to feel his warmth
and allow this moment to become of us,
whatever our minds could venture.
the need for sleep seemed uncertain,
though i delighted at stillness.
he was hesitant,
his body dancing through immense change.
i could feel the different stages of his growth
becoming all at once,
sometimes of a hand motion,
or an irregular lung,
perhaps a few heart spasms.
i wanted to be still for once,
and he wanted to be unsettled.
all i could think of was the empty bed
on the opposite side of the room.
there is calm there.
should i venture alone to the other bed?
do adventures call for such love?

There is a city outside.

I am staying on the side of a church, in a house that used to be a nunnery. There is a seat on the window in my bedroom, it overlooks the church towers, I feel like the church is my home. This house is now occupied by hippies and local Montreal artists, free spirits, and humble revolutionaries.
I don't spend to much time away from the house. I know there is a city out there, with fancy shops, and real artists roaming the streets, but I am content in the church, with the soft city happening as an afterthought. I guess when you come from one of the most hyper cities in the world, the idea of being entertained in another city isn't the most important part of the experience. When I come to Montreal, it's always to contemplate and be. I never come for fun and parties, though they happen spontaneously. I come here to sit and move slowly with the pace here, so that when I go back home, I can take some of that humility with me. It is gentle here, and it brings me into a gentle space. I dream of being that gentle, that artistic all the time. I would like to dream here, unending-ly, and not feel obligated to move at the speed of an entire hyper metropolis. The kind of New York urgency is felt for miles, at long distances, I can't escape it when I'm there. That is why I escape to be with my love here, my dreams, my ideology. I am more carefully here, though no less forgiving. I am never ready to leave here, though I feel too edgy to ever fit in.

I am here.

I am a different woman when I am here. I fall in love. I were dresses from other parts of the word. Dresses with palates oozing color and bright dreams. I don't think about tomorrow, or the next minute. I live with the energy here. I am awake to the memoir of my life. My heart is at a different rhythm, that matches slow pulsing waves. G-d energy lives there.
In this city I come to gather my different selves. I play with the colors of this cybernetic city that wilts at the thought of the future. I guess that is what it means to be present.
I meet people here that don't think of the life with money, or creating a generic brand of living.
There are fountains here that spew in the middle of day light, children that notice the sky over the sidewalk, and plants that have more authority than paper.
I am not my mothers daughter here. I have no attachments in my life. I don't need to pray to feel connected. I don't have to eat, but I do because it brings me pleasure.
I am a different woman here. The woman my friends have never seen. A woman that's not questioned for having frail skin and a obtrusive figure. I am hidden within the color-scapes, within the broad day lights, and summer wind. There is too much beauty here, even for me. Feminine beauty is worshiped within the structures. You can tell, by how the glass forms over the rainbow lights, and soft stone fittings. And how nothing is aligned with rulers. It's just formed for human touch and feel ratio.
Everyone is soft and feminine here. You cannot live here and be destructive. It is not within the natural structure.
This is the only foreign town I can visit and not feel like I need to be looking for beauty. Just the mere fact of being here aligns me with it.
I am when I am here. I am here.

Montreal!

It is my fourth or fifth trip to Montreal. It is a beautiful city that always awaits me, like a lover from a foreign town. So careful, so calm, there is nothing I must do when I am here. I am just here and that is enough. I came this time to understand my relationship to it, can we be together for more than just a rendezvous? Would one want to live in their most favorite, beautiful city? To share a life with your wild lover? Aren't lovers meant for random meetings, entwined in the dream that in a moment it will all be over, and nothing will ever be quite the same. Would I taint such a romance?
Or should I leave moments of intrigue, question...
for my heart to constantly yearn for this place...
to come back to...
to come alive again,
when I am here,
and all heart melting dreams
wind into
one
tiny
moment
on a bed,
in a Hotel,
with foreign love affair,
"je ne peux pas de vous voir."
(i can't wait to see you)

gorgeous

he said "you are gorgeous in every way."
to how many women?
that thought is suicide.

your god love.

where does my love go?
into the ocean?
wild with the wind...
it cannot be tamed,
it is of god,
like a monster,
god of mirrors,
god to the sea.
i release into it,
and let it free
to ebb and flow
eternally,

into

the universe of many.

beauty stain.

love,
the pretty eye
that draws you over,
around the meadow sweeping,
like lace candy,
apple seeds with regret.

and in silk breasts,
you are drawn in,
lips of warm pink
the touch of woman to ruin
your noble heart,
with legs, statuesque.

i hold the lilacs
in my perched breast,
satin upon silk,
for spring to notice,
yet wind speaks silence.

gravity at my center
pulls, and all soil evaporates
into the ether,
i breathe,
my teeth sink into skin,
you are new again.

in my little mind,
your heart decays,
spring flowers reverse order,
time rewinds itself.

and the snow petals arrange f l a w l e s s l y ,
above your bed,
with sleeping pillows,
and willow dreams.

remember last w i n t e r
when you shared all sacredness?

another o n e,
you thought was
beauty.

sunflower girlfriend.

you are

with your beautiful girlfriend,

in her room,

as the light shines in,

the sun feeds her,

you recite pablo neruda,

it makes her feel real,

sometimes you wonder

if she is.

make me the queen of your lust.

i love the body that feels too heavy for me to hold. a thick, dense mass of ocean forming weight around skin. i fill it with chocolate, sweet bitters, and dark ecstasy. i am not afraid of it. underneath it moves me, repressed sexual emotions of my hidden 3rd sun. mars rules it with an iron fist; my body sweat collecting, at the bottom, dense carnal memory. i dress it up, all bound with power, this fertile love, and inside me, little star bombs explode. i imagine that my mind is wrapped around a flower bud (my body-a goddess) and i eat aphrodisiacs alive. i let the cells enter me and soothe me into my immortal young womb. i swift the mylk throughout my body, layed on skin, parts that grow out of form. he (who devours me) loves me when i'm innocent and malleable like that. it is when i am with he that i become unwound from memory, the dark fertile queen, devouring all mortal passion into dust.

what i want...

i want to get the toxins, chemicals, and junk out of my blood.
i want to move my body and dance ecstatically.
i want to unravel the spine, and let divine light move through my nervous system.
i want my mother to understand, let go, breathe.
i want love everywhere and all.
i want to wake up clear, bright, and joyous with the life force.
i want g-d in my cells, perfect divine order.
i am what i want...

someday soon...

someday soon i will return. for now it is speed, technology, green tea, and sweet potatoes. and when love calls, warm cocoa with cinnamon and hot spice. oh the winter and the frozen trees!