There is such a thing as being too stressed to give the love you have, or too hurt to feel the love you were given
There is such a thing as being consumed by things bigger and smaller
You won’t know the truth sometimes for ten years –
And for the big things, twenty and thirty
Time will build itself into a river that you will learn to swim in, a foundation to tiptoe on to keep your head above water
I always thought we were mirrors, but we’re lenses (lenzes that project and capture)
And its levels all the way up, and suffering all the way down (doun)
And when you are headed there, no preperations can prevent your pain – though it can amortize it over time, for preperation itself is a wise suffering &
I admit, life looks like a twilight zone the more rational you become –
But [her emails] at the same time, the very mature-rationality that allows you to see the unreality of things normalizes them into reality;
Time is a double edged sword, cuts and cauterizes
We are all wabi-sabi, inperfectly adorned, part of the broken beautifuk, horrible, magical thing, we hate and love [we cannot look away from this wreck, we can but paint it like shakespeare, point at it like lao tzu]
The powerless are powerless
[we live in a society]
Time is timeless, the wize ones saw all this,
Not nostradumass (“I call him pic-asso”), for there is no fortelling, but it never quite changes
The pilferings of power figues and their courtiers
The ancients, the post modernists, the hippies, what more could they do in their time than we our’s:
Or rather, maybe we should ask, what hasn’t been done yet,
Or better yet, what has to happen;
For economies and physics only ever operate on necessity
A poet never says passivity: nay, not the songbird prisoner who isn’t supposed to know they are prisoner but knows and plays the tune anyway, because it’s fun to play, and someone else might need the song,
So we play hide and seek, chasing cars
Getting lost and found:
Where’s Waldo and Carmen San Diego;
Trying to leave the thing but still in the thing because there is only one way out of the thing, and no one of us wants to go before our time,
So we try at once to hide and be seen
But we forget: we’re all Saints and criminals, it’s a spectrum, like gayness, gender, and conformity
We stand like blades of grass on the head of earth, bound to eternally recur in the theater of time –
Leo-gatsby-cheers to all my wisely skeptical brains in vats out there
But the greatest crime ever done philosophy was that old windbag plato saying “All I know is that I know nothing.”,
Now there’s a man who wanted to keep his head – I get it
[Socrates, u a real one]
But the idea, even the chimera of it, that knowledge somehow eats its tail and leads back to ignorance or a fuzzy uncertainty is untrue;
Dunning-Kruger, okay, but there is a mature eye that sees accurately
There is a capital T truth (:
[But it’s lonely]
Though democracy will have you thinking consensus reality is unreliable –
Though maybe it is;
Maybe wisdom can only be verified by itself
Maybe all the biggest truths are forever hidden,
Like fireflies in our hearts,
keeping the light on in us

soda note: false humulity prevents animosity but it also cripples admiration – it is no co-incidence that your emersons, thoreaus, those who can look life in the eye and call it what it is, live outside of it:
It’s a goddamn shame, society;
The individuals: the billions of people that make the collective nationalized backs that break so a few can stand on the world we hold up and say: “Oh what a view” –
How’s heaven guys?… because there are poor teenagers who dream of Paris and will die having never left Baton Rouge or LA –
We don’t give people their due, or even an, “I’m sorry it is this way” –
That grocery workers on their feet all day aren’t millionaires,
But instead are invisible:
Ironic our essential people are all expendible employees with no security, not even HEALTHCARE
Now they are all we have left:
And it’s not time to play politics,
But you can hold your hat and mutter at the same goddamn time
For all the marginalized, who are not on the balance sheet and thus are living outside the lines, in margins, where you do not go: Thomas and Jenny getting your whole foods delivered,
Stocking up the last two weeks, while the poor have to go to the store a gallon of milk at a goddamn time, the homeless a meal at a time – your scraps at a time
But alas, we blame these poor folks, these people
We judge those who have least most –
Oh, my anger at these discompassions! these lost casualties amongst the forgotten,
They will die most in this:
There’s a reason Democrats want racial and other demographic data:
People are going to die who couldn’t afford a life that would have allowed them to live –
And yes, Kings will die too;
Boo fucking hoo notre dame cathedral – I’d trade the whole piece of shit for 1 ventalator for tommy’s mom
A lot of really damn decent Karens will die, moms and dads, and lonely folks with no friends whose names you will never hear, uber drivers, car service people, flight attendants, liquor store clerks, doctors, delivery people –
And as time goes on, and we hide in our houses, they are on the frontlines
I am so angry I have lost my train of thought.. I can’t fucking even.
And if you’re not mad, you’re just removed from it, that’s how life works
Those who only care about their own backyards can’t see over the fences they built or were born behind

edit: this poem ran away like a train, but I think many of us are feeling a simultaneous multitudinal kashi of feelings right now. so, let’s just all let ourselves amd everyone else be imperfect and hooman, and whole and beautiful now. because we’ve ran for too long, too hard, and we have a long way to go.


I don’t know how the world ends,
But I think this is how it begins
As I walk outside, and whisper to the squirrels rustling beneath the deck: “It’s okay, I’m a friend.”

And I know they feel me because I feel them
Things have changed
Welcome to the movie of our lives
Suddenly, I see it
Easy to zoom out but its painful to zoom in,
Though the time for glossing over stuff is done

Tell people you love them:
Right now I’m telling you, I love you
We’re all saints

This is not the time for crimes, large and petty
It’s a time for generosity, for giving – and forgiving
And I think it’s bringing us together in some Nerudian way

But it hurts to zoom in,
Becuase it’s too close to home

Ps. This mix and others by this same DJ have been really holding me down tight. That and a good cup of yogi breathe deep tea. But most of all, Family.

In a Sense

Where snowflakes fall heavier than moth’s wings,
And anxieties do set with sun, meltingly
Dutiless, without menace:
We shall be a flouredcent sea-slug,
A baby dragon eating blueberries; preconscious peacefulness – grace:
Sit on my lap and let’s create a story, no creeper, no power flex [fuck you david oldfield of del mar and all other names that taste of turdlike character, discompassion and mal intent]
I digress, those rat fucks:
malignnant scum on the depths of my wellspring: those slimey mohfuckers –
Our own solitary love, an ouroboros
Lemniscate, our roaring 20s, a hummer rolling on dubs in the 2000s (meet me in that emerald pool, in the hearst castle, if it all ends; I am there)
This parenthetical language, known only to winos and shamans; the elect,
Who live exiled, sexy, raw, exercising control, power of them selves only
Can more be asked for?
But they weild their swords, unpitiably, savage, like the ugliest Americans, oh capitalism buys a hell of set of blinders, don’t it –
So what, what they think – them bitches
It’s what you think that matters, fortress, brave beauty, babe, sanctum
Abide, love what is, Thou, Self
Cum, bless this day, Thee
Yung junebug, sun, lemonade, pellegrino
Bouncing yellow tantric jello in spine,
Fornicating with your mind:
But never fucking with mine
Breaking fourth walls, I hypnotize
Forgive me you ungrateful ones,
I tried, but was not thus equipped:
Though time is growing kinder to me,
And history, less forgiving to those whose boots I licked for a taste of my own soul,
Oh how naive I was – I almost hate myself for it;
But I happily exchange these burdens, trading in heartbreak for heartache –
And light of these shadows: wings do dry: fictions do become known, and these spores do spread gaily – without fear.

Keeping Quiet, Pablo Neruda 1972

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still
for once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about…

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

Wow. That’s all I can say. I don’t usually post other poems but this one feels appropriate. Also, maybe I should start. Oh, and, life, your life, this is it. Hold each other close and be kind to one another. Forgive. Let go. There will be no rewind.


I’m a bloodless sport,
But I’ve bled plenty,
Concussions, I’ve had many:
From rugby to punches,
A broken childhood to liquid lunches…
I know the songs of the vulnerable,
The losses of the excluded,
The longings, the implosions of the lonely,
Am not some bourgeois, cheap thing;
My metal has been tested AF;
Tall as mama Sequoia, hard as papa Oak,
Soft as baby reed,
I know when to bend and where to remain firm,
But hardly seal my lips: my voice: am truth ,
My judgements: worthy of maturity –
My boring titles so hard won, though effervescent they be,
But this is no victory lap:
My triumphs: hourly, everpresent,
I am my gift:
This Being, always in all ways, singing and buoyant till the grave or Mars
Tattoos: all celebrations – not scars, those are inside; nothing of this heart is hard,
I am tender, kind; ladybug,
And if I land on you, let me be:
I have parasites to consume,
A garden to protect


Note: Coccinellidae, or ladybug, eats all sorts of pests, but it makes sense when you realize she lays her eggs at the food source, where they too will protect the garden for theirs. Of course, there will always be the birds, frogs, and dragonflies who eat ladybug, but it’s a fair circle of life when a single ladybug eats as many as 5,000 individual insects in her life. Eat organic. And fuck pesticides and all pests who would put their yields over the health of the garden. They say capitalism began when we began to store grain. Now it’s greenbacks. Control. Remember ladybug. She fights the fight she can. Does her part. Tends her garden: être sans malice.

Paraselene: 22° Halo

Orion’s bow points due North,
And a 22° halo adorns the moon

My nostos continues, but the war is over
The truth is through with me now that I have relented to it,
Granted pain, shame, suffering a seat at my lonely table,
Having been disturbed by these ghosts so long,
For few things can be more ruinous than to be haunted by pain:
It keeps recreating itself until some old, generational wound is located, some sad, unfortunate human thing that explains it all, making sense of how some generational dysfunction found its way to making a complete dumpster fire of your so-called reality
As weeds ovverrun a garden, pain can overrun a person
As we pretty much all know or have seen –
Some lives travel those tracks womb to tomb,
The pain – that unseen void – is reproduced, left with child to be passed on
Fortunate are the children who inherit their parent’s self-worth:
Like net-worth, it’s generational;
Okay, we got fucked over, we knew as much poet girl:
So what of life beyond the purgatory of not allowing ourselves permission;
What of the world of feelings and perceptions above the hell of not feeling good enough or worthy enough to be happy –
What of feeling worthy enough to forgive yourself, to let go and move on…. um🔮
When truth is told I feel my soul in my breast, a neon goddess between my temples, and a virile femininity in my gait and glance:
I affirm self love and happiness as paramount eternal truths – one cannot live ones relationship to oneself through another unless one wants to end up someone’s fool…
And I know better, having lived my relationship to myself through one or four intermediarie in the past
Alone, you will find that there are inroads, places within, only reachable by the undivided, the monad self
How perilous to end up belonging to someone else when we do not belong to ourselves:
What thin ice to skate with the summer sun bound to come, missing 2013 love songs
These mathmatics take time, jung padawan –
For it is only in James Cameron’s universe, that the avatars do not grow wild amongst the others;
Into this world, out of this world, a little bit of both;
Oh, so only all perfect Jesus gets the title of ‘not of this world’?
Are we ourselves not alien to the money lenders, the pharisees;
Have we not had Judas kisses;
Have we not been bodied and risen:
His father was not of this world because his kingdom was… within!
Take note wild ones, and save your myths for yourselves and the page,
Lest you touch the minds of those who would call you an emperor with no clothes at best or ‘crucify’ you for living so freely at worst – even a little happiness ought sometimes be hidden, and a huge happiness always buried like some treasure underneath an air of playful amusement; for poker faces have limits, and you will not be able to completely hide so big a hand from those who will try and cut you down
But try, try protect the light of the bright one, inner child
For humans often resent those above their abilities – perceptual, emotional, or imaginal
Better to live in your own secret story, your personal myth, wrested out of your unique darkness, than to try and pull some pale gray light out of the collective black shadow, which, as an average is pretty shitty and unamaginative –
Oh how the abyss loves to torture those who make it see itself!
Your fellow humans will more than happily assign you a shitty story, low self-esteem, ill-fated camraderie, and a free cremation
All the more if you are not “of European descent”, able-bodied, cisgender, hetero, attractive, priviledged
Yeah, life ain’t grand for those in the margins
We grow up basically on hard mode
Many in real hells,
Which they never quite escape from
Life is not fair:
If you don’t own, honor, and heal your own personal shit that you already had to go through, then your shit will own you forever – and it sure as shit won’t honor you, and it damn sure won’t fucking heal you:
In short, no matter how short the stick was, how many branches you hit on the ugly tree, whatever clearly shitty shit you have been handed in life, well, sorry,
But it’s on you to get free;
Your traumas, your heartbreaks, your wounds, your sufferings – they all need to be consciously tended to, like psychedlic weeds that will heal you if you care for them but kill you if you try and pull them up by the roots: because you are the roots – it’s in your brain, you and the gulf of shame and guilt and fear, the pain;
It’s on you to figure out, heal, and accept and deal with it –
There aren’t many lifehacks or one size fixes for life’s shit either –
Maybe you find that drinking a kombucha or two daily is a necessary tonic to keep a teensy bit of alcohol in your system to give homeostasis to the biological, genetic demands of your ancestry … YMMV…
Or that other plants and molecules help – or so i’ve heard,
But there are no shortcuts to doing the work, to showing up for your sorrow like you do your happiness, knowing both are just as worthy, and one really needs you:
self-care – this is the ultimate result of healing, the goal:
To bravely and compassionately tend to your pain, as if you were your own adopted child – hot momma; can I get a commma – nah fam…
Anywho, cuckoo! (SKW voice)
But to return to what is on time, though IRL feels mad overdue:
To heal me, to heal you –
I do declare there is another shoe that has to drop, as after the turn comes the flop;
You see, there are two pains to go through to reach the river:
There is the event, the trauma, the injury, the thing that happened – many things
And then, there’s a second pain for each:
The truth, which we have to stand in firmly, bravely owning our darkness:
And it’s not done with whiskey or other self-abuses, nor are relationships fixes,
This is your life,
Do not be afraid of pain, be afraid of fear, of hurting;
Some pain will be required – those with the grit to lose their innocence and remain pure in heart will endure these trials
Believing in and pursuing the virtue of truth will inevitably make you question your reality, and the answers will not comfort you
The honest search for truth in the light of a dim reality may lead you into schizophrenia, psychosis, or other frightening fucking waters: this is nature’s survival instincts attempting to explain the inexplicable – to bridge the split between belief, reality, and identity on account of the failure of one or more of these
It is most common we fail to see reality or to refuse to take reality at face value, on account of beliefs that do not add up or on account of reality that adds up too perfectly to be anything but…
As Joseph Campbell said, “The mystic swims in the same waters the psychotic drowns in.”
Perhaps the mystic is better practiced at suspending disbelief…
And while such adventures of pained, albeit brave folly and madness can be creative boons, they come with their own traumas,
But these can be life changing breakthroughs, though, at the obvious cost of the breakdown of the self (And we usually only see the latter at the time);
Yeah, I’ve seen a few of my world’s end in my day,
And I’ve even checked myself into places where they watch you sleep on camera to survive the darkest of times more than once,
And dawn may not always follow it:
Sometimes we slip into long Siberian winters,
But when that light emerges, the depth of darkness it comes from will determine its radiance,
Its luminousness –
The greatest secrets in life are all personal, private myths, singular realities, bouys upon which hope floats –
And there’s enough room on that door for the dyad, the trinity –
Whatever OS you run
A poet points you to the moon,
But you must find your way to it through your own darkness

I’ve said a lot of words but the moon was high and so was I:
In a word, heal thyself, accept, care for and tend to your pain; love the dark, depressed parts of your soul – for there is great light to be released from the small hands that once clenched upon a pain they never let go of.

ps. its okay, it’s going to be okay. there is much beauty in store. breathe. relax. rest. trust. breathe. let go.
sleep my sweet selene.