Saturday, 3 August 2013

Seekers: Madness is Calling

Don't be still, my heart. 
Nourish with discomfort, my heart.
Sustain with discontent, my heart.
Love through disenchantment, my heart.
Still in life, my heart? 
Please, never.

Do you hear that?
It's the madness calling. 
She doesn't want her echoes back. 
She audaciously flirts with deaf souls.

Listen with your eyes.
Touch critical textures.
Taste questions.
Think in full spirit.

See that?
Distractions of lap-dancing flames,
Licking, stripping systems of seduction.
We hunger for a fleeting happiness, 
Desiring advertised insatiability.   
The excess entitlement of consumerist puppetry.
"You have a right,"
They say,
"To have more, more, more."
The Dream.

Abstain, Seekers.
Unplug. Untangle. Unravel.
Deconstruct to Reconstruct.
I beg you, try. 

Songs of salience await, Seekers. 
Because seamless truths transpire to seek you. 
Teetering on realization tastes bitter.
And lucidity ain't all that sweet.

But I promise you,
Choreographed disparity is written in the webs of connectivity.
A cognizant heart crumbles conceptual concrete with one kiss. 

I swear to you,
Apathetic asphalt turns to ash with blossoming exhales of awakening.

You are powerful, Seekers.
Empowerment is recognizing what withholds power.
Seek to Heal.
Heal by Seeking.

Do you hear that?
It's the madness calling.
She's overstocked with awareness. 
She has a special offer: free lifetime-subscriptions.
Just a click away. 
Offer ends: never.
Dissatisfaction guaranteed. 


Cultivating convenience is attractive in our society; most lack money, resources, and time. Life is not supposed to be convenient. Some of us know that more than others. 

This country was founded on taking. This country is structured by excess and marginalization. That web has been woven through history, but ignorance strengthens and reinforces this web. 

Cultivating deeper knowledge is inconvenient. 
Inconvenience is discouraged. 
That is a systematic design. 

Friday, 3 August 2012

Just a Bite

I want to play house in reverse.
Pretend to cook on my plastic stove.
Pay imaginary electricity bills. 
Come home from my pretend job.

I want to hurry up and regress back to childhood without the impending doom of adulthood.

I want to pretend listen to my mother’s advice:
“Don’t grow up too fast. Remember to play, my girl.”

I want to pretend learn from my encyclopedia of a father:
“Did you know Brook Trout have blue halos?”

I want to revisit my big brother’s rare but lucid moments of pure, uncut love:
“Shut up. I love you. Don't tell Mom.”

I want to pretend fall asleep to the sweet comfort of traditional snuggled bedtime stories of wisdom; wake to the smell of coffee and Saturday morning cartoons.

I want to spend some time with little me. Have a conversation and snack on a strawberry fruit roll-up -- tell her, “Family is all you got, love your people unconditionally. No man will ever love you as much as you should love yourself. Sharpen your patience because life is beautiful, girl.”

I want to soak it all in and remember. Taste the sights and hear the touch.
No do-overs. Just a bite.

Sunday, 15 April 2012

Feel it? You're Alive...

Humans are not meant to exist within the utopic, polarized framework western media force-feeds society. Life hurts. Love hurts.  Hurt hurts….and hurt can hurt for a very long time. That's okay. It is not something meant to instantaneously get away from. We are meant to feel it. 

Ravaged experience is love. It is something that elicits survival, strength, resilience, and perennial growth. It equips us with what is needed to move forward.  So then, consider this image reiterated and regurgitated by popular media. This image of how romance, love, marriage, commitment and happiness should look – is it irrational to consider these images that so many people buy into as detrimental to human relationships? What are they doing to our psyche? Our expectations? 

Media blankets us. Media skims over the importance of learning how to be alone. Instant gratification is pedestaled and the true beauty of the actual tattered journeys we all must walk is too often curbed as wrong, desperate, unhealthy, weak, and even painted in the guise of depression (which is not to say depression is not a reality, though it is certainly a condition that is over diagnosed and popularly touted to be easily alleviated through a pill).  

We are magnificently wired to heal and persevere. We are wired to reconstruct, regenerate, reboot, and renegotiate – both with self as well as with others.

Death happens. Trauma happens. Break ups happen. Poverty happens. Injustice happens. Embarrassment happens. Fuck ups, they happen and loving someone more than they love you, it happens. You’re still extraordinary. Hindsight being what it is, one day, if we allow ourselves enough time, all of these situations can bring about reconciliation with self; a defined and authentic gratitude. And what's more, this authentic gratitude is 100% yours; You create it. We need a sense of understanding and acceptance that, yes, tragedy happened and yes, it was awful. But tragedy is an integral gift of life, not something to numb out. Tragedy is an experience and it is just as important to feel, taste, see, and hear tragedy as it is to experience a romantic and intoxicating love. Tragedy is something to visit with every day until it is time to no longer visit with as much. And on the days when the overwhelming sense of tragedy begins to dissipate, this is when the colors of your world begin to look crisp, fresh air again begins to sing laughter, sunshine suddenly blossoms skin songs of joy and water’s fluidity whispers soft strength. 

Feel what you feel. Go through the processes of humanness. And please, take your time. To recognize hot, you must feel cold. To understand light, you must experience dark. Allow yourself to be your own compass – your soul is your guide, so please give it credit for its wisdom because its wisdom is endless if you allow it to be. Our souls are old. Look no further than yourself when it is time. Listen to you, because in this society, media is shallow-distraction incarnate. Society is rife with untruths and lies, but you, you are magnificent. Give yourself credit for the marvelous life experience you are capable of. It really is very simple, because you, you are the answer.

Friday, 9 March 2012

A Lover's Wait

Digging nails into fleshed imaginings of wheels turning, engines flaring, dust rising… 
With an international blush, I flush as vision screams for sights to serenade; luring landscapes untraveled. I flirt intersect, pave adventure with mischievous phrases, mapping a bold banter. 

Soaked footsteps anchored at the crux of anew, I inhale horizon, unilateral twists of aimless precision.

Legs wrap around journey and I straddle the ends of the earth. I weave in and out  of the Milky Way, make love to the light of sun, then sweep the cosmos with caress.
Breath of transcendence, inhalation of exploration

This void aches for the gun to go off, for the race to start: Life, I will make love to you, sing you lover lullabies and hold you tight during our times of rest...

But life has already started.

Wind whispers over face; lips curl, eyes close.
Wind whispers over flesh; breath quickens, exhales release.
Wind whispers, “Patience, darling. You’re almost there.”

Monday, 5 March 2012

Listen, Woman...

You don't have to make it okay, especially when it is not.
Allowing their weaknesses to be too invisible, too normal,
This makes our strength abnormal.
Jarring, even blinding.

Explore the various planes,
...but experience congruency in love.
Endure the plight of a parallel processes, frightening as this might be.

Without this, our rebel souls, they will resist,
Even if we tell them to quiet down.
And our unpredictable might, she will rear her beautifully ferocious head,
...we burst through barriers like maniacal banshees.

Just wait, the threshold, it will come...
It always comes.

This is the rumble, the shake that breathes insight of repressed mystics; it fills the room; it rattles the wall.  

We all have it, you know?

Gazing through this windowpane at white six-sided whispering questions falling from the cosmos:

How often do we women make ourselves smaller than the giants we really are?
How often do we smile that knowing smile?
Give in to the quiet flavor of knowing but not speaking?

Even when we profess, "Not me. No, never..."
Yes you do

 We really are fascinating creatures, you know?

Sometimes during the quiet times, times in my silent fury, times in nauseating exhaustion, I have a talk with my spirit. I ask her, “Why do we ignore the screams bellowed from our gut?” But she tells me to be gentle with us. Tells me we are loved. Tells me bumps and bruises grow character, fertilizes humor. Never gives me a clear, concise answer…

Pulled out of a few tornadoes in my time. Yes, it is true...

And how many elements in nature take form in the power of spirals? Cycles? Phases?
We really are forces of earth, you know?

And cautiously, I did oblige despite these belly screeches and curses.
I kept a steady pace on a wary trek, lost bits of my heart, misplaced slices of my spirit. And this, this I viewed as sacrifice; proof of love…
“See, I love you. See, I don’t matter as much as you.”

Then, I pieced together the ingredients of realization.
Sewn in patches, it enveloped us.
Along the way, I’ve managed to gather what was dropped,
But this all takes so much emotional coordination.
Multifaceted clairvoyance,
We so often doubt the voices we try to ignore. 
We should listen...
We are taught not to tap into our senses, to ignore the other side.
But the other side is not always willing to ignore us…

We really are  fascinating creatures, you know?

We truly are souls taught to be human.
Taught to be women.
Through standard.
Through construct.

Put feet to soil…close your eyes and listen, giant. 
Look through closed lids. 
Listen to breath,
Listen to molecular songs of genetic memory,
Listen to the intricacies of worlds and realms unknown…

What do you hear?

Friday, 2 December 2011

Not So Peaceful

I’m not always so peaceful. Yes, it's true. 
Sometimes these little fists, they ache. Sometimes my talk, it turns to fire.
I’m not always willing to explain. Sometimes, they’re gonna have to figure this shit out on their own.
Sometimes, “fuck off”really is the only adequate response.

Yes, I have to accept I can’t placate all ignorance.
I’m not always willing to listen; my ears, they have walls. Barriers and blockades. When I feel the flush, it breaks. My blood, it becomes more my blood. My voice sounds more like my voice and this is when you see my face become more my face.

Sometimes I forget about the step of anger and skip to rage… ravaged beauty of justified explosions; boiled over regrets of things I coulda, woulda, shoula said or done.

But this thing that looks like a box…it is a splatter upon a page with indiscriminate letters wrapped in newspapered distractions, dishonest history books and torn treaties; warmed by open ovens and empty stovetops on cold winter mornings. Hungry little bellies that Mom is tryin’ to fill; her three jobs is just barely enough.

And we, the younger ones, we argue like the older ones.
And we, the younger ones, the ones breaking the cycle, sometimes become communally obsolete.

You see, I’m not always so patient. It’s an effort I cognizant(ly) put forth.
It takes energy, time, growth, and patience…on top of survival.

I’m not always so calm -- but what happens if I’m not? What happens if I slip in front of you?

Ask yourself, really.

I become what you think I am...and that, I am not.
So these battles, they are most often private. Responsibility outweighs frustration and this becomes double responsibility. How did we come to carry this upon our backs?

Whether or not I like it, or agree with it...I represent mine, because mine doesn’t always get honest exposure in the light of yours. So mine is something I have to take care of because yours, yours continues to distort and deform, even when you’re unaware. Even when you're the one doing the distorting.

So this presence you feel. This confidence. This strength. It’s not simple.
It’s controlled.
It’s methodical. 
It’s diplomatic...and it’s fight.
It’s peace.

It’s fight.

It’s peace. It’s survival.


Tuesday, 25 October 2011


From where I stand, I see light.
Though chapters vary, my book is love. 
Love stacked upon love, stacked upon love, 
rooted in love, grown from love, 
transitioned to love, from love, towards love.

Bumps and bruises. Clumsy navigation wrought with empty twists and hapless discoveries that turn out to be not so hapless after all, 

And I love…because every direction is indeed the right direction. 

And these pages echo. Echo chords inflicted with sorrowful love, raw love, striking love, subliminal love, mundane love, intoxicating love, familial love, enraging love, helpless love and everything in between…everything in between crumbles in comparison.

As emptiness ensues, pen to paper conjures compassion and I recognize how painful it is to love hard; to love unconditionally. So, I love harder.

When tongue turns to noodle and words splatter chaos, my heart deliciously cracks like a pomegranate with juicy reverberations of passion, my skin hums laughter, my cells sing sincerity and I am reminded of a childhood glee. 

Never forgetting: to play is to live. 
Because in the end, life is love, love is life and I will never settle for less because I love and just the mere thought of love brings tears to my eyes. Tears of appreciation stemming from savage learning, dizzied loops of cyclical journeys leading back to where I blossomed forth from my one true constant; my one true companion...


Amor Vincit Omnia


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