Poetry/Prose

Lucid Dreams of Liberty

Tycho Dive Album Art

Tycho Dive Album Art

This might sound weird to some people, but I like going through things–all kinds of things.

Every day I say thank you for this life and EVERYTHING; every, little, thing, feeling, neurosis, worry, joy, happy memory, exciting upcoming event, strand of love extending over oceans, unresolved regret, etc., etc., infinity.

It’s all invited, it’s all at the table.

And I cherish all of it for a few minutes a day, because it’s my process, all of it.

Yes, I like going through things–not around them, not avoiding them, not locking them away.

And I like when my friends, life coach, healers and family call me out to help me do this … to help me see what’s what, what is a load of crap worth no attention whatsoever and what is worth concentrating on.

This process is like turning the light on in the attic of life.

Taking time; sifting, sifting, really looking at stuff.

Deciding what is useless and throwing it away.

Keeping what is useful and integrating it into my person.

Otherwise, all that crap we don’t look at, sort through, really attend to, sits in unlabelled boxes, lives up there, mixed, acting out, through us, unconsciously.

I want to know all the things in all the boxes, where they are.

I want to clean them.

Sort them.

Find the gold that the experiences left me, throw away the load of crap ego-bate it was buried in.

If I really want to help others in the future, I have to look through this stuff closely, consciously decide I don’t need the ego-drama ride, consciously throw it away.

With every box unpacked, I come out in a more meaningful place, with more people to relate to, more deeply.

People I can look at and say “hey, I see you there, I know where you are.”

This way, I can meet more people, feel more life, experience more connection, less judgement, more clean, motive-free Love, less fear, anywhere, anytime, with anyone.

This way, I am truly free.

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Poetry/Prose, Sugar Free

The First Thing (Stream of Consciousness)

Houdini

Houdini

I guess I’m a good writer

Good enough to tell myself stories

 

So many tales

About who I am

Why I do what I do

How it all makes sense

 

After all

It’s all true, isn’t it?

 

But you see

Nobody knows

What you leave out

As a writer

 

A literal escapade

You can’t say it’s a lie

If you didn’t say it

At all

 

But you can

Outsmart yourself

To the point

Of being an idiot

 

These days

I’m tired of

Bored about

Joking around about

My life

 

So I’m tranquilizing a tiger

Sitting my animal down

Writing a memoire

 

And I don’t want to write

A pile of shit

That tries too hard

 

Just stuff

Really true stuff

That whispers to me

From just slightly left

Of ordinary

 

But I see, as I try this

It hurts

Like cutting yourself

 

To go that deep

You can’t pretend

You’re talking

About anyone else

But you

 

The more you denied

While it happened

The deeper it’s buried

The deeper the cut

 

And what comes up

It’s a poison, in reverse

Healing you

But burning you first

 

And you’re going to bottle it

Put a sticker on it

Something smooth, criminal

 

You’re going to

Sell it

Heal other people with it

 

You’re not making a profit

In the way that counts

 

You’ll never get back

What you lost

And they’ll never know

What it really costs

 

First you have to trip through life

In the dark

Fall

Look back, take a note

Continue

Until you have enough

To draw a map

 

And you can finally do it

But as you do

You have to go back

Feel it all again

Confirm the coordinates

 

This time

Holding your own hand

Forgiving yourself

 

Every time you say:

Holy gods

Why didn’t I see?

 

Every time you answer:

So that others could

 

Shadowland cartographer

 

All the impulses

Curling fingers

To the status quo

To the tea kettle

To the web browser

Far away

To another mind

 

Stir up that tiger

To dream of tall grass

Where it can hide

From itself

Live on meat, alone

 

Escape, escape, escape

I’m not Houdini

Or am I?

 

This map

That’s been drawing me

And wants me to see it

For the rest of my life

 

A writer

An authority

 

Until it comes time

To know the first thing

About myself

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