I breathe in and you breathe out,
my heart’s upbeat to your heart’s downbeat —
In between the two, we meet.
We are pressed together like autumn leaves,
like awe and wonder in a memory-book
written out in spinal column symmetry.
With a passionate lotus-scented prayer,
I unfold before your sacred body altar,
surrendered in the remembrance
of who we truly are.
We are anointed in a fathomless Love,
in a quicksilver light surge igniting
and striking us from sole to crown.
Shining with the brightest delight,
a Joy born of a grace-filled glory . . .
Something beyond and before
all human knowledge or spiritual power
shoulders us beyond the gods’ playing field.
I worship at the spirit tableaux
of a scintillating triple-heart spill,
stilled to stone at the tone of such
an evocative thrill-sound throating.
This ripple raptured snapshot of Such a Love
has become a sacred offering to ourselves,
born from the subtle emanations of our Love,
the Endlessness of Inconceivable Love,
the Love we’re always forever becoming.
I don’t want to sit here and lambast my poor pitiable self
in some pseudo-Catholic act of contrition and mortification.
So instead I’m busting out my Bozo the clown in frown face;
busting-up and falling-out with friendlies, undoubtedly,
though now, not.
Somehow in the over hauling of my ego-sack
I usually keep slung back and out of sight,
I pulled wide-open … entirely opened
for all the cyber-world of wizened peeps,
for my forever-keeps, to get a really good gander at.
That’s that then. What’s done has been done.
Or is it?
Was it the Fun of the One?
The laugh-track playback
of a Ludicrous Lord, bored perhaps
with the backlash of His Lamentable Actions?
I am affording myself much more leeway in this
solipsis of missals gone wrong.
Hmmm. Hum. Soham and so on. Some kind of fun, You, You, You …
Enough adding to this duckishly-drafted
duck-the-buck muck-about. Alas! What was quacked-out loudly
from my loutish-mouthed cavort
is now twacked back, crafted
by the full moon in bloom last night.
Today I want to say how not sad I am.
Just the writing of these words makes me chortle out loud.
We cannot continue sitting around bummed and bothered
by the play we foddered forth so fiercely
when our familiarity bred discontent
None of us are exempt from the tempting of Fate.
It’s time for me to wrap-up these loony tuned lines.
I cannot weep for me, for we are, and I am
standing on a Cosmic Runway, shoulder to shoulder
and arm in arm. This Comic Brunt we’re facing,
it’s all Shudder, Frolic and Chum,
Chimera, Chagrin, Fabulot and Got It!
As for me and mine –
We are defined by this cat-with-a-bird-grin
and it’s all just as an endless Amen
to the ending of all our sins
still simmering in and decimating
from a past that does not exist.
It’s like, “Hey, I’m sitting right here. The crippled burden isn’t deaf. She has ears.” Hmmm. It’s not exactly the first time this manner of accusational burden description pertaining to my role in other people’s lives has occurred. No one hates nor berates you half as much as you do yourself. Erica Jong had it right with this one.
(I had to laugh right out loud when rereading this incredibly hilarious ‘poor me’ rendition of an untraditional burden story. Gimme a break.)
So the first memory of it was this: I was standing on a small dirt bluff that ran alongside a field down from my home on Mono Avenue. I stopped and bent down to examine my big toe because it really, really hurt. And it was swollen, very swollen.
The next memory was of myself standing in my parent’s bedroom telling my mom and dad that I didn’t feel well. Suddenly and without warning my knobby, little knees gave out and I collapsed on the floor, crying and wide-eyed with fear.
After that my life was never the same. Everything changed forever. Wonderful, talented, likable, and sometimes envied Mazie was about to learn what it meant to be dismantled by nine year olds and the medical establishment of 1963.
To clarify: My mother really did have it hard and her life was very difficult because of having a disabled child. I give her great credit and infinite gratitude for having been there for me throughout those long, difficult years.
However much it might be a ‘go boldly, go blasé blechedly, or simply indifferently’ in perceiving how others’ might receive and respond to what I have to offer, (including all my nerd-wordy warts, my self-exposed wounds, my flailings upon failings, ju…st every bit of all of it), I am driven to reveal all motives of mine, hidden or obvious, and how we are all truly the same beauty-bearing being breathing in and out of an infinitude of multitudes of various bodies, lives and minds.
When I have nothing to hide nor shrink away from in everything I say, share, and do, (word, thought & deed), I muse to myself searchingly, “How then can I ever be deemed and viewed as a possible fake-fraudling of a friend requestor, someone unworthy of a decent consideration for one’s more ardently desired circle of ‘fahriends?’ I must say that I could be 100% wrong and that those who have snubbed my friendship requests might have very good reasons why they did not accept it, reasons I cannot know nor fathom and which might have nothing to do with liking or not liking me, or not ever wanting to get a chance to like or dislike me. See? I might be projecting my perceptions of the whys and whats of this. Yeah, right.
Am I not saavy clever enough, ‘right-crowd-allowed’ enough to avoid being placed on the hot and hurty seat of a Facebook rejection? Maybe I just don’t get it, don’t see myself as others’ see me. None of us usually do, or even can. Perhaps it’s a ‘buried-in-the-sand’ boneheaded notion of mine in my obvious denial about the ostracism that’s associated with me speaking out against the ‘slick-clique’ club rules of admission … or maybe, Mazie, they really just don’t want you, don’t like you, and don’t like what you present and post. The old ‘you are what you post’ hokey toad road bloatage comes to mind now. Oh yeah. Oooohhh Yeah. Right.
Maybe I’m too forthright. But my drive and passion to ‘burn the house down’ so to speak, is on par for liberational libations being passed around. I don’t want to be a big f*cking phony – ever. In an open-hearted, open-armed ‘Here’s what you get and this is who I am’ blathering, I stand at the ready to answer any and every question one might want to ask of me. I guess I don’t have anything to hide. I have such seriously horrific, unbelievable, incredible AND supernaturally sublime and awesome experiences to share with my friends. A great deal of them are very personal and sensitive stories that some would balk at, perhaps cry foul, and most likely hurriedly scurry away from if they were actually faced with showing everyone, heck, ANYONE these excruciatingly honest redemptive tattle-tales prattled on upon oneself.
The more I might hide and deny my life, and the more I might put on the proverbial, beat-to-death dog in attempting to fake out and pad up an image of what and who I am, (one that isn’t at all my true state), well then, I would be leaving myself open to a more and greater necessity to embellish or to plump-up myself as being someone who I am not.
One cannot for very long, fake kindness or a learned brilliance or comraderie, or anything that calls for personal creativity and true sensitivity to occur and flower on the fly.
The reality-plowing person always shows their open-bowled face, their real and less-than-grace-filled face if that’s who they actually are. Our wolfy-judgey chops and pass-the-buck predatory persona can only hide behind the sheepskin cape of Cheshire-chopped wolfish lies for just so long. We always give ourselves away in the midst of our daily interactions. We can hold a fraudulent pose for just such a time, and then … there be yiking and rreerring and clawing and snarling snoots tilted towards the sky of I, Me, Mine. If I had a dime for every time, eh?
Shall I be selfless enough, kindly and caringly fair enough to rise past my fears of failure and my lifelong ingrained belief that I am not good enough, not loveable enough? Will I be able to arrive at that place wherein I can see through the imposition of my yack-back-in-anger ego, my fragile, primal-dice tossed and stamped human mind? These minds’ of ours, so sadly bent and twisted by our life incidents’ into a fear-wisdom stance, I do not wonder why it so often has us kept on edge and swept-up brutally into karmic knots that we cannot untie easily.
Can I myself put to rest, put to death, all my old useless ideas and archaic beliefs about seeing myself as a loser-failure-freak whose been imagined as being seen as one who has been wobbling awkwardly along Bone-Oaf Boulevard, lurching towards Maroon-Dufus Drive? I can if I’m clear and honest with myself. I can if I continue to inquire, to root out all the bullshit beliefs I still keep and hide about myself.
What will reveal the right (for me) road to recognition-liberation? For myself it’s in my candor and honesty and in utilizing the ability for being completely and totally real. In not clinging to an image needing protection about the unveiling of my foibles and weaknesses and actual humanity, hopefully it might encourage others to be just exactly who they are, exactly as they live and act and interact daily, regularly, sincerely with others.
& admittedly clever,
her natural doubt of herself
should make her so weak
that she dabbles brilliantly
in half a dozen talents
& thus embellishes
but does not change
So sayeth the Jongmeister. I feel rather feisty when I face down the all-talk and no-action clown who tries to hold me back.
OhDearGodDearLove, here we go again (chagrined)
in a write-out of all this drudge and over-dubiosity
about myself and my place in this thing …
I tremble in and crumble down,
round-eyed but fright-less.
Fisting-up these twig burl fingers pumped against heaven,
a lifting out from this crackle-shacked cripple act gains momentum.
In the gritting skin of my grimaced grin stretched
to maximum capacity, I give in to the meme
of this dreamland horror show.
I give notice.
Thunderous across the scorch of a body field razed down daily,
the broad mind refinement of this bone-cage parody gains ground
as the sound of my typing taps in tempo to a spinal jive pin-down.
I cannot be confounded by the believer who would leave me
needy and fearful of a future not meant to be free
from expansive acts of pain.
I have tuned out the shouters of credentials imbedded
in these stanzas that could stand in the way
of the middle ground
shoring me forward.
Sometimes it’s like rising upon sea-weedy waves
from a deep grave filled with long good-byes
lasting into the night …
and I’m crying through the salt-doll babble talk
as I bobble along in probabilities, willing
the scatter-fall death of my fears rib-bone buried
in the past memory of poison recalled in this heart.
I am not God’s walking stick, nor the trick knee keeping me
tied-up in terror-tales bordering on the unintellible ramblings
of a brow-beaten, disease eaten mad-woman.
These crookly feet faltering under my limp-along legs,
they hold the power of earth and sky between them
in a hard-fleshed chalice carved with ghostly incantations.
This lament of my own tongue-less, raptured race
is the faceted face, my face in a mirror
seeking the Grace of a God
long ago gone quiet.