Absorption Into The Ocean

If I could wake up
every morning so peaceful
so many people still sleeping
the silence of waves
arhythmic meditation
a briny thickness
hanging heavy
opening up the lungs
deeply breathing
the heart swelling
like the spray of sea foam
in the distance
a flock of sea birds
in flight
the horizon lights up
a brackish pink
the receding waves
catching violet
reflecting salt
and purple rays

The way the sun engenders vision…
And gives birth to the morn…
It must be so easy to drown…

I get a cup of decaf coffee
with a splash of regular,
a small dose of pick-me-up caffeine

and the ocean feels less
like a womb and more
like an old crone
dispensing wisdom with each
ruffle of wave

arhythmic meditation
packed into the push
and pull of crashing

I want to jump in
but only get my feet wet,
for now

It must be so easy to drown

like falling asleep
or jumping off a moving boat

This is what I think about
when I think about absorption,
little deaths,
the facade of self
crashing against sand and rocks,
the stubborn ego
holding on
to a capsizing ship.

I always wanted to be buried
naked in the earth
My dead old body decomposed
by the passage of worms
But I can imagine
being thrown overboard
at the edge of a dark, dark moon,
maybe a star will shoot off
and you’ll know I’m gone to the sky
the way a bird takes off and flies
a fleeting memory swallowed
by the unanimous nature of time

It must be so easy to drown

Last night we walked out to the ocean
to catch a glimpse of the setting sun,
but a heavy storm cloud
met us instead.
It brought with it
a deluge of thunder and rain.
We hid under a pier
at a vague attempt to stay dry.
Maybe to wait it out,
but there were dark storm clouds
covering the sky.

We were only delaying the inevitable.

So we ran out
into the storm
small acceptance
and shrieks of joy


Reggaeton bouncing & bumping in passing cars, city blocks momentarily transform into dance halls and clubs. A simple pleasure fleeting.

It’s funny to see men doing roadwork on streets with yellow signs indicating children at play. Beneath the sign sit the workers’ empty lunch boxes. Meanwhile, they maneuver big yellow trucks pushing rocks and asphalt. A few guys stand off to the side. They admire the job and give words of direction. The world feels like a giant sandbox at times.

There’s a wheat paste of a woman with a simple statement written beneath her portrait, “You can keep your thoughts on MY BODY to yourself.”

Three old men sit on a ledge waiting for a bus. They look picture perfect, the morning light just right & angelic. I ask to snap a pic. One guy immediately says no. Another follows in suit shaking his head. The third gives me a boyish smile and a little shrug as if to say, “I don’t mind a photo, I’d actually enjoy one.”

The thunderstorms that roll in remind me of shadows from another world. The warm rain smells like Saturday mornings waking up late, drinking coffee, and reading old novels.

Some mornings we make breakfast. Some evenings we walk to dinner. I know she’s happy when she sings in the shower.

There’s a wall nearby with graffiti that reads loud & clear STOP THE VIOLENCE.

On the weekends, the neighbors around the corner sit outside and play dominoes.

I found a jack of diamonds

& a dead chicken with its head cut off. It smelled like voodoo, and maggots were eating at its flesh. I left it there. But the jack of diamonds, I put that in my pocket.

I biked up to K&A to get a few vegetable plants. Often, it’s where people get their drugs. On the way, the whole corridor smelled of herb, and the el rattled overhead.

I saw a man in an empty lot light up a crack pipe. On the same street, I saw a mom with her breast out feeding her baby.

On the way home, I saw a thief try to steal a power tool from a job site. The owner ran out with a rake and beat him over the back. When it looked like his emotional rage was getting the best of him, I yelled over, “Alright. Alright! That’s enough.” He let the thief go but not before kicking & busting up the rim of his bike.

The jack of diamonds seems insignificant now, but, on second thought, it’s a reminder of richness. Like the basketball courts filled with people playing, and the swings filled with children swinging.

I walk to the community garden again & again to clean up litter, to plant vegetables, to weed and dump kitchen scraps to feed the compost. I continue to see the dead chicken. It’s decomposing body tells more & more stories. Ironically, it takes on a life of its own. & Coincidentally, it rests under the coolness of a cottonwood tree whose seeds fly away like soft ghosts.

They say everything happens for a reason, but I’m not so sure I believe that. There’s an absurdity to life that doesn’t so much create a pattern, but rather, it paints a picture of what happens when concrete covers the earth and wires string up the housing.

I’m sifting through the harshness for the birds who sing at sunset and the break of dawn. There’s always a quietness to be found when you take a moment to slow down. Life is what happens between the cracks, like the span from our first thought to the last one. I’m sifting through the litter &

I found a jack of diamonds


When Dominant Narratives Crumble, Dig Through The Rubble

American streets
digital highways
war zones hidden in the subconscious
colors and class
hostile indifference
residual slaves & masters

when did you realize you were alive?

underpaid & overworked
conditioned, zombified
big brother
scifi wisdom
oppression in the mind
anonymous rebellion

where do you propagate your seeds?

broken, hurt, & clipped wings
families divided
homes turned inside out
public private
projections of buried hearts

where do you feel safe?

realities of brutality
psychic violence
militarized web space
inner workings occupied
downloads uploads

how many people do you love?

burning forests of language
flooding cities of privilege
cat callers
clap back
recalibrate the feminine

how do you uplift community?

I saw the moon reach out her arms, glowing into the night. She spoke through the hoot of an owl and howled in the wind like a wolf. I thought about the sun and time and energy, the light reflecting in the moon’s rocky embrace. I thought about careers and caverns, witches and cauldrons, and all the myths we buy into. I saw capitalism descend into the ocean, lost beneath the rise and fall of waves. I saw change move in cycles, like the birth of a bird and death of an egg.

I saw life and its eternal movements.

I saw the ground right beneath your feet.

I saw narratives crumble.

are we amidst a quantum leap?

I see dreams, faint and light, in need of remembrance and darker outlines.

I see alternative riches in need of cultivation & committed engagement.

I see (r)evolution growing through the cracks like weeds.

The Art of Floating

Like stars in a dark sky, dreams are a faint sparkle in the depths of the night.

She woke up early. The light filtered in zebra-like through the blinds ever so lightly trying to nudge her into the day, but the darkness still dark enough to fool her into another 5 minutes of rest. She stretched out a leg, toes pointing, a foot arched to the ceiling. Then an arm, fingers reached into oblivion. She felt as though a dream casting a shadow into reality.

She went through her day in a similar hazy way, memories surfacing to her mind like pockets of air, bubbling up from the ocean floor. She was unsure if the images came from her waking life or some place in her subconscious. Was it her imagination making it all up? She tried to differentiate dreams from reality, but at times, it was too much trouble. So she sat in reflection, letting the thoughts arise and subside, creating a loose semblance of histories.

In her early days she experimented with mind-altering substances. She ate acid in the woods, smoked dmt in the mountains, popped back peyote buttons in the desert. She explored consciousness heavily and without reserve. But when it came down to it, she found a friend in magic mushrooms and ganja. There was something about their interaction that worked well with her chemistry and essence.

She began meditating with the fungi and grass, and practicing yoga by her lonesome, always by her lonesome. For the longest time, she was scared of community. She didn’t want to reveal herself. She wasn’t ready. She felt like an injured bird, and being with people hurt too much. She was afraid of hurting others as well. But her time alone had its advantages. Through her self-reflection, she discovered, locked away like a snake coiled at the base of the spine, an innate power waiting to be cultivated and put to use.

She had heard of the snake called kundalini before, but was unsure how to maneuver, or handle, such a life force. Through continuous practice and inquiry, she slowly gained a wield over the wilderness within, the hidden, dense, and compacted layers, once accessed and opened, they burst forth like so many deathless feathers.

She felt often like she was floating. This was a new feeling for her, so she was wary at first. But day in and day out, the feeling of weightlessness stuck with her. Upon waking, she breathed it in and maintained the buoyancy throughout the day. She felt reconnected to the source, experiencing her inner world as a womb of nourishment and safety.

There was a single moment that pushed her from the embankments of study & solitude, a moment of such overwhelming joy and intensity, it made her sad there was no one around to share it. It was a simple thing. She saw a flower. She became the flower. She identified with the petals. She knew the blossoming and the falling and the crumpling and the drying out on the ground. For her, it was tears. Tears of sadness. Tears of joy. So she left the labyrinths of her inner being and began relearning to live amongst people.

It took time to adjust to the alien, and sometimes harsh, world of others. She tailored her behavior and speech to be, if not a little unusual and out of the ordinary, at the very least pleasant to the ear and easy on the heart. She wanted to share her insights and teachings not only from her psychotropic experiences, but from her dreams as well. She understood such lessons had to be masked and softened. If she spoke without metaphor, people would write her off as a madwoman. She knew she had to present her intricacy of thinking, not literally, but like a tide slowly rising along the shoreline: with so much natural ease, that before one knows it, their feet are wet with foam and waves are lapping at the knees.

She decided it was worthwhile to sit with the ocean to learn further her secrets. She listened to the crashing rhythm unrelenting and strong. She watched as the moon drifted across the horizon and reflected softly in the dark waters. She picked up a stick and started etching symbols in the sand, and like a drop of rain falling on her forehead, a vision presented itself.

From that point forward, she went about her days with a brush as a wand, painting trees in the clouds floating on seas devouring the sun. She conjured landscapes from those worlds she saw when she mirrored her third eye outward. The texture of her paintings evoked deep-rooted feelings and her choice of colors altered people’s moods. She believed wholeheartedly in the fruits of the shadow, of diving into the unknown and retrieving those sparkling treasures from the grips of fear; and the only way she saw fit to describe them was through images and wordless symbols. She tread in that space so often, it felt like home.

This is how she learned to heal herself. She lost herself so thoroughly in her work, she painted herself in dreams.

At what point do we take back our language? If we are continually reacting when does that leave time to create a new world?

…So Many Voices

I understand well
that borders & boundaries exist
that rules run the system
and bastards sit atop capitol hill

Politics are all over the place
left some, right some
All degrees of the spectrum

I read the news daily &
it makes me an emotional mess
confused, hopeless, angry
sad, restless, drifting
yet so often
I am capable of making it
only a small percentage of my being
simply by acknowledging
our spirit is large and

I breathe in the rhetoric
I munch on it for a meal
I stomp on fear like a mosquito
I outgrow the grips of time

The illusion is everywhere
Right in front of our eyes
When we wake up
When we fall asleep
in between our toes like sand

even the coppers know it
deep down in their core,

One time
I was thrown to the ground & wrestled
treated like a rabid dog
manhandled &
I looked straight in those police eyes
as deep as I could dive
and said, We can handle this, like humans
Look. Brother look. We can be civil
but all I saw was darkness
no soul, only the emptiness of a machine
They slapped the cuffs on me
and slapped me with a fine
then sent me on my way
but I remember
In the holding cell
they poked a camera in my face
I couldn’t help but smirk
Don’t smile! they screamed
I can’t help it
You’re poking that dinky
digital camera
in my eye
And they huffed & gruffed
and snapped my photo
and we sat in silence
a slight tension
At one point
the one police
the one with machines in his eyes
he looks at me and says
I know about zen.
I couldn’t help but laugh
what absurdity
what contrast
but I realized
for a moment
he felt something

I’ve often had visions of culture
bolstered by the narrative of people
Speaking art and poems, music, a holy om
smashing the visage of statism
The time when, now, humans reappear
and take over the direction of history