Mabon 14

Look beyond the visual and truly see. The eyes feed much and can overshadow other aspects of things thought only visual. Colors. Shapes. Things in sight but only when eyes of the realm are closed and the truest eye looks forth. Chakras are muscles as well and must be exercised.

Mabon 13

Where your kindred are, so are you. The effects of Synergy are that wondrous. Once linked with those of common purpose, you are not just you. You are We. Acting in harmony and unison as if in many places at many times. When you feel the We as sure as you feel the you, tribe moves exponentially and herd runs like the wind to follow in the joy of belonging. See not with the eyes that have kept you as you. See with the new vision and see the We.

Up-Write

(Another piece from the in-work "Reports from the Frontal Lobe".) Her writing bitch-slapped me awake. She was Phillip Marlow in a skirt. I called myself a writer and saw all the pedestrian, safe shit that flowed from me lately. Enough was enough. Her poem embarrassed me into action. Shamed me into performance. That’s what words can do. The right words. Arranged so pretty and sharp. They cut. Mightier than the sword indeed. Sugar coated shit was still shit. Sure, I am storyteller. Have tons of stories. Started one the other day. A nice one. A good message one. Even wrote it a new way. Outline first. The nuns would like that. Fuck that. The nuns ain’t looking anymore. I am a writer and that doesn’t mean doing things the easy way. Maybe not even the right way. It means writing. Spill your guts. Vomit your soul on the page. The reader will decide if it stinks like puke or smells like chocolate fucking chip cookies. It’s their nose that you write for. Don’t blow smoke up your own ass and call it art. Writers writing for themselves are jacking off. Impotent closet queens of denial. Limp wimps. Whatever the word for fucking useless, fill in your own blank. Don’t kid yourself. Have a gift? Bullshit. You have a delusion. Write. That’s what writers do. If nobody reads it, it died wordlessly in the forest of nothingness that is your own fear. The story I started the other day was good. It was a nice story. I might even write it. A nice message. See beyond money. Step out of the insanity that we call life. Live clean and pure and free as jaybird with a middle finger in the air for all to see. It takes balls. It takes guts. It takes body parts. Hell, it takes hearts and minds and souls. Yours. It takes everything you have and everything you know and wraps it up, shakes it up, and rearranges it. You are just along for the ride. Yeah, it is a good story. Maybe I should write it. Maybe I should just cut to the chase and tell you to think about what is really important. Tell you that money ain’t god so wake up, heathen, and get a clue. Do all that in 50 words or less and then tell more.

Wrote a lot of poems lately. Some rhymed. The more powerful ones skipped beats. Poems got me out of my own voice box. Lines form to the right. No frontsy-backsies. Screw the lines. I’ll pay later. Write now.

Spitting out this stuff feels good. Roller coaster good. No brakes. No breaks. Leaps and bounds and twists and turns. That’s where the passion is. It ain’t watching the train go by. It’s riding the cyclone of life while eating a hot dog with all the trimmings. I don’t do hot dogs no more. They stuff them with stuff they should have thrown out. We grill them up and wave flags while we eat the garbage they feed us. Hot Dogs are the perfect American food. Pass the relish and pop open a cold one, brothers and sisters, we are on top of the world. Let the fireworks begin. Somewhere along the way, trust fizzled. I stopped trusting. Wondered. What was right? What was wrong? The negative wrapped around me like a shiny new cloak and burned the retinas of naiveté. Tried to look away. Didn’t. Couldn’t. Saw the façade as a façade and faced it. About faced it. Two faced it. Went inside. Deep inside. The world kept right on spinning, pretty globe all aglow, its cancer denied with less and less credibility each day. Me? I am just average Joe. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just me and a few million more like me just doing the best we could to breathe and laugh and do the right things. Then the concept of right left and left me as far from right as I’d ever been. That was when the trouble began. Maybe that was the trouble ended. Too early to tell that right now. The story unfolds as I unravel. Re-look. Re-think. Re-do. Do-Re-Me. Me? Thought I was doing things right and pure and good while being just another part of the scam. If you are part of the joke, is the joke on you? Are you the joke? Who’s kidding who? I was kidding myself with a slight of hand David Copperfield and all the Artful Dodgers would envy. I fooled myself with the harlequin romance of the red, white, and blue. Twenty-eight years in the military. Part of something proud and true and noble. Then I peeked behind the curtain. Maybe it was behind. Were the curtains opened or closed? Was I on the outside looking in or the inside looking out? Was it a show within a show? Was it all part of the show? I thought I was in the audience. Who was what side of the curtains? Was this a dream? Dream, dream, dream. All I have to do is dream. A dream come true. Wake up and see if the dream was the dream or the waking up was the dream. Time to wake up. Confess. Come clean. Rise and Shine. True Confessions? Step right up, the show’s about to begin. Step right up. ID Cards. Top Secret Clearances. Cluster bombs stocked on boats in the Indian Ocean. The best show on the Midway. Was I in that show? Whose side is whose? Was it my side that kills and threatens and soars in the face of any that doubted America dominated the world? How young was I when I joined? How old was I was I left? Left when I did not get a promotion that was mine based on time in grade, square filling, soul giving, and mass dedication. Mass dedication not enough? Here. Have some mass destruction. Let’s promote the general welfare with some general warfare. Maybe I would have made General. Would have fared better in general. Fair enough? What’s fair is fair. I was fairly clueless, part of something fairly ridiculous, and left fairly human. Left proud but walked away with my dignity intact. Looked back and saw my blindness. A stitch in time saved nine. I was in stitches. I believed. It was from the heart of that young pledge of alleger. A heart taught by the nuns, fed by the comic books, warmed by the parades, and filled over time with the Sands of Iwo Jima. I believed. People believed in me. Stripe by stripe, I did my time. Celebrated the bars of my rank and drank in the toasts of my successes. Walked the line soberly up the staircase down into my own blindness. Travel opened me. Germany was beer and schnitzel and thinking in other currency. It was also Dachua and the feel of evil underfoot. Hot to the touch with the burning logic of hate. England was theater for a Jersey kid that lived a million miles from the price of a Broadway ticket. It was crap food, crappier weather, and two hundred years of “where did our world go?”. Turkey was the feel of the ancient places where civilization still struggled to be civilized. The places speak, even when unheard. They screamed at me until I listened. This is the way of the Traveler. Lessons in the going and the being there and the having been there. It is purpose and place and all the stuff we say when we feel like what we are and what we do matters. The sword of learning pierced me at the jugular as I tumbled around the planet bleeding to life. The pulse of global locomotion, my life support, changed the very life it supported. Living is much better that dying and thinking it is life. Tumbleweeds are dead things. The thorny roll of rootless pricks across the land. Dry. Barren. Annoying. Held only in snag. Plant corpses zombied by the wind and jammed into the traffic of the living. We brake for them. Curse at them. Bob and weave around them. Crush and burn them should they gather. The tumbleweeds are heartless. They do not give. They can’t give. They don’t know how. You gotta have heart to give. Tumbleweeds don’t give. They do not receive. They are the ultimate homeless. Home is where the heart is. Tumbleweeds were something else at one time. Something with a heart. Something with a home. Rooted. Now they are the rolling dead. They are in the way. They used to just annoy me. Now they piss me off. Fuck the tumbleweeds and their bounce of nothingness. Life is a celebration. A hurrah bansheed by the bold. Celebrated in the moonlight while cowards huddle by their puny fires and hope to hell that sound in their darkness is the wind. It is the wind, chickenshits. The wind of change that sweeps in from an angry ocean. Tumbleweeds are off the ship before anything or anyone else. Woman and children first my ass. Tumbleweeds ride out of town at even the hint of storm and roll from the thunder long before it reaches our ears. Tumbleweeds run from everything and waltz the coward cha-cha downwind. Cowardice is ugly and pricks everything it touches. I’ve been pricked. I’ve been a prick. Pricks are a dime a dozen. A penny an inch but you better measure it yourself because pricks are short on truth and long on promises. Rub them the right way and they are yours forever. Forever measured between last time and next time. It’s all about the prick and getting ahead. Thank you, come again. Hope it was good for you cause I don’t know what the hell happened. What was I thinking? That was a lot less than expected and a bigger mess than I started with. What takes these stains out? Has to be done by hand. Should have started there rather than ruin a perfectly good night’s sleep in the first place. Sleep is key. Vital. Life sustaining to understand the rest of the stuff. Wanna wake up? Go to sleep. Sleep is daily death. Die a little. Cry a little. Go inside and lie a little. The lies die. The bullshit stays here. Clothes wait. Schedules keep. Layaways. Getaways. Stayaways. Ain’t no ways. All stay here. It’s just you. In a whole new world. Back where you started. You bring only what’s needed. Fragments of then and when and who and what and why and what the heck. Chili fries. Teary eyes. Wishful sighs. Open thighs. All run amok. Free and unedited in your own private showing. You are the star and the moon and the flying none. Demons of your own unconsciousness rise to face their creator and slayer, the layer. Here, you are life and death. This is your world. You’re just visiting the other one. Wake up. Get to sleep. Shhhhhhhhh. Time to dream before this is just a memory. The Bard barbed wisely about death and perchance to dream. Shuffle off the mortal coil. One show a night and occasional matinees. You snooze, you win.

Mabon 12

Harvest the sweetness of knowing family. Feel the acceptance of things from family that is of energy. Energy flows longer and stronger than blood. Blood is limited to one realm and this space and time. Energy crosses all realms and eddies through space and time freely.

The tribe is a family of energy. Touch that energy. Merge those energies with the passion of freedom. Freedom to taste what you have always wanted to taste and to be what you were and will be again. Freedom given of self and to self with others that are kindred.

The joy of this freedom will sing forth from herd and tribe. SOURCE is of All.

Mabon 11

As the light bursts forth from hither and yon, the upsets will be many. Man against man. Water against man. Earth against man. More to follow. This is the wake up call as what was returns so that all begin to heal. The expression that it is darkest before the light is truth.

See not all these happenings with helplessness for the case is exactly opposite for Tribe and herd. Link with each other and kindred for the journey that begins inward and results in totality. The inner self freed to its calling. Both for rulers, followers, beasts, and slaves. The community formed for strength, support, and love. Linkage to all life from all spheres and all realms.

Those on the path, move faster now. Those standing in hesitation, step forth with hand reached to those that guide. Those choosing other paths or the darkness of denial, be well.

Mabon 10

You and yours become as the Light. As you look inside and become what you were destined to be and help those that also look inside to understand their place and destiny, your light beams forth brighter and brighter. As the tribe forms and the herd gathers, the lights therein merge to a brilliance that bursts forth. The light draws those that seek kindred. The light calls those that yearn for place in the herd to come to pen and cage. With each of tribe and each of herd that gather, the light brightens as if a gathering of suns.

All will be able to sense it. For some, it will be as light for their eyes are open. For others it will be as heat for their eyes are closed but they sense it still. Herein begins the shift of those of the light and those choosing not to be of the light. The light is for all and only those that do not choose it have no hope of joining it forever.

Some will merely shield their eyes from it and go about their existence. For others, this will not be possible for they will be near it at all times and the shield will not be enough as the lights gather and grow. Soon they will turn from it in hopes to see clearly for looking at the light will blind them. Some of the weakest will not just look away but try to extinguish the light. They will not believe the light can be good and will see it as fire of destruction growing all around them. These will not succeed but will find places where the light does not touch them and therein wallow in that darkness.

Turn no one away. Bring no one forward that is not ready to see as well as be the light. Each that are of and with you are of and with you by choice. The same is true of each that choose otherwise.

Mabon 9

See and feel. Each day. See and feel. Take moments to focus on the flow that is of all things and to all places. Everything is linked in flow. Flow is. It is that simple. Once felt, you are of that river. Once felt, that river is of you. This is true of all things from all places but many, sadly most, feel it not.

There are reasons many, sadly most, feel it not. Know those reasons for those reasons will remind you what to do to ensure you do see and feel. Those things that feel it not are of themselves. Wrapped up in all that they are and thinking that is all that they are. These sad and naïve entities look only in the realm they sense and see and only look with the limitations of that form of energy that is their base. Some do try and see what is available for all to see. Some peek at the vista of other realms. Some see only more of their own realm but at least they look. Most see but run from what they see for they think it not true. Most feel this is far beyond what they are and what they can handle. At that moment, they blind themselves. That begins their death. Without growth, there is not life. There is only existence. To only exist is the death of hope and joy.