No sign (avalanche)

Not knowing how to advance,
A tiny home just above the river level
In a steep-sided crevice,
She flows in seven directions.
Heart beats tuned to a lifetime.
A life of quivering possibilities
In time. Promising a potent return;
Promising a raucous levelling of extreme heights
For someone she isn’t.
Promise me an avalanche.

A memory just beyond the rock-face
Uncoils in shocking contrast.
I will not be an old photograph on a wall,
I will not be a distant memory,
One day, I will not be here at all.

Don’t wanna fight no more

Here’s a piece of writing that
May be technically correct.
A boring little drama
Filled with not much but regret

For all the sleepless nights spent
Rummaging without regard
For safety, peace or heartache,
Past valences marred by scars.

I’ve dug for gold and dust-motes
In long-forgotten landscapes;
Shared hope and joy with soul-mates;
Wrought love from death’s embrace.

Monumental sacrifice
Is no longer going to yield
The kind of truth I’m used to
Because I no longer feel

Working hard and sharing love
Is valuable or welcome.
I’m shrunken down, held below
The current social fulcrum.

As usual I’m despised
When I wish for something more,
When all I have around me
Is lying, greed and war.

I try my best, I don’t know
How to hate my fellow man,
To see him as a demon
For the things I know he’s planned.

The only hope that’s left is
Disappearing through the floor.
Hide me from that bully-man
And his awful, wounded roar.

And then there is this other way, but I’m not convinced

I’m always looking for one small thing
one minute of light!

Hey just a second, can’t you give me
this moment before it spoils and we have to
revert to life on the clean-up crew?

Same, same, same
every human interaction yields collateral damage.

It’s always us when it goes wrong
And me when it goes right, as if
it could be defined somehow. There is
no easy path that isn’t simple. Hunger

needs eating like alone needs closeness
At this point we don’t care what we eat
or whose heartbeat is the port where we
find shelter from the storm.

All that matters is that we move arms and legs,
the whole body/mind/spirit if need be.
Whatever it takes to get what I need.

I feel chastised
and humbled,
possibly shamed,
but I don’t care.
I am full of love.
I don’t understand
yet, why
I am grateful
and it hurts.

It’s a quantification situation,
great mathematics are in play,
iterations and recriminations,
joy is fucking out the window.

If there were no five-syllable words
I would not write,
I would beat the drums instead.
Not everyone sees language.
This way.

And I am still too cheeky
for my own good.

Private Neutral Secret

it’s true I heard that in the phase of the neutral mask
time is capable of no effective boundary
no limitation to what can be perceived
like the difference between private and secret

feel the call to push back, minute expansion
to inhale again after a long time beneath the river
growing privately

this journey involves witnessing countless iterations
sense interpretations mangled and put to work
by a corrupt general with much bombast
and little regard for succession planning to wit

there’s also that witheringly decrepit predilection for
emotion-centred reasoning
half the team have jobs that accentuate their weaknesses
the other half simply don’t trust authority

a revolution might be a celebration
a liberation from mortification

a transformation happens countless times every second
catch a few
we might find every turn of events deliciously funny
writing poems on the tablecloths
reciting pi to the eighty-second decimal place
following our intuition so faithfully that we
fall into the arms of the music of the world
where even the mess looks like art
and simple medicine to heal this and that ailment
is in abundant supply

for such a long time I wanted to help the world
by imagining it wasn’t already perfect
none of it makes any difference
I am still a fool on that kind of journey
carrying out decisions that literally arise from not knowing
believing in a future that is guaranteed to be better if I would just[…]

between private and secret
there is a good human and one who always thought they were
between astute and arrogant
there is showing respect and with all due respect
and so on down the list until it is utterly clear
a good human does not perform deeds nor utter words
that demand great secret-keeping

yielding to force is strength indeed
there is no honorable way to keep all the secrets

I gave up fighting every day over forty years ago
wanting to be a good person, wanting to be treated right
it made no difference to the secret White Australia Policy
which cannot be devised by a good human

obtuse and slothlike to comprehend simple things
it dawns

the state is there to protect against people like me, not keep me safe
loyal citizens and corrupt generals are doing their bit
to perpetuate this old bondage, welfare and domination act
a social contract
that keeps the world churning out perfectly denatured natives.

No. I don’t know what a native is.

I just know that in this particular phase of human lunacy
being considered native is not good

these days I wonder why I kept thinking it was temporary
surely everyone would return to their senses
there are huge gaping wounds in the earth
a lot of trees and animals and entire nations are gone
even our miraculous reef was too native for the White Australia policy
while I am still too native for the family photos

I say, do yourself a favour and keep that neutral mask ready at all times
keep your preconceptions small, track down the secrets
when you can see everything, how it travels
the revolution requires no motive power at all
it is always poised on the threshhold of commencement
as there are always people across the world who can’t abide
being represented by a corrupt general

it’s too much shame

In the face of oncoming traffic

If you truly had any respect
for that goddamn elusory aspect,
Higher self or whatever you meant,
you’d follow such things without dissent,
you’d thank yourself and not act too late,
instead of why, who, how, what…? WAIT!

It doesn’t matter about efficacy
and what can be proven,
what matters is leaving this place quickly
it’s time to get moving.

Constructive Thinking

“It’s a dreadful case of misapplication!”

At first, I concentrated on the big emotional swings and the ideas that arise during those instances: the way that similar pain from the past gets brought into the present and exacerbates the situation. From then it’s always a race for control because emotionally intense experiences are physically exhausting and to break the pattern/habit requires a certain amount of physical energy. If I am not quick enough to identify where I am in the pattern, it will generally play out until the end of the cycle. If I am quick, it stops immediately. Again being quick requires enough available physical energy.

Now I also notice a more subtle version of the same thing happens at every opportunity and without the emotional intensity – it appeared to me as a rather innocuous habit. Constructive thinking. I was just wondering about things and trying to create better responses…

In fact, every thought is lived through the body, no matter how real the idea is. The nervous system is still receiving signals: danger, problem, do I need to fight or run? How far can I really follow these thoughts before hormones start being released into the bloodstream, before my entire system is responding to an emergency that is totally made up of words in my mind? And where are the thoughts that trigger the physical response that cleans up when the imaginary problem is over, getting rid of the toxic buildup even if it’s just a little?

All in all, it’s a pretty inefficient cycle compared to those times when I find the majority of my thoughts both informative and amusing, instances where I can accept my feelings as true responses and don’t need to add the running commentary from a million different perspectives… which heralds a connections to past similar feelings and a likely exponential increase in intensity…

Constructive thinking and working too hard are linked in this way. I can’t seem to do one without the other arising. So I wait patiently for weak spots or opportunities to allow chaos to interact with the smooth order of that particular set of bindings. A good belly laugh always works.

There is a valid reason for it all, nothing we do is pointless. Yet there is always an easier path, a more sustainable road to walk when this path, the one you have dedicated your life to treading, is wearing you out.

I still think… but I laugh if I notice I have subsequently created a physically detectable response in my body that isn’t joyful. On a good day, I then go dance or eat or do something that puts my body in a different configuration and give the thinking a rest because it’s not helping me. Lately, after what seems an interminable period of waiting, the good days are in abundance.

“Oh silly, you don’t need an emergency to get my help!”

Note: This is the wordy version of what I was writing about with Frilly. The connections I have between things surprises me. Lizard (as in, medicine from First Nations, USA) except an Australian lizard, with a spectacular show of defence and great at hiding is my internal representation of this pattern. I don’t know why.

I write the poems before I know really what message I have for myself. Then some time later, a day, a week, 2 years sometimes, it becomes backlit, highlighted, centre stage with a bang! Then I am so grateful that I jotted down a few words that came to me and my trust grows…

Lizard laughed to himself. “Snake,” he said, “You are looking for shade and I am looking for shadow. Shadow is where the dreams live.”  – Jamie Sams/David Carson