Spirituality and Art
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  1. Bearded man, the silent one who tokes for the moment he'll see her in his visions. The ladder that doesn't lean, a horse that paws at a rotating cube, weightless and untouched. Forming hands to grasp her in 3-dimesional bliss. Their love was a flattened scene, now conjoined into rounded fruits growing way up high in the tops of trees. Freedom in the understanding of letting loose all constructions.. Beings unified once more
  2. Letting go of the ego"¦ A small iridescent rainbow cube hovering in the desert, a white ball rotating inside, as the cube hovers above the cracked ground. The storm recedes, tornado swallowing up its own darkness. The ladder crashes from leaning into nothing and the cube crashes to its place from drifting so long in eternal isolation. A galloping white stallion with hooves that can't grasp onto the cube or ladder, transforming into hands which hang onto the newly unified truth. The finality of a wandering nomad reaching the end of a confused oasis. "I've arrived." Dropping the burden beneath a brandished soul, hoping the spirit will rejuvenate the underworld it has remained disconnected from. A storm of years, goodbyes, the cries in separation melding into a smile arrived at in the resurrection of flesh and blood. I saw him, my one true love. He can't hang onto me due to the warring families we exist within. I see his fork in the road turning into the path I stand on.

  3. The poetry you're sleeping
    On, giving away the silent

    Fires you've stoked in
    Your secluded pleasure,
    Shaded from my thirsting gaze"¦

    It was a play of fools and lovers,
    Ships rocking on a tempestuous sea,
    And you're running from me into
    Greater isolation.

    Your brother hoping to seduce me in a
    Hidden cave,
    And I'm asking where is my

    The lips you've torn from the drooping
    A saddened clown beaten down
    By the world's twisted antics.

    I'm seeing the letters you wrote
    Her, blood in the pen draining
    Towards a masked lover in
    Forgetfulness of beauty.

    You've read your poems to
    A dead audience, holding the
    Creases of past failures with love
    In a squinched gaze and pursed lips"¦

    Running after your red-headed Juliet,
    Yet another dark-haired maiden
    Stands in your wake,
    Taken by the silent passion,
    Now the makings of an ash pyre.

    It has been years since you've faced
    Her, memory botched by time's torn
    Yet you are taken by the dark eyes,
    The sway of a long lace skirt,
    The creamy divulgence in swollen
    Fingertips searching"¦
    The sacred peace.

    Love's bitter season loosened,
    As beauty floods in again to
    Make the petals push out
    Of dry encrusted soil"¦
  4. A flood of light in my eyes and I'm awakened by the rush of my tears down a wounded face, a face I've held steady in the wake of so much adversity and suffering. I remember I was meditating up in High Point State Park (Northern NJ), feeling the fairy energy in my midst. High school years. Another scene flashing by and I was at Berkfest in Mass. as a teenage girl, experiencing the raining music dropping out of guitars into my wakeful palms. Dancing in a room with a wooden stove in Jerome, AZ with my Prescott College dance teacher. It was forgotten, until I broke apart, brought out of the sacred desert nest into a poisonous and dark metropolis. Three years of modeling in a strange city such as SF and not the slightest presence of peace or light holding me in place. A raincloud of drama, alcohol, estranged pimps, coked out event promoters, and older male mentors wrecking the system, until all my joints swelled and I collapsed from fatigue. Being used for a man's arm, decorative succulent candy. The watchful women in jealous fits raging behind my back at how their boyfriends and husbands were eating up my runway performances. A photographer who I worked with loving my body and spoiling me with trips to Crown Beach in Alameda, disappearing once I said my being wasn't for keeps and I couldn't go on not being promoted or published. The late night in a motel near Union Street where a London businessman who drove an Aston Martin took my drunken yes as a sign to flood me with terrors in a king sized bed. He wondered if I was in fact an escort. I wondered why I had come under that kind of harsh degrading microscope. So many hateful judgmental souls trying to grab my spirit out of its newly established corpse, as I fell into a continual spiritual death. I've come to my knees in desperation, saying to the gods, "Capture my soul in the tide of healing. And so the journey has begun"¦ From brokeness to wholeness, from death to life.. Fire rising in my chest. Ascension and resurrection!


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