A confluence of energies manifests itself in a damn good night. Chartreuse, for too long unimbibed by yours truly, suddenly makes a happenstance appearance. Friends that I love visit from out of the greater world beyond the bubble. The nargilah is sparked 5 times in a row. 9 or 10 people crammed into the tiny space of my cabin. A host to varying levels of consciousness and energy. Drums are hit haphazardly. The pore widening sharp steam of the sauna later. Some Rumi reading. The gift of life and beauty is handed to me from so many different sources all at once like some wizard of Oz shit. I remember again why I exist to feel. Loneliness is a mirror of love. Look into love’s surface and you see the empty sky and the darkness of the unseen. Jump in.
Things just happen when I need them. There is no planning in joy. I let go and I discover delight waiting just past the sadness.
Old times, new times, in-between times. Nodal points of beauty like flames of gathered life in the night. Come near, cold and lonely traveler. Be like the moth drawn to the wonder of its destruction.
Nobody knows, until they sit down in my room and smoke a nargile with me, and listen to mellow music, and sip at some Chartreuse, what I am about. Most people seem to see but a serious, quiet young man, purposeful and intent as he strides about attending to his business. But within me there is much music, there is much that awaits to burst at the seams of my consciousness and stream out my eyes into other’s hearts. I am patient enough to take beauty when it comes to me, rather than steal it from a stranger’s vault of insecurity. I am thirsty enough to drink wine every night.
Come into my chambers,
where the incense settles against the ceiling
and talk about what we feel together
and listen to some Common
and sip on this Espolon
and drop this facade
of everyday definition.
like so imagine this over a salsa beat, in miami streets, in the kind of
heat that makes the city wired with sweat. imagine that you are somebody
who is exciting, somebody who sprinkles their bangs in the air and everyone
shakes to the music, in the trembling sacrifice of all expectations,
cut across the horizon of care, there is only image, sparkling water on the
screen, a toning of gravity. the sexiest spirit in the heavens enters the
body of a woman, and all of the people dance in devotion. there is
competition, there is rivalry, there is bitterness. it blends into the
sweetness of her shining. the drummers play to draw the invisible out.
whosoever saith that taming of cobras is a hoax because cobras are
hypnotized not by the sound of a flute, but rather by its motion, are fools.
there is magic in every movement. a tunnel in the fabric of reality to a
world that won’t be understood, only created. it appears, transmitted by
your tongue, by your vision, by your trail in the sand. it comes through
you, out of you, into a space where it is devoured. the feeding of the
hungry children of the light.
become addicted to what is positive. we are not drifting apart. we are
coagulating into orbs so delicate, formed from the deepest toughest roots in
the earth, that when we are crushed, the finest wine in the many worlds will
be drunk by the gods, and they will throw a party of vast dimensions. yeah.
joy, the movement of the body full of light, bouncing, rippling, limbs loosened, unfettered by appearance. she stood on a street corner dancing, wobbling about to a rhythm only she could hear, cars streaming through the intersection glancing, passerbys milling past the curb to the flashing call of the next sidewalk shore.
is it that people have seen everything? world-weary, dulled by the daily accosting blur of difference? or is it that people have seen nothing since that moment in their lives when someone beat the wonder out of them? childhood distilled to a residue of hidden malice. indifference.
there is only one language that cannot be misinterpreted: the unwithheld delight of the soul: the springy swinging of a dog’s bottom when you return home; the croon of a baby at the gift of attention, fingers waggling in bliss; the resounding, enveloping waves of beauty that emanate from a singer striking the depths of a note in a song; the radiant eyes of a stranger who knows herself in you.
sitting by the window in the bus, stopped at the light, i watched her standing there bopping about. i smiled to myself and felt happiness spread into me. i felt the potential in people, the delight fermented, waiting to be uncorked by a loving touch. there is so much more to every moment. if we could just stand like that in the midst of the crowd, and let our feelings flow through us, instead of running away to the next safe haven, instead of pretending not to understand. what is it in our lives that is more important than how we feel?
i fall into the frames of space that swims eternally repeating before me, an old woman hacking into her arm, the bus driver singing a song in spanish, my fingers folding into each other. positive thoughts, i think. i can do this. think positive. i stare at buildings passing as if they hold some essential mystery, demanding my intentness. thoughts, think. i seem to be breaking into pieces. the airy hiss as the lighted box shudders to a
stop, like a gargantuan sleek beast cutting a swift fart. a kid shoulders his way to the concrete, enveloped in earphones. thoughts do not seem to matter at this current juncture of time. voices swarm through my arteries like an overbearing shock of electricity. move, move move, i tell the red light telepathically. i glare ferociously at a woman standing on the corner with a handbag. she has very tight calves, sweeping down out of her skirt into the sharp points of her heels. alert, i crane my head to capture this detail in my mind. it seems that this might save me. but a bottomless pit of frenzy opens in my face as the bus stays still, and i stroke my right ear to hold on. and then. it heaves, the doors swing closed, and the self-contained world continues its hurtling way to the next stop. a maid pulls the string and the sign lights up. she stands, wobbling against the metal posts, her breasts weighted to her belly. the kind of woman who is ignored by eyes searching for stars when she walks the streets to her job cleaning a rich family’s floors, hispanic, stocky, painted lips, hair tied back. yet looking at her standing in the air-conditioned bobble of the city’s mass transit system, i find her beautiful, her eyes prepared firmly for her exit. i feel a quiet breath of calm sweep into my mind and i look around me with the discovery of inner light, avoiding eyes, the abstract humanity of our containment, rustling paper bag, varicosely gripped cane, soft tufts of neck hair, intermittent coughing, the announcement of street names. a waiting room for the appointed daily grind of employment. i pull the string and stand swaying in the boxed movement. i step off into the day centered, part of a puzzle, fit into the jutting shapes of an uncompleted picture. patience.
Watching. Distant our minds grow from our bodies. We gaze at ourselves through the television, intelligence pouring from our faces like the fall of water onto rocks, streaks of lightning from a clouded sky breaking into the earth. We become objects, glistening with light, charged forms of desire, tremoring, moving across the surface of time like possessed animals, indefinable symbols.
Do you see the flood, O man in the suit, O man of the mirrored fortress?
Do you see what you have ruined in yourself? Do you think words will save
you now? Do you think that your past will teach you how to breathe
There is no narrative that can encapsulate us. We are not a nation, we are not a generation. We are eyes, taking out the world, giving in the world.
We are love,
holding onto nothing.
(Feb 7, 2000)
Did i say “love”? Such a trademarked term, traditional, safe. Not love, then. It is the experience of the moment i’m speaking of, the pushing forward like the prow of a ship through time, the forward falling pulse of a hi hat in a jazz stream. It’s the refusal to hold back any longer, the sudden spontaneous agreement to let go of everything and let yourself be whatever it is you are doing, whatever it is you are feeling. it is letting every single wave of consciousness that hits you run through you, refusing to stop, refusing to fall back onto what is known, what is certain, what is dead.
so then when you watch, when you sit and gaze at these dead images moving, dancing before your eyes, you are looking past everything you see. you know that these forms are meaningless, these words, these illusions. but you go with it, you let it take you, because you are no longer scared, you know that there’s nowhere that you can go that will take you away from what you aren’t. it is acknowledging that you could never possibly capture it, that you could ever possibly understand. it is accepting that every moment is a death, every moment is a birth.
we are the dead watching the dead,