Very Respectfully

I'm sorry you're hurting and your confidence is low. You say you're processing a lot but I don't know what you're processing. I just want to scream "you are a beautiful man! I look up to you! Nothing is fucked here dude!". It's frustrating. I had flushed that memory like a turd but we can reach into the sewage since you asked. That night at Big Sur we romanticized the beats and all three of us drank straight from a jug. The brightest moon we had ever seen illuminated our dancing. I was spinning in circles in my red house coat. I shoved you to provoke you. To provoke anything. There's a part of me that wants to roll the dice, bare my chest, bark at the moon, get a bloody nose, fuck in the streets, and fight with my brother. It comes out with a playful spirit. To say it was harmless is too simple because I know people could be hurt. I realized how much I respect you and myself. Now I dance very respectfully without the jug but I'll probably always swing wildly and howl. P.S. As I wrote this to you I watched a puppy in the yard digging holes, biting at bumble bees flying by, and nipping at the older dog's ears. I was, and maybe am, a lot like him. I'm not too concerned with "darkness" but my darkness is like the darkness of a dog. Eventually the dog grows older, laying in the sun, in the grass, as the bumble bees fly by. I hope this is helpful for you. I only have positive, happy, healing thoughts towards you. V/R

Rabbits & Bats

I was dancing by myself
at midnight
on the back porch.
Warm spring air.
A loud rustling in the woods.
A rabbit runs out,
chasing another rabbit.
A bat chasing another bat
swoop by my head.
Spring fuckers!

Ashram or Bust

It has almost been one year
since I titled a blank
one dollar composition book
"Ashram or Bust"
with the intention of
chronicling my journey
to the yoga ashram and
becoming a yoga teacher.
I went to the ashram,
waking up at five A.M.
every day for a month
in a tent, breathing with
the yogis.
Sunrise lotus.
Yes, I became a yoga teacher.
But the pages also have
words of the static
white noise
blackout trauma of loss.
Frayed nerve.
Chunks of blurred memory.
Tennessee on acid.
A girl from New Orleans
following me home,
blessing me with sage smoke
and cigarettes.
Running away to California.
Sleeping in a tool shed
in subfreezing desert nights.
Meeting my six foot five
Chinese friend
that would look at his
wristwatch while he ate,
who just got back from
Afghanistan.
A Shaker monastery and
olive farm where I lived in a
one hundred fourteen year old farmhouse and it rained
nearly everyday.
Haunted by the ghost
of the Blue Lady
and the old owl on the hill
in the redwoods.
Fog and mud.
Yellow rain coats.
Fresh guava.
Always the smell of cedar
and salt water.
I cried with my brother,
the cool mountain air
and discovered myself
opening like a flower
as winter became spring.
Almost one year later
in the one dollar composition
notebook titled
"Ashram or Bust"