sunday salutations to the cold grey rain…

sitting in the back room, candle lit.  heater on high.  talking to she with the long long hair like a mane.  turning cards over and telling stories.  reading their future trajectories.  sipping hot peppermint tea watching the rain.  looking at lapis and citrine…feeling lost.  emptiness takes over.  next, it feels heavy in the chest.  no home.  penniless.  the sky is falling.  the pain saturates.  the look in his eyes when i handed him a five dollar bill.  earnest and confused.  it’s hard to keep walking.  we walked into the poetry reading.  alabama is a manager now.  fernet and soda.  share the table with young volunteers pale and cold like snow.  watch the show.  she says “silencio” three times in a row….i am silenced by the cuban poetry.  the rest would have been better read.  fishbowls everywhere.  containing trapped souls circling, looking for a way out, feeling somehow that there is more but how to get to it?  breathe.  the breath is who i am.  mind is witnessing.  the mystery of that pinning me to this body both dead and alive, depending on what year it is.  the slate grey cafe, chilly.  roobios tea.  a game.  you write one line and i will write the next, but we can’t look at the line that was written before.  the fox grabbing the goose and killing it.  the rapists one block away.  i think of the woman, and how she will never be the same.  i want to take her pain away.  but i can’t.  it’s been done.  the damage is permanent because it cannot be undone.  what to do?  they didn’t speak our language.  how did this happen?  how did differences become a violent producing thing?  what vicious beast circles the human race continually hungry?   that is a mystery too.  an uncomfortable mystery.  pew.  p.u.  that mystery stinks.  it rots inside me and you.  elevate the senses.  bring them to the level of vapor so that all memories melt into stardust the moment the cells rinse out the past.  with breath.  sweat.  words.  let the cigarette liquor madmen fantasy go, it’s destructive, those cigarettes are killing you, stop it, stop pickling your liver with too much booze, quit oiling your veins until they turn to porcelain and shatter.  face life and walk into life and breathe life and live life, and love life and let the memories slide off like a dali clock.  even let go of the entire story about how you perceive it all.  feels go good.  letting go is relief.  it’s finally releasing the grip.  surrendering solutions and logic to the underlying chaos of nature.  fully immersing.  titanium quartz new age birthing through the dark slippery canal into the carnival of history, getting a slap and a smile, love, pain, and all the lessons passed down from generation to generation asking to be let go through each new person.  it’s not glamorous, the intimacy of having bodies.