back into saraswati’s chant again, feeling her when she was a river, gush into my brain, heart, lungs, feelings, filling me with the desire to write write write. can i be a man this time? losing logical abilities behind the counter, cause i cannot add things up and talk about the blue people at the same time. feeling pangs of guilt and the old wound’s voice whisper, “maybe you really are bad, and things will turn out bad int he end,” but i don’t analyze, i just give love…and chant. chanting is becoming the practice. why? well, as krishna das says it, to save my own miserable ass. a little bit of wisdom hidden inside the crass…grounds me. cause the lines between worlds are fuzzy and my soul’s expanding past containers, as i dive into puddles of love that seem to have no beginning nor an ending. lifted up and off ground, like in a spaceship, carried in his voice. not escaping. but literally feeling like i am being carried into a new dimension or place. everyone’s feeling it, are you? i was telling him on the phone that none of us know what it looks like and it’s scary cause it’s new. like the first time the natives saw the europeans. and what did they do? massacre. that’s what we have stored away in our subconscious, whether you like it or not. sorry but healing needs to be done. no way around it. only through. but i don’t want to lecture you. i am a wave of love and lines of poetry and the way of the swan and sparrow, easily killed. oh so vulnerable. that’s ok. smoosh, i am gone. or my body is anyways. so it happens. but ahhhhh, i feel the river of saraswati melt into my body and it’s like stepping off an ego throne. diving naked into pure water, the natural baptism, free of religion, and invasive incisions. the heart weary from the beat. the soul running out of heat. illusions crashing. none of it true. spending all my money on a stone. being gifted a coffee. bravery. openness. not in any hurry. flaws on the zip line. sing it out. i’m writing to erase all doubt. knowing it’s coming. a needed hermitage in a little home to get out the stories. where she winds up nobody knows. submissive to when i just know. no mulling, no trying. there’s no crying in baseball. there’s no dying, only rebirth. getting my palm read. getting my body to some nature, quick. you gotta climb walls of fate against the resistance. to not believe in the fire inside. just shy of a nickel. the ego throne a mere trickle. watching cows out the car window. the smell of dung and taste of sorrow. black coffee upon waking. the silence of air around my head. no concrete. no cigarette smoke. yet at the same time, each step of these streets is divine. the plastic wrap on the sidewalk is prime real estate. yeah, all of it, all of it. this is a bunch of words coming out without effort. i am tired and ready to dream….