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Waking Up Despair

Waking up to despair,
sadness,
bone-tired at war with a beeping alarm clock,
an alarming list of immediately urgent responsibilities
without an opportunity in sight,
or at least not this first despairing fright,
at end of night.

If this sounds familiar
as at least your normal Monday through Friday,
you probably need a better way toward bed
the night before.

Most likely, earlier.

But also,
even for many with mindfulness practices,
disciplines
with their own short and long-term rewards
for both natural and spiritual health,
remembering gratitude
is our interior face
of grace’s exterior face,
or karma’s exterior influences,
or love’s potential winners winning
full circle in theory,
yet too anemic during this dreaded alarm clock time.

If yours is solely a morning contemplative practice,
after you wave the kids off to school,
after the gym or the run,
after the personal hygiene,
it is already too late
to optimize your opportunity
to wake up with least claustrophobic despair
and most expansive hope
building toward faith
that this day just might be even better
than yesterday,
as utterly remarkable as yesterday appeared
as you were mindfully drifting off to sleep
perhaps even before greeting GrandMother Moon’s
new through full repeat performances.

She’ll be here all week,
visible and sometimes invisible,
guarding your restorative rights and responsibilities
toward regenerating tomorrow’s realistic gratitude
for renewed opportunities
to brush your teeth,
and greet each child and significant other,
to notice if these wake with a smile
toward this day,
or with a scowl
for lack of sleep
or a good dream interrupted,
and recognizing how this is two ways
of saying one important not yet thing
which can build toward despair,
and further lack of more therapeutic dreams.

It is an important personal and also political choice
to prepare for sleep
repairing for tomorrow’s grace
or in dread against our memories of grace’s lack,
apparent absence,
persistently stuck issues
too overwhelming to think or feel our way out of,
through,
beyond.

These are important items for evening contemplation too.
But, when I am making my lists,
I start with minuses,
drift off counting my appositional pluses.
They are both there
within us
if we can choose restorative faith
after our lights turn out.

In this sense
we can choose our karma,
our awareness of positive and negative grace.
Love’s tones of restorative therapy
and retributive punishment,
if not yet quite overwhelming gratitude,
also not awakening to further despair
from chronic days of self with other abuse and neglect.

I continue having a dream
that the night everyone in military-industrialized cultures
drifts off feeling graced with opportunities
to become and do every cooperative thing we can
to guarantee Earth’s future of healthy exterior climates,
that is the night before our first morning
arising together
without overwhelming internal competing despairs.

Faith that this restorative therapeutic day
could unfold no less grand
than this dream we shared
our polypathic
demilitarizing
dis-industrializing
less exhausting night before.

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Evening Rainsong

Alone again
yet evening rain falls
cooling fresh breeze voices
anxious for everything,
angry about nothing.

Nothing to do about rain falling
as sure as gravity
of dripping issues
landing in my lap,
splattering naked children’s sleepy heads
and innocent soft shoulders.

Into each life…
Yes,
yet eventide rains inside voices
wet down dwindling life
of tiring consciousness.

If I could not read or write or speak
who would I sing with in new found leisure?
Scattered lyrical thoughts
of painful rain
for evening’s loss of light,
and dawn’s dew drop evaporations
raising praise for might
of rain rising up yet again
to grace some other’s night.

We each sing with rain dying alone,
a humanic nature feeling trapped
alien emigrant returning home
to Earth where all creations fail and fall
to rise again singing through new voices
and hues,
spectral rhythmic
dances of songs and cries
each our lived together owned,
rising up new throated sounds
disintegrated symphonies
of song sung out
toward tomorrow’s rain clouds
capturing moist radiant waves,
wet sounds of song
well-lived yet bound.

I hear too complex songs for living,
polyphonic evening rains
falling down alone
to rise again belonging songs
evaporating praise,
leaking radiance
gathering together.

Into and through each flowing melody
of rebaptising life
dirged this night alone
yet heard as well-sung rain forever.

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ManicDepressive Climates

Depression is like dying
without hope this process will end well,
without remediation
at least not for my closely held ego-identity,
and despair
this turning inward
creates a cocoon by avoiding outward.

Focal awareness of ego mortality,
immanent and emanant,
eminent,
turns inward,
returns inward
in despairing response against outward;
the whats and whos of external metaphysical life.

Depression brings tacit fixation on mortality
while advanced notice of irremediable pathologies
brings focal awareness
this is ego’s final stage of turning in,
away from out,
now already on that other side of a great timeless ego-boundary.

Those who die alone,
whether through depression or physical decomposition,
live inside a cloud of memories,
worries and anxieties
within which hope of further actively interdependent relationship,
experience of therapeutic communication,
may evaporate
especially if this is how we have lived apart together.
These alone with worries easily overwhelm
abandoned within our depressed boundaries
against others,
against possibility of natural experience as joy,
wonder
curiosity
compassion
love within further health becoming.

Depression, especially as it grows chronic,
within an individual,
within a played-out political culture,
within a longterm economic trend,
can be accompanied by paranoia.
Fear of turning terminally inward.
Worry that there is nothing inside
still becoming part of outside,
without capacity to influence, effect, affect,
other than to infect with further contagious
anger and depression about isolation
and deprivation,
neglect of healthy relationship,
violent ego-abuse
craving therapies for self-administered escape.

Internal voices become an anxious debate
about over-consuming
and under-producing life.
Not measuring up to original hopes
and intent of co-creating Paradise.

Depression is typically humorless,
especially when accompanied by flights of paranoia.

Humor, whether manically fluid
or dryer, more cool sardonic,
more vulnerably exposing of ego’s childlike dispositions,
and adolescent gender-related predator and prey articulations,
is not accessible from within paranoia’s cocoon
of fear
that ego’s core is empty white cold disassociating noise.

Manic oppression of others
erupts into the geometric opposite view,
what was concave depressed grows convex anger,
even rage.
Ego becomes SuperEco,
equivalent with Earth’s polypathic interdependent
ecopolitically self-justifying powers,
entitlement to terrorizing extremes
to take
to use
to enslave
to exploit
in return against Earth’s profound disappointments
and unfairness suffered in the name of others’ claims for freedom
to own whatever and whomever remains outside Left-your/Right-our
self-identified cocoon of integral becoming.

Love and humor and regenerate faith
lie midway between these two extremes
of manic Yang interdependent ecopolitical empowerment
and negative dualdark Yin,
both depressed for reasons of past mutual oppressions,
and feeling antipathically paranoid
about this great emptiness inside.

Both love and humor
evaporate this great barrier reef
between tragic depression
and comedic obsession
with our overpowering egotistic LeftBrain dominant charm.

Capitalism,
as contrasted with cooperatively co-investing capital,
is in idolatrous tension
with therapeutic roots
of Catholicism
and all forms and rituals of Messianic Saviorism.
Here lies our incapacity
to both serve a regenerative healthy God
and a degeneratively reified,
desacralized,
depressed Mammon,
organic Creation
without nutritional Creator.

Capitalism grows ever more virulently rabid
as my ultimate Win
always and everywhere must be at your Lose expense;
investing in manic ego is my higher priority,
and should be,
in dubious fact,
due to laws of competitive predator nature,
must be above cooperative organic investing
in ecoEarth as holy Other.

Whereas positive faith systems,
including all dialects of Judeo-Christianity and Islam,
Buddhism and Taoism and Hinduism,
teach, and sometimes behave,
following WinWin cooperative Golden Rule
as Original Intent of regenerate Earth
iconized as God
and/or Goddess
and/or Allah
and/or Atman, etc.

So, when we hear,
through our too often depressed
and repressed
and suppressed ears,
that military threat and violent arms
are our ecopolitical first choice
to grow economic freedom away from depression,
we can also hear the satanic voice of Capitalism
growing freedom toward
totalitarian manic monoculturing Yangism.

Capital,
removed from a sacred ecological resource for health co-investment,
becomes degenerative of wealth for interdependent freedoms,
rooted in this equivalence
between universal co-relational identity with Earth,
our original embryonic Paradise cocoon,
wombing empty integrity,
(0)-sum ego-ecopolitical
cooperative nondual co-arising intent
as timeless interdependent/empty co-identity
within RealWorld cooperative spacetime.

This barrier reef of Left with Right identity
includes both polypathic comedy
and antipathic tragedy,
yet never all of one
unless some of other,
each side searching WinWin applications
reiterating Left-Right Golden Rules of Tao-balance,
recreating freedom
synonymous with both heady capital
and nondual dipolar tailish eco-equity
co-investing fairness.

Freedom from depression toward sublime multiculturing wonder;
freedom to elate subprime depression’s passing.

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Sweet Revenge

Greatest revenge
perhaps to become even.

Becoming even
to love what and whom Earth has given
and taken,
will give and take,
until we are each even.

Only wonder and no worries
about which gender you are and are not
or prefer to verge and submerge with and without
or even if you prefer them all
evenly
eventually.

Warmest wise investment
perhaps love within and between such events.

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In Season And Out

In and around Auschwitz
Barbed wire still weeps
through too long denied rain.

In and around Annihilation
Denied climates fast creep
toward pathology’s pain.

Through surrounding Anger
Charged hate denies sleep
for those who must explain.

In tyrannic Acid
Barbed boundaries sweep
out lies of monstrous strain.

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ReCreating MaryJuanita

I noticed that one of the Kennedy patriarchs,
probably a Joseph or John or Ted
or Tim or Matthew or Mark or Luke,
Why do they all begin to look and sound the same to me?
Anyway, one of these informed and educated and good guys
responded to decriminalizing ingestion of THC,
cautioning us regarding potential public health hazards.

While I share some of these bleary and yet specific concerns,
Mr. Kennedy and I do seem to view these potential pathological influences
through two quite different frames of reference.

He approaches dangers of THC influence
in contrast to a population that would otherwise presumably ingest
organic goat’s milk and wild honey.

I see the prospects for a THC cooperative addicted society
in pleasant contrast
to our current alcohol degenerative indigestion
addicted to bipolar competing ecopolitical disculturation.

From a public health perspective,
given only a choice between THC or alcohol decriminalization,
the evidence of history appears to vote
for the more regenerative THC.

Now,
if we could addict honey bees to THC pollen,
and goats to voraciously forage on marijuana fibers,
and we became the land of goat milk and THC honey;
that, I suppose,
would be so much more
our healthier wealth of opportunity.

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Winter’s Time 2016

Winter’s time
and the livin’s not easy.
Snow plows humpin’
and my mouth is too dry.

Well, well, well, well, well
your daddy ain’t rich
and your wallet’s not cookin’.
So sleep little baby,
don’t you,
don’t you cry.

[Insert your own scat blues here. You didn’t think I was going to do all the work did you?]

One of these nightly days
We’re gonna’ rise up singin’;
We’re gonna’ spring our wings
and fly to the sky sky, sky!

And on that great gettin’ up mornin’
there ain’t nothin’ gonna’ stop us,
with Mother Earth
an Father Sun
standin’
and spinnin’ bye….

Ba-duh, ba-duh, ba-duh,
Bu-Dah…..

 

Dedicated to all the SADs, especially those working through Advent 2016, trying to keep your winterish cool about TrumpAdministration 2017.

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