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Predators

My older sister,
now in her early seventies,
which was about the last time
she enjoyed a new idea,
in the early 70s, possibly earlier,
I would guess…

She moved to white middle-class
Republican Texas,
with aging Texas sized unresolved adolescent issues,
not too long
after dropping out of Bob Jones University,
southern capital of all-white evangelical anti-Christian racism,
which had fallen prey to unfiltered privilege
of Republican Pharisees,
BadNews for all non-white
non-straight
polycultural ecofeminist Aliens,
therefore not authentically heterosexual white Jesus lovers,
or something patriarchal like that.

Anyway,
a few years ago
I let her know
I had recently been invaded,
not by a goodnews Hetero-Revival,
but by HIVirus.

HI!
I’m Positive.
Don’t pass it on.
Keep me to your loser self.

She emailed me back:
How do you feel about your choices
now?

A few years later
a hurricane went through Texas
and her gated community flooded
resulting in new front porch vistas
of alligators or crocodiles
or whatever Texans have down there,

besides angry straight white privileged Republicans
and Johnson Democrats of suspicious color
and green ecopolitical WinWin persuasions,

swimming upstream
hunting for white-meat prey.

I emailed my sister back,
How do you feel
about your choices
now?

Have not yet heard back.

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Uncategorized

Talking Mirrors

I’m a fairly active charter member
of Connecticut’s Medical Marijuana Program,
qualifying because I’m also one of the oldest HIV+ survivors in the U.S.

In fact,
not a single cell within my entire organism
would have been brought to you without the miracles of chemistry.
So blame Big Pharma,
you would not be the first
but you might be the last.
You never know,
you could get lucky.
Find a bottom-line its all about me corporation
prepared to listen to people
as if we might become reasonable advocates for healthier climates,
rather than mere consumers of pathological therapies.

Anyway, I’ve been sick off and on,
mostly on,
since the beginning of November
so I’ve also been pretty much stoned.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, I’m not sure
Probably both.
I’m also probably the oldest HIV+ Taoist survivor
and Taoists always have to pretend both sides of the mirror
might have worthwhile reflective potential.
WuWei quasi-fortunately,
rather than being too sick with respiratory issues to get stoned,
I’m too stoned to remember I’m sick.

Despite being retired,
I don’t have time to be sick anyway,
in large part because my youngest of four kids
is a girl with wicked Oppositional Defiant Disorder;
a label she defies.
Not because she’s opposed to labels,
but because she thinks she is perfectly ordered
as the rest of us losers might better get with her program.

She likes PresidentElect Trump
because he looks and sounds familiar,
as prehensile grabby economic and political leaders
were meant to be.

For my young teenage daughter,
ODD is not a disorder,
it is a religion
into which she was baptized
by Fetal Alcohol Full Immersion
at a fairly first trimester young embryonic age.

From her I have learned
there fortunately is no wimpy God,
but we do have one hell of a fire-breathing feminist Goddess
when we refuse to help her clean her nightmare
she calls a bedroom.

I tried to point out the inconsistency
of supporting a PresidentElect
who also refuses to help us clean our planet,
but this, apparently, is the voice of a wimpy God
who does not,
or should not,
keep on talking to the Fire Goddess hand.

This morning I was helping her get ready for school,
combing out her spiky hair.
She’s part AfricanAmerican porcupine.
We were standing in front of a large wood-framed, beveled mirror
that looks, perhaps only because I’m stoned,
like something out of Snow White
associated with her StepMom,
the witchy queen with Oppositional Defiant Disorder.

My daughter loves Snow White,
probably because she bossed around the seven dwarfs
in their own home,
(a politically incorrect position I do not recommend you ever even think of trying to get away with)
and forced them to listen to her own crappy music preferences
at a full amphitheater range of ear-splitting volume.

Be that as it too loudly may,
I asked her if she ever talks to her mirror,
asking, Who is the fairest of them all?

Yes.

And, does the mirror talk back?

Yes. It says,
You need to clean your room!

That’s strange.
My mirror has been saying the same thing
ever since early November.

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Uncategorized

The Driving License

Which are your points for living
if we all die into cold leaky stink or ash anyway?
What’s the point of dying
if we could otherwise live continuously?

Heading down the river
on AAA rite of ritual passage.
Six years since last I drove this way
not imagining this homing ritual
to drive again
with automating locamoting license
to ambulate for six more years
of what are my points for living thru
we all die anyway.

Last time I stood in line
to buy my laminated aging image
of ego’s self-chauffeur,
family van driver
complete with wheelchairs
and alternatively designed adult strollers
strolling on toward sixty-four,
I was so sure fifty-eight
must be my last point of dying
to live no more than five more.

I was deadly tired of fighting
every air-born disaster.
My brilliant friends of young adulthood,
generation of young Aquarian post-anger management potential,
all gone.
Whether their hearts still beat for more time
and we yet breathe Earth’s air together,
or whether everless time
to laugh thru our points of dying
into otherwise life’s discontinuous absence.

Alone we stand in that last license line
another anonymous generation
of those who will not rejoin our transmillennial lines,
wondering at this climatic mystery
of ever-vanishing life cycles,
after the last grandparent’s child dies
siblings and cousins look about
furtively at each other,
over our shoulders,
take him, not me;
take me, not her,
waiting our turn to turn into pillars of dying salt.
We’re next.

Or, is there another chapter,
postscript of revolutionary eco-warrior proportion,
EarthTribe SuperLiving Hero?
I wonder as I wait
to review my new ancient-streaming vision,
remembering when my brother turned toward sixty-four
remembering this was our male year
of dying dad standing alone in his last license line.
He did not see sixty-five,
year of full socially retiring commodification
for those uniting states
of freedom’s mythic evolutionary becoming,
reverse cultural face
of mutual enslavement
to cannibalistic ownership of minds
with humane-spirited bodies;
gardeners of social justice health
confused about where we lost our points thru living
as if dying to automating ego-ugly licenses,
carbon footprint excesses wiped on the backs of servitude,
hubris for yet more lines
with already too much space between;
I sleep amazed with wonders of dying points
toward life’s more optimal unfolding,
readers writing more published nutritional words
than writers could ever possibly live wisely enough to read
with deep digestive wisdom.

I see a frail thinner sinner,
this new, still embryonically warm, face of Elder,
farming memories of HIV doctors
and earthy nurses
surprised about my winning age
as oldest survivor on their list
not yet deleted,
pointing to my living
as iconic of divinely graceful dying,
living thru and yet beyond my own AIDS EcoWarrior time,
beneficiary of unfathomable loss
of brilliant firey minds
with anciently plagued bodies,
Positive viral incubators
of Lose-to-Lose biochemistry,
anti-synergetic loss of life
thru ugly dis-eased dying
thru dark self-engagement
unto demise…

Driving back upriver,
against regeneration’s need for fertile tides,
I wonder what I could fade into at seventy.
Would my automated license issue vaporous ghosts?
Or perhaps a host of memories
not imagined when sixty-four
raised so many points for dying
thru living poured out
warm embers lighting faces of love
along my way upriver
toward homes with mysteriously functional,
puzzlingly polycultural, families
surrounded by EarthTribe cousins
living and dying interdependently,
like trees shedding seeds
pointing toward next line’s regenesis.

Which are my points for living,
those times I am dying to repeat?
What is my pointed dying
thru life’s relicensed visits?
Arriving back in EarthTribe’s Home

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Haunting Endless Waves

What co-arises together
must co-exhale to part.

Last night my HIV+ hunted down my negative,
my darkside,
death and fear,
my anger about my mortality,
my greater anger about our mortality as a species,
my greatest anger about our mortality as Earth’s DNA/RNA Tribes of Life,
that we all are so wrong and pointless
given limitations of our time’s memory
riding,
hiding,
hunting inside our skin
for how to not let this incarnate hunt ever end.

Yet, with dawn’s light,
solely this haunting by endless nothingness,
as if we had never become, so never been,
this fear of death and anger against its organic final demand,
we hope to end
with seamless faith in eternally timeless ego-identity.

Where did this ego emerge from?
Endless nothingness?
Or, a paradise womb of cooperative eco-normics,
eco-logically self-optimizing nutritional health,
perfect temperature care,
nurturing co-abundance
between this seed of ego and this Mother Earth Elder EcoSystem,
sufficient well-being wealth
which, as decomposed,
became exegetical syntax,
elements with dynamic flows and functions
progenerated by co-arising gravity of time’s folding
and refolding revolutions,
the stardust structure of Father Time’s seasonal
reasonal
primally relational language.

How do we ecologically reason and induce,
expand and contract,
regenerate and decompose,
produce and consume,
this emergent hypothesis about ego’s deadly nondual co-arising,
inevitability?
Just how frightening and maddening is this,
to embrace
absorb
devour
soak up
co-prehend
co-science
co-arise to co-decompose
integrative/disintegrative folds
of cosmologically progenitive
dual-destiny transparent
Eco-Time’s co-arising/co-densing identity?

Those who surf our co-arising together

learn to co-exhale dismount
to co-arise the waves of future’s time
now always co-densively logic-present.

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Ordained Life

I learned the other day that my immune system is gone. She just up and left. No goodbye, no Dear Jerry letter, no flowers, not even an email to let me know; hoping I wouldn’t notice why systemic failure grows more prominent.

My doctor told me about this sly exodus. She is this vibrant buxom Russian immigrant with long wavy auburn hair, and the sturdy solid nature of totalitarian atheistic culture, and the bedside manner of Attila the Hun. Still, she tries her best to break dark news, reaching for anything she might recall to work with human feelings, other than  pain and suffering. Pain she understands, and believes we should all be much more tolerant of our petty, relentless, agonizing Teachers, like not being able to bear weight on my left foot, for example. Her best medical advice was stay off your foot. Teach my kids how to feed and care for each other. Take a nap.

Anyway, she breezes into the examining room where I am sitting, mostly clothed, perched on the edge of the exam table with naked feet anxiously touching the pull-out steel footrest. Waving my not very thick file in her dominant left hand, before the door slams shut behind her, she asks me if I know that I am Positive.

Her radiant smile did not seem to be begging me to tell her I already knew so she was not in the position of actually having to think about how to be kind.

I didn’t know what was the right best answer:

Yes, thank you, and I’ve always found you to be a positive person too?…

No, in fact I hope my husband of the last twenty years will be surprised to hear this as well….

Well, I have been getting sick a lot lately, coming down with weird stuff normal people don’t usually have a problem with, like breaking out in hives in my armpits, so it does cross my mind, now that you so generously mention it, that maybe my immunity guards have departed without giving notice, or even closing the door of vulnerability on their way out….

But, instead, I just say No, quietly, in awe of this strangely-shared boundary moment.

So she hesitantly touches my forearm, and valiantly tries to continue smiling, to reassure me that it will be OK, not a death sentence, her extractive words.

Well, that was good to know, especially because I hadn’t even realized I was waiting for sentencing. I wasn’t even aware of my charges or my trial, my judge, or my apparently merciful jury.

But, I had been feeling vulnerable, and learning I am vulnerable to all the cooties and disease and suffering and pain in this world, on this Earth, within this EarthTribe, leaves me feeling mushy and rotten, old and used up, or at least overripe for decay, inside, then outside.

Vulnerable.

Wide open to whatever comes along, available, accessible, for good and bad.

An open vortex for anyone or anything to use as even my own defenses have evaporated, not like a sunset over the ocean, when that last radiant arcing flash says goodbye until tomorrow. Rather, the loss of immunity, the ache of endlessly inclusive vulnerability, uncovers a quietly creeping dawn, except instead of Earth gradually emerging until I must open glad eyes to discover Her visible presence once again, one more time, this time, her sobbing and singing, dancing, lavishly beautiful Time, my Interior Landscaped self-consciousness gradually purges to uncertain self-identity, and less concern about where you begin and where I end, because my ending is already predicted by lack of self-defense.

A well-fired strength lurks within this deep ecology of grateful emptiness. Creating a winterish listening place for all nutrients and toxins around and within me, a place, a jump in, the water’s warm recreating safe-space where each can be heard, embraced, have a say about our future together. How long we may or may not sustain our interdependent web of life.

Without capacity, perhaps even the desire, to exclude often dissonant nutrients and voices, tastes and smells, feelings and awareness, difficult and insane immigrants, I invest this sacred listening mountain in regenerating new connections, new ways of seeing appositional, dialectical rationality, rather than oppositional polarity.

I learn to long for ways we might survive together that would be in your best interest as my self-interest dissipates into a dark vortex of Yin openness. If our shared values for diversely nutritional compost disappear, then I have no hope to grow my own.

Finding harmony within this apparent dissonance and disease and suffering and insanity is the only vocation left to this EarthTribe Identity, softly individuating within Earth’s resilient resonance, my boundaries of immunity to you removed. All remaining for me is my subsidiarity to Earth’s well-being, for here we all return, generative memory seeds of language and code, capturing voices stringing songs back, back to stardust Elders.

We are Earth’s Tribe dying to remember to fly together like the stars from which we emerged, the Earth which we reincarnate; and trying to not fly apart quite so awfully much.

 

 

 

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