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Redeeming Toxic Playgrounds

Full minds are angels’ playgrounds.

Mindfulness in peaceful moments

grows heart-beat listening to breath,

telling me how I feel

about ego’s relationship with EarthTribe Self.

 

Mindfulness in high-stress straining eternities

grows breath listening to heart-beat,

telling me how ego feels

about EarthTribe Other

in this chronically incarvating moment.

 

Optimizing mindful constant growth,

this cooperative conversation between

lungs’ left cycling ego-expiration,

hearts’ right cycling eco-inspiration.

 

When Yang space polynomials

reverse Yin-timed binomials

as positive says not-not,

and confluence says not dissonant,

and contentment says not quite so contentious,

then Tao’s harmonious

Buddha brained self-other

mutually interdependent redemption emerges

for bipolar balancing minds to glee.

 

To meditators,

mutual mentors

shamanic bipolar polypaths

those who see too much autistic dissonance

within without,

please consider this invitation

to our incubating laboratory.

Focus on your heart-beat with your right brain

as you inhale,

now focus on your lungs emptying into Earth’s breath

with your left brain

as you exhale.

Please let me know if this does or does not help you

as I find this practice therapeutically responsive

to polycultural life’s intriguingly resolvent

resonating pathologies.

 

When life feels as adventurous as death’s mysterious threshold,

warm-blooded surfing flow,

then life’s mysterious threshold adventures death’s ego-freeing bliss.

But, stick around,

we need you

to help us clean up this mess we made

together.

 

As we learn to breathe and play cooperatively together

and put away all our toxic,

extractive,

unredeemable,

eco-illogical toys,

and over-investments in competing games,

a golden ruling rainbow sweeps

my Atlantic’s Pacific Sky,

swirling

swelling back and forth

shepherding past and future regenerators,

speciating spacetime’s

Perma-Ecoculturing Commons.

 

 

 

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Warm-Blooded Thirst

When we comprehend regenerate systemic structure,

then we grow regenerative prime development function,

of time and praxis,

of space and sequential proportion,

of polyculturing evolutions,

polypathic revolutions,

devouring monocultures in warm-blooded synergetic redemptions.

 

Play nice,

we’re all in this mess we created together

so we can keep fixing it forever.

This seems to be what happens

while we are planning other things.

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Still-born Metamorphosis

If only you would not deny

when I tell you how sad I am

to hear you so hopelessly alone.

Could you be a bit scared?

Like the rest of us,

that just maybe this is it

and somehow I missed

while dreaming other strings

of theory about who we are,

you and I.

 

How do we deserve each other

in this life?

How do we dance incarnation’s

precision march through culture,

beliefs,

words,

norms,

language perhaps more sustainably waltzed,

and sung with full resonance,

to grow this tree of life,

spin dark Earth to reach dawn’s light,

to race winter’s season into warmer springs

of laughter, love,

and hearty hugs and memories,

worn rugs with stories gently

gracefully unraveling.

 

I understand it hurts to imagine

someone I love but cannot find

grounds for stable relationship,

leaving home on pilgrimage toward

a lifestyle of regenerative promise,

like turning my back on our potential

in search of a fool’s dream

to have only what I already have,

if I would only want you

just a bit harder,

longer,

more regeneratively.

 

Even so, your pilgrimage

already has my blessings

wherever, to whomever,

can bring you less loneliness

than I have,

and more love,

less fearful peace.

 

I don’t know how to love you

away from your cocoon,

and you’ve left no room for me inside

to metamorph together.

While I realize we made this mess together,

I see no way to clear it up

or live in it as is

other than embracing your cocoon,

by crawling up in mine.

 

If only I could not deny

when you tell me how sad you are

to hear me so hopelessly alone.

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Self-ReGenerating Laundry Service

Not amazed at the transformation from one who,

not so far away,

only laundered his own clothes,

into one who launders our clothes,

late into a Friday night,

gratefully,

without stretched-bone resentment,

without so much as glancing back,

without any interest in what smaller self had been suffering.

 

So profoundly in love,

blind to his own bleached metamorphosis.

No longer comprehending life without

abundant heaps of mess,

soiled cherished artifacts,

much less imagine alternatives to life

that could unfold full

and rich

and fresh

and worthy.

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