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Advent Funerals with Birthdays

The coincidence of Advent
and the HW Bush eulogies
reminded me of DJ Trump’s challenge
to laugh about himself
at least as quickly as he laughs against others.

As compared to any recent US President,
he comes in dead last
for his appropriate humility,
willingness to sacredly listen, empathize with generosity,
and least place for his ability to nurture resilient international peace,
and I am not sure these two challenges
are merely side-by-side coincidental.

Other challenges seem to come with the Yangish motivation required to even become a credible candidate.

Presidential candidates
at least since the Civil War,
if not the Revolutionary War,
are not generally known for saintly sacred listening
to and for healthy multicultural developments,
domestic or foreign,
domestic and yet foreign
to those unschooled in WinWin health-power whisperings,

Noticing positive deviance
advocated and praised and blessed first well-humored,
before negative pedestrian bullying rat races continue
with all paranoid Win/Lose stripes
madly pursued by monoculturing manic political stars.

This Advent day of HW Bush eulogies
was also my oppositionally defiant daughter’s seventeenth birthday.
When I asked her for an allegorical meaning
for the Sleeping Beauty fable
she dismissed the story
as another patriarchal humorless female Messianic staple
for achieving EarthJustice happily ever after
by mere kiss of Prince Charming
after she had done all the heavy emotional lifting
required to rebuild sacred communion
with resilient good humor.

But, she is more interested in discussing Robin Hood
and Little Red Riding Hood,
all the potential messianic Hood leaders
who know predative patriarchal wolves when they see
and hear
and smell them,
even in hooded disguise,
transparently lying on their own grandmother’s bed
and Bibles
and thrones,
about being more committed to democratic good-humored healthy constitutions
advocates for sharing communion with all
before defending their own ego-centric hindquarters.

My fetal alcoholic seventeen year old daughter
knows wolves when she hears them
in government threatening humorless voices
or more entertainingly violent industrial corruption predators.

Feminist Hoods can themselves taste wolf hunger
for royal hunting and riding
and devouring innocent WinWin democratic youth,
separating them from their naive healthy multiculturing forests,
composed by
and for
and of naturally diverse and good-humored habitats.

She can smell satiated predators
growing hungry for vulnerable healthy integrity
stealing back fleeting power from Win/Lose playing wolves
by investing economic and political trust
in those still living natural-humored life
as a normal spiritually connecting re-investment.

Hooded egos still know this spiritually enchanted forest life
as a naturally reconnecting hope
for healthy happier,
more co-redemptive,
EarthJustice futures.

And so the eulogies
and my daughter’s exegetical birthday party progressed
through Cinderella’s king and queendom
at healthier humored EarthJustice hand
after marrying her Prince of Adventuring Revolutionary Peace.

On through the Three Little Pigs
enjoying shared wolf-soup communion
with all EarthTribe’s piglets and cubs,
dolls and stuffed bears
communioned while sitting down grace-fully together.

She hears this same polypathic humored journey
in every diversely sacred narrative
she leads and listens,
smells and tastes and feels
hope for Earth’s wealth
of future everyday health
for democratic constitutions,
disability stories,
eulogies inviting salvific humor.

This coincidence of birthday and funeral
reminds me of our sacred challenges
to laugh communally among ourselves
more than jeering a viral twittering weapon
against the vulnerabilities of others.

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CareGiving Stories Continued

Wounded Sacred Dementia

My last foster care-provider
and -receiver story
is also a sad story
of my last special needs adoption
of bipolar born,
and oppositionally reared,
alcoholism.

My BiPolar Wounded Child
turned an auspicious five
on the day I first saw her,
and promptly rejected her,
not in dipolar person,
but in a picture of Little Brown Girl
with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome
surrounded by huge multicolored balloons
like a bubble bath
gone delightfully wrong
for a demented princess,

And so has life proved to be
living in her often queenly raging
perpetual-childhood Reign,
not so wonderfully benign,
now mid-adolescent,
at least hormonally.

Dementia,
like Fetal Alcohol,
was on my list of
“Will not consider even meeting,
much less living and dying with.”

The local Department of Children and Families folks
knew I had a too-empty bedroom
and restorative therapeutic experience
and special needs caregiving training
they had provided,
patience I had practiced
retained
restrained
rewoven cooperatively.

I was certified for FirstAid, but not Last,
and administering medications
and receiving ecotherapies
and what to do when a child is choking
and not yet choking
and mouth-to-mouth heart palpitation,
and avoiding ear-to-ear mind pulpitization.
Although, truthfully, I believe my Permaculture Design certification
was more helpful
for restorative WinWin therapy consultations
with wounded kids,
and their not-well-trained adults.

SocialWorker specialists
invited me to consider four kids
waiting for a less toxic residence.

One was Dementia.

Another older girl,
also AfricanAmerican,
wanted to wait for a home
without any male presence
in a threatening house,
due to past unthinkably unfortunate events,
furthering her internal climate
of ZeroSoul Zone pathologies.

A one year old white boy
would never walk.
I couldn’t see how I sprint
through a successful WinWin family outing
with two wheelchairs to push around.
It was already discouraging enough
with one
to often choose exploring voices outside,
now rather staying more too sedately home muted,
ZeroZone diluted,
inside.

The fourth was an older hispanic boy
who looked WinWin perfect
but then was suddenly hospitalized,
for reasons never ominously or even reassuringly explained,
and it looked likely he might never leave alive;
LoseLose.

This was one of those moments
to pause
and wonder about therapeutic timing
and nutritious choices
creating WinWin nurturing branches
or not, more WinLose,
in others’ BusinessAsUsual lives,
not just my own ZeroZen SoulZone.

Dementia’s Social Worker
was WinLose pre-disposed and concomitantly desperate
to close her unfortunately least marketable case.
At five,
this BiPolar Dementia already had two priors.

Prior attempts at WinWin adoption
that ended LoseLose,
at best,
a toxic six weeks later.

She had bounced
from one unsuccessful
They Lose and I Lose foster home
to the next
and no one of them
trained for WinWin special needs alcoholic placements,
should there actually be such a training thing,
because they didn’t want such needs
demanding in their already too complicated
indoor lose some-lose Sum
ZeroSoul too dissonant lives.

I agreed to meet Dementia
because her SocialWorker had persuaded herself,
whether through ignorance
or incompetence
I still know not,
although I’ve heard no WinWin rule
that one is less ignorantly likely
to incompetently appear
without the other,
She was persuaded
Dementia was not alcohol baptized
BiPolar Competitive more than DiPolar CoOperative,
Marked for a lifetime of Trumpian Wounded Child struggle
with bipolar cognitive-affective dissonance,
dismay, despair,
dissonant eruptions,
in addition to her cerebral palsy lifetime
of stinky and wet incontinence.

I met Dementia
in her most successful
(least tragic) foster home.

Mom was surrounded by so many kids
she did not know what to do.
But remained wise enough
to promise strong toilet-training skills
if only so someone else
would finally change Dementia’s messy climate diapers.

I brought a Dorah doll
for her recently past fifth birthday
and asked her if she spoke Spanish.
I have no idea what she said in response,
probably not Spanish,
but she delighted in tearing the packaging
into confetti
with a suspiciously satisfied smile.

Dorah would live on for a few months,
gradually losing body parts.
An arm here,
a leg there.
She went bald,
unexpectedly one scissored night.
Then her capacity to speak
and sing evaporated,
a mixed blessing
in my opinion
not that it was often asked for,
or ever heeded,
or even appreciated when received.
Finally
Dorah’s merciful beheading
led to a tearful cremation.

I had a lot of questions
for FosterMom
because I could not understand a word
Dementia mumbled.
I wasn’t even sure
of distinguishing between Yes and No
other than the too obvious non-verbal communication
that filled in for NegativEnergy
dissonant messaging systems.

So I asked why she seemed to have no resonant consonants
and could she hear clearly?
resiliently?
creolizingly?
Is that a lazy left-brained eye?
Hard to tell because she needs both Left
and Right eye surgery
for lids she cannot bicamerally lift
enough to see the warm brown gleam
of her smiling therapeutic eyes.

What are those bald patches
in her hair?
How is she coming along,
or merely commingling,
with incontinence?
Why is she a choking risk?
Why does she gulp and swallow her food whole?
Why is she throwing her food
and other nutritional
nurturing elements,
toys,
soap,
colored markers?
Who is she talking to now,
because I can’t see anybody
in front of her eyes and ears
can you?

Lots of questions.
Not many informed responses.
So I told Dementia’s SocialWorker
I would take her as a pending pre-adoption placement
but only if she promises to leave her with me
long enough
so we can get her medical attention
needed for better long-term health-wealth results.

Wounded Sacred Dementia: Part Two

Dementia’s derelict WinLose SocialWorker
suboptimizingly hesitates
when I tell her
I have not changed my mind
about not adopting Fetal Alcohol Syndrome
into my vulnerable home
with a seven-year-old AfricanAmerican boy
blind
and unable to defend himself,
or even run paraplegically away,
in the likely event of predative attack
by a jealous younger girl-child
who needs to be the ego-nurtured baby addict
of her household.

My older two AfricanAmerican sons
could defend their Nubian Princely selves,
and most certainly would,
after all,
they had experience living with Tyrant
who was older
and bigger
and louder.

The SocialWorker commits to giving me six months
unless someone else comes along
as WinWin qualified
and ready to commit
to bipolar alcoholism
for ZeroZone Soul life.

We both knew how unlikely
this would unfold
in our shared HereNow
4Dimensional RealTime
of ZeroSoul understorying TaoSpirit.

So we got Dementia’s ears tubed,
all the better to hear our creolizing consonants with.
Her eyes WinWin opened
to communication’s PositivEnergy integrities
all the better to watch us form our cooperative consonants.
Her brain pictures
all the better to predict her bipolar
ZeroSoul RightBrain emotional swings.
Her scalp de-ringwormed
all the better to fill her pretty head
with ribbgons
and butterfly berets
on her own tiny yang-braids.
Her now open eyes
wearing glasses
all the better to watch us WinWin smile back
and too often LoseLose frown,
to be incontinently honest,
holding our noses and heads
against each LoseLose other.

By the end of the first week
she no longer needed to take food to bed with her.

By the end of the first day
she taught me
When Dementia rises from her feeding chair
during a meal,
more of an athletic event,
a wrestling match really,
to jump Yang-up and Yin-down
and run around,
this does not mean she is done eating,
or feeding,
or whatever.
She has other
messier ways
to let me know
when she’s All Done!!!!

Jumping during mealtime
is something about liking the food,
absorbing PositivEnergy nurture,
and needing to calm down
and express Yang-enthusiasm.

So I stop removing her food
until the pink plastic bowl is serenely empty.
Although she usually takes care of bowl removal
for me,
or against me–
not entirely sure she is sure.

I put out another bowl
if she asks for it
(no judgment)
and leave it out for her
to eat or feed on, again,
depending on your dipolar-bipolar perspective,
or to just check on from time to time
to be sure it remains there
and not yet LoseLose empty,
until she learns to trust me
to listen to her good food to eat
PositivEnergy messages
as much or little as she wants to share
whenever she wants.
All I require is a Please?
Not even ThankYou!
although that would be nice,
and PositivEnergy appreciated.

So, no need to hoard food
or bolt it down without chewing
or LoseLose throw it
before someone takes it away.

Eventually,
more like a slow groaning year,
Dementia’s SocialWorker
threatens to remove her from my care
rather than leaving her with me
until she finds a more appropriate pre-adoptive placement.

Is this a WinWin promise
or a WinLose threat?

I offer to help her recruit an ego-ecotherapeutic adult
or two
without young vulnerable children
and pets,
and too awfully many sharp knives
and scissors
and voices,
who might agree to adopt
if I provide monthly respite.

But the Professional SocialWorker
in her infinitely divine
ZeroSum Win-Lose wisdom
does not want my help.
She refuses to look for a household without high risks
of further Dementia dings,
or to even disclose Fetal Alcohol labels
to prospects for WinWin adoption,
Or to even find an appropriate foster placement
in which Dementia could more successfully
more restoratively,
with further resilience and self-sustainability,
wait and heal and hope
for that just-right therapeutic parent(s).

I am now persuaded
that Dementia’s best restorative justice and peace hope
is to be rescued from her demented SocialWorker
and, to be fair,
from a retributive lack of welfare committed system
designed to reward the heavily mortgaged SocialWorker
for punitive anti-BirthFamily decisions
not in Dementia’s best
short-term
or long-term healthy interests.

My AfricanAmerican husband and older sons agreed,
given SocialWorker’s issues,
fueled by denial of internal climate pathologies,
we should proceed toward WinWin committed adoption
and hope for our mutual therapeutic best,
and not worst,
somehow both care-giving and care-receiving democracy,
mutual creolizing acclimation
as a resilient Left and resonant Right
multiculturing household,
environment,
habitat,
home,
sort of a PositivEnergy networking nest.

I would have asked my youngest son
but would not have known how to ask,
nor how to misunderstand his non-verbal benign response.

So Dementia is still with us,
turning seventeen later this year,
our only post-millennial girl
living with five trans-millennial males,
deep listening with Dementia
teaching hard lessons:

Resilience is to LeftBrain cognitive dissonance
as RightBrain Resonance
is to affective disintegration,
as notnot PositivEnergy
WinWin democratic trust
is to NegativEnergy LoseLose autocratic anti-trust
in self or Professional SocialWorker other.

Resilience Left and Resonance Right
polypathic Yang and Polyphonic Yin
nurturing nutrients
for rich dense resonantly complex
WinWin attitudinal
and behavioral co-empathic systems.

Just as chaotically dissonant
WinLose angry
and LoseLose fearful ecopolitical systems
can grow wickedly complex interdependencies
unraveling GoldenRule cooperative
WinWin strategies
to sustain self-other perpetuating equanimity.

Resilient healthy gains
sustain
despite fading outdoor voice losses
of RightBrain therapeutic polyculturing resonance.

Dementia
has her own wild
outsideLeft–insideRight
polarizing resonance of voices
as deep and sacred
with each new outdoor RedSky dawn
as resilient resonant DNA-RNA Solidarity
Blues-inside imparts.

 

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Heroes and Villains

Everyone’s great cause
projects them as our future’s therapeutic hero.
So all against our health-intending causes
reject us as potential victimizers,
ostracizers,
impeachers,
disenfranchisers,
excommunicators.

The trick is to see antagonists,
sources of trauma,
as part of protagonist causes you,
resource for therapy,
actively seeking out each other
as possible co-redeemer heroes
resolving differences together,
with good faith
in divinely interrelated sacred causes.

I live with a fifteen year old daughter
with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome
and the emotional intelligence
of a five year old
on her best day.

This provides daily exercise
practicing this trick of sharing my protagonist identity
with her antagonistic causes,
needs,
wants and egocentric demands,
regarding her sacred and natural causes,

Which usually have something to do with eating
and exercise
and baths
and diaper changes
and positive social interactions,

Usually with YouTube comrades
with sacred and natural causes
involving eating impolitely
and dancing while singing obnoxious songs, repeatedly
and personal hygiene issues, offensively
and other humorous entertainment productions.

She most loves to find ways to embarrass me.

I had to put a lock on the bathroom door,
high enough so she can’t lock me out
but just right for me to lock myself in.

After a few times of having her follow me upstairs
to see if she might catch me using the toilet
or, even better, naked in the shower,
with the door unlocked,
and participating in an ongoing dialogue about privacy rights,
more relentless than merely ongoing,
heated discussions about why she is outside
while I am hiding inside,

I announced to her,
one day,
as I was heading toward the stairs,
that I was going upstairs to poop.
“Do you want to come and watch me?”

She looked up from her military-grade
bomb-proof laptop,
started to get up off the couch,
then sat back down,
No!
Why would I want to do that?

Exactly,
when I stopped hiding
I was no longer her sacred cause to seek.

I suppose we might imagine larger stages
for co-redemptive ecopolitical invitations.
It helps to have a healthy sense of humor
about your own divinely-inspired protagonist causes
for true peace and authentically restoring justice.

Showing your antagonists,
your deniers,
your ugly offenders,
your sources of trauma,
and intrusive curiosity
this more therapeutic side
of your good-humored position
may be just enough
for them to realize
you’re not quite so humorless and hopelessly abusive or neglectful
of their healthy included best interests
after all.

So,
maybe it’s OK
to lighten up
and watch to see who laughs last
and longest
together.

Or,
as in this domestic case of bathroom privacy,
laugh quietly
and more peacefully
apart.

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ToeNail FungUS

Injustices, victimization,
oppression and other yucky events
of diverse varieties,
are like toe nail fungus:
1. both alarming and embarrassing
2. who knows where it came from
3. we would appreciate it if it would return
from wherever to whatever,
as long as it’s away from me.

My kids taught me everything I never wanted to know
about the sufferings of injustice,
while my husband taught me everything I never wanted to know
about the inadequacies of my pathetic attempts at mercy.

“What happened to the chicken casserole
that was still cooling?!”

I used to believe this was a reasonable question
that I should rationally answer.

“Well, Ms. Fetal Alcohol Daughter
decided to eat it without using her hands,
because you told her not to touch anything.
That’s why her face looks like the remnants of baked chicken,
mashed potatoes,
and I believe the green stuff might be peas
from ear to ear and a spot on her forehead
and all over her chin,
although her hands remain surprisingly pristine.”

However, over the sometimes tumultuous years
of further victimization and mutual oppression,
I have learned to hear these questions,
about domestic and other political suffering and loss
loudly exclaiming injustice,
as rhetorical opportunities.

“As a kindness to you
I choose to pretend that was a rhetorical question.
Because we seldom really want to know
from whence comes toenail fungus,
or any other of the diverse angry adolescent behaviors
causing cosmic dissonance
and climatic behavioral disorders
as they are doing their best with defiant-compliance.”

I don’t know, it just feels kinder to say it,
and see self-neglect of wise choices,
this way.

Makes me feel a little more
like WildYeast absorbing nutritious toenail fungus.

1. Embarrassed and Terrified by my own failures to actively love healthy choices,
all the time,
with every co-fungus I meet.
in each moment of oppositionally defiant dialectical opportunity for redirection
through basic regenerative/degenerative, co-arising MidWay=TippingPoint=Yang/Yin wu-wei
reiterative dipolar attendance
to co-empathic bilateral balance.

2. Not really wanting to spend a lot of time thinking about my own climatic interior and exterior landscape history;
health-and-safety issues of self-and-other neglect.

3. Feeling like we already nondually co-arise in this permaculturally regenerative, health-revolving repurposing normative-natural value, merit, worth, dignity, honor, purpose, ecotherapy, coempathic ToeNail Fungus DeComposition, as we cogravitate back where EcoParasitic Elders were comin’ from:
your wealth evolves from where you ecologically invest your feet,
avoid infestation,
keep them movin’ across healthy soil
in clean water
breathin’ fresh breezes.

Wild Yeast
breathing in ecosystemic nutrients
breathing out toenail fungus.

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February Winds

Sunday morning
time for sabbath sacraments.

He steps out into a gusty wind,
some fat splattering sweeps of raindrops
falling across his porch roof
on down through the roaring river valley,
forcing, then ebbing
storm of February wind with rain,
a wondrous primal pair,
he adores.

The birds have started liturgical dance
and songs of ritual and regeneration
without him.
Already flying up in quick dives of floating play
with speaking time,
singing back to Brother Wind
howling on his way.

Calling, chanting cantors, conjoining
swelling sacred song of anti-gravity
for co-arising blissful sweeps of sound,
karmic atmosphere swirling time-rich
sacred rites across his house-bound skin.

Sound of incense sweeps down his river,
north to south with warmer hopes and economic intentions,
reminding it was his time for political baptism.

She incanted from the bathtub
in short gusts of warm blast enculturation,
joining his internal gospel choir,
chirping her oppositional descant
challenging and prophesying and occupying
in full-voiced roar of need
as want
right now,
and seldom bothering a please,
much less a thanks
for caring as best he could
to hear her oppostional rhythms and patterns,
irritating flows of hard-blown breath
with attitude.

Storming and brewing
birds cheering rage in her brain
shouting at co-arising gravity
to blow another way
with her exegetical universe,
her way,
the only way
she can imagine
to function in a reverse and upside down
political world of unheard powerlessness
when inside
she can only find her loud-voiced demands
to turn life around,
spin this slippery wind of Earth
to blow in her right liturgical way.

Baptism completes this wind drenched requiem
of full-life as anti-death survival
to cooperate this week’s regenerate vocational intent
and ecopolitical practice.

She joins her dad
for one last look
through jaundiced eye
at drenching rain that could fly back
from whence it came
if only wiser timed to start this day.

Birds now pray their benedictions
quietly in wind-protected nests
while he listens to swollen postlude protest
against co-gravitating time,
uprooting old rooted systems
decayed for newer octave use
as compost fading into swaying trees
waving back to join upriver’s grace of windblown time,
and forth to rejoin downriver’s centering roots
through February’s purging Earth
decomposing dance.

He closes his door to time’s external grace
to watch a smile warmly cross her chronic face
like a gust of refreshing wind
through a rainy karmic life.

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Conversational Ecstasy

I believe SuperEgo bicameral comprehension
functions, forms, and flows organic
ecotherapeutic integrity;
I believe balanced Left-Right consciousness
orbits toward ecstatic psychology.

I’ve got nothin’ to say
And I’m gonna keep it just that way
’til my mean old SuperEgo
lets me go outside to play.

Imagine with me for a moment,
if you would be so generous,
god as not only love
but also the most joyful joy we could be,
cooperatively networked together.

And why do I want to play this imagination game
with you
or even without you?
What is this joy of which you speak?
I know peace in silent music
and wind and surf,
but is therapy of sound this joy?

Perhaps not quite enough,
maybe only halfway here.
We grow toward pregnant Now becoming being joy
with you.

While I assume this will not be news
I need to remind you
that your presence does not always feel like gift,
source of joy,
not so much really,
sometimes more painful to my drift.

Yes, I know.
But, it brings me joy to recall
in our more dissonant crash
that I feel precisely the same suffering way
about your sorry ass.

Perhaps you should find a different therapist.
One who evolves less sure of god as graced-love
and much more joy,
one not so sure your God is humor,
Eco-ing DNA’s RNA CommonSense.

If I understand your cynicism
I might write your song,
“I’ve got nothin’ to say
And I’m gonna keep it just that way
’til my mean Ol’ Dad
lets me go outside to play.

Your issues with remembering who I am
rather than who you thought I would be
seem not too distant clarity
or even acceptance,
but your troubling habit of editing my opera
into your joyful musical comedy,
this tangles our melodic frequencies
and harmonic function.

How can I reach heavenly you
when all day through
you bind me to
your flight toward unEarthy game wars,
your fear of losing rich rewards,
blockade toward joy,
your life your toy
to blindly scream away?

How could I throw away this toy
you never gave me?
My defeats,
static surrenders to right-now desire,
or lack thereof,
steer me far clear of your enchantment
with ecstatic joy.

What is your purpose
when Earth’s becoming
is your wise Being,
if your Being
is not also Earth’s meaningful becoming?
If you are not part of Earth’s mindful nature
then Humane Being cannot naturally co-arise,
develop,
regenerate.
Your becoming cannot be not Our becoming,
my Being fades when we are not We
together.

What is this to me
your wilting Earth
and flat-line monopolistic dark comedy?
My joy turns tragedy to operatic outcomes.
What you label Oppositional Disorder
I hear as contending Cognitive Dissonance,
hoping for a Draw someday,
someplace away.

What you find unnaturally cacophonous
confuses my spirited silence.
Your values are not Ours
on my side of your Oppositional Divide,
my values are my own,
and I am free of Win, Lose, or Draw cultures
and competing for scarcity gamesmanship,
Our Truth as Consequence game
contains our Tug of War.
Imagine with me
in this Eternal Moment
your Ego filled with endless joyful joy
as you pull all Earth toward finish line
and you are confidently winning
your Boddhisatva Interdependent Challenge.
Even should you not choose releasing survival’s course rope,
you have full faith that We are winning
and this joy will never end.
Your Being has become,
your response fulfills your stimulus of birth,
your effect regenerates your course’s cause,
your What Ifs? echo and mirror your What Are We?,
all Earth recreates your joy.

I’ve got nothin’ to say
And I’m gonna keep it that way
’til my mean ol’ life pilgrimage
through dissonant pathology
let’s me go outside to play.

That does indeed sound operatic.

Right, and not so much joyful joy
this side of my playground.
See ya.
Wouldn’t wanna be ya.

Oh, but you are,
except your opera damns divine divas,
weeping and shrieking in off-stage wings
of perpetually-coming purgatory,
while Earth’s musical comedy,
reenacts all that drama on your Win-Lose playground,
where Her Sun ain’t bringin’ no bad news
all eternal day.

Why do you always need to have the last word,
the last line?

We have a shared last line.

No, you just did it again,
with the We thing.

Yes We did.

I’m closing the door now.

Yes We are.

Hopeless.

Joyless.

Can I maul your head?

Our head.

My head.

Imagining with We
brings joy.

LAAAAAAAAAST WORD! HA!

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New Neighbors

I am just finishing my morning meditation when I hear my doorbell ring. It actually sounds more like that buzzing sound you hear if you fry a fat fly on one of those electronic bug swatters. On my way to the door I hope it’s not my new neighbor who just moved in the first floor apartment below me yesterday. Nobody wants a too friendly neighbor, right? I’m from the “fences make good compassionately mindful neighbors” school of thought about neighborly interdependence, much less intimacy.

I open the door to a 60-something blotchy, ashy, white-skinned man wearing grey polyblend sweatpants, slightly too short, over a pair of black Crocs, screaming “I gave up on myself years ago,” and a lighter grey zip up the front, grimy hoody with a ripped left pocket, sleeves pushed up over old-red-haired-man, possibly ex-athlete, thick  creepy hairy forearms.

Before I have a chance to let him know this feels invasive to me, or even say “Hello, who and why are you at my door during my meditation time?” the new downstairs neighbor starts flapping his jaws as if my ears were born to listen to his cheery wisdom.

“Hi, I’m Oliver. My two neurally challenged teenagers, Ivy’s the bratty girl, and Daquan is the perfect, but sometimes a little loud, sort of like a really ticked off roaring lion, but you’ll get used to it, son, and I are your new downstairs neighbors, and I wanted to meet you right away because I don’t want you to freak out and call 911 when you hear us yelling or screaming or crying or jumping endlessly hour after hour because Ivy is really hyper and because Daquan can’t speak but often seems to have a lot to bark and roar about what somtimes seems like its just gas and sometimes means he’s wet and is trying to tell me I need to put the novel down, or stop writing that dreadful sad poetry, or writing predictable lyrics for country-western songs, much less living them, and sometimes he’s just playing Tarzan, yodeling in his make-believe jungle. He’s legally blind and uses a wheelchair for school but at home he scoots and thumps around, surprisingly athletic, on his butt, kind of like an upside down inchworm if inchworms had feet and arms, if you know what I mean.”

I don’t have the first clue, actually, but we have no time, and apparently not the least commitment to discerning my own thoughts about Oliver’s communication and rationality skills, or lack thereof.

“My husband lives about a mile upriver in our cottage that we are trying to expand before the rest of us move in. He is tall, dark and handsome in an AfricanAmerican kind of way and is usually depressed, at least when he’s around us, which I can’t really blame him because Ivy is Oppositionally Ordered, I don’t know why they keep saying Fetal Alcohol kids have Oppositional Disorder because her capacity to oppose everything is most certainly not out of order, or in any way under-developed. She will pitch a fit if all you’re trying to do is get her up from her feeding trough to help her out of a poopy diaper. You would think that somebody was going to eat her food after she has already marked it with her drool. I have no idea why they would call that Oppositional Disorder. No one I have ever met has been more oppositionally wired synaptic than my daughter.”

“Anyway, Valentino, that’s my husband, he suffers from chronic depression which is too bad because he used to have this really nice soft sense of humor and romance, if you know what I mean, but now he’s just quiet and sad and afraid to retire because then he won’t have any friends that don’t drive him crazy like his family does, including me.”

“He complains that we’re too loud and the house is always filthy and my cooking is terrible but he likes to cook and clean so I don’t really get it why it’s not OK for me to not like to cook and clean, or do the laundry, or the dishes. Do you know what I mean? So, tell me about you.”

Finally, a question other than the parenthetical “do you know what I mean.”

“Ditto. Except mine are named, respectively, Poison, Tarzan, and Attila. Do you happen to like Ginseng tea with lots of honey?

 

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BiPolar Dissonance

When oppositional cognitive dissonance deflects focus,

it tends to go back to when I deflected focus from her.

She sends me passive-aggressive messages,

bread crumbs leading back in time

to where she began to feel alone,

marginalized,

siloed,

anxious.

 

If you don’t want a sopping wet tile bathroom floor

because I have thrown all my naked Barbie and Ken parts,

especially their water-filled hollow insides,

and the five saturated pools of clean washcloths

I took out of that drawer just like you said not to,

and the nice sudsy soft bar of soap,

then you might want to reconsider leaving the bathroom

during my bath.

You might want to think of telling a story

or imagining with my behavioral lectures

I so mercilessly inflict

on the shattered heads of my daughters,

oops,

I mean dolls.

 

Perhaps oppositional cognitive dissonance

is what Republicans have about Democrats.

 

If you folks would be so kind as to return to cooperative civic and civil discussion,

about our intrinsic dignity,

immaculate integrity as a permacultured orthodox tradition,

intrinsic to optimize sustainable and resilient health

for All Americans,

including those who happen to have become embarrassed

by their wealth of health and extravagant disregard

for uncommodified values,

like the synergy of all natural systems,

of religious cultures

delivering a united and interdependent positive teleology

that we all created this rapacious, extractive mess together.

 

So, please stop leaving the bathroom

every time we complain about your shitty attitudes

about wealthy compost and sustainable,

resilient,

optimized economic growth.

Then complain when we go right on doing

what we intended to do

while we were throwing water

on your slippery-floor economics

of radical,

reverse-hierarchical interdependence and mutual subsidiarity.

 

And,

our Democratic family value parents

hear their oppositionally disordered Republicans

as if they were of some dysfunctionally alien species

devoid of deductive rational accessibility,

of even one of four corners of truth,

and  without capacity to empathize with their well-mentored praxis,

of continually forgetting you could not climb a higher priority

right now

than telling your oppositional daughter Dr. Seuss’s The Lorax, 

interpreting each voice as your own Lorax,

wondering why you continue competing

to reach a Win-Win Cooperative Game,

and political

and economic

and ecological

and cultural finish line,

alone in your Permaculture Designed polycultural Loraxed paradise.

When you think about it,

you can see that your competitive political

and economic assumptions are not ecologically,

or even permaculturally,

sound, rational, integrated,

much less synergetic or holonically comprehensive.

You can’t win a P=NP,

4-fractal/spiral (0)-sum

cooperative economic logistical plan

until everyone else has the freedom

and integrity

and ecotherapeutic orthopraxis comprehension,

intention,

to win-win with you, coincidentally.

 

With this perhaps un-Christian,

and vaguely irreligious perspective

that Democratic political culture

is closer to (0) sum Core Value Balanced Heaven

rationality than appears to be the case

for our benighted Republican

and wealthy fat-cat residents of Earth,

we have turned rather too far

our spinning cultural revolution pendulum

away from the racist sin of polycultural difference,

poverty and the commodification of human lives,

and the commodification of other species,

and the commodification of Earth’s fire, water,

soil and sky,

Her capacity to regenerate fertile seeds,

turning away from sin as insanity,

disability,

to now prophecy the sins of wealth,

and power,

and competing, dissonant tipping points

of monocutural,

monochromatic,

monopolistic competing economic uncertainty

and ecological dysfunction for all nations,

including its more humane DNA-informed

bicameral information processor branch of our EcoTribe,

RNA-inscribed,

transliterate,

multisystemic and polycultural Climax Community,

diastatically

interdependently

coincidentally straining and stressing to comprehend

Polynomial SpaceTime = Not-Polynomial Open Systemic Binomial Prime Relationship Temporal “Now”

as Yang-convex/positive = Yin-concave/negative,

as +1.00% QBit = +/-(0)% Soul Core-emergent universal Vertex/Dark Recessional Vortex (Perelman, 1993)

 

So, yes, maybe somewhat closer,

but closer doesn’t count

when playing Win-Win economic logos.

Horseshoes don’t fit elephants.

 

 

 

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My Daughter, Monae

My daughter, Monae, has Oppositional Disorder, which I think would more appropriately be called Oppositional Ordering Everybody Around, and has proven herself belligerently averse to some of life’s niceties, like depositing her poo and pee in the potty rather than the floor or chair or bed.

This toxic trend is further complicated by her misfortune of having hooked up with a gay male dad who is obviously a slow learner.

I knew nothing about little girls, nor did I want to change that status, when the State of Connecticut invited me to kennel Monae at age five.

My active disinterest in any form of intimacy with girls, of whatever size, may be why Monae’s Social Worker picked me out of her line up. Knowing Monae is not the least bit shy about imperiously demanding immediate satisfaction of her always urgent whimsy, the State’s wisdom correctly predicted that Monae was not at risk of any lascivious acquiescent response to any post-puberty preferences that might come her full-bodied way.

Oh, wait, I once again give the Social Worker too much credit, there was no line waiting for Monae because she has Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and everyone else shopping for Monaes to decorate their lives, homes, and families knew that this girl child might be pooing and peeing wherever and whenever she pleased for as long as it pleased her to do so.

There was nobody in front of me or beside me, waiting to catch Monae’s mess, although there were three or four foster parents behind me who were jumping out of their worn-out skins to help me get Monae into my home as quickly as possible so they wouldn’t have to smell her, and feed her, and listen to her endless litany of urgent demands, and the kangaroo jumping in the middle of the night, ever again.

No one, or even two, foster homes could stand living with her, I found out too late, so she was a foster home circuit rider, rotating her weekly infestations.

However, Monae, now a teenager would proudly. and inevitably too loudly, announce to her friends, if she had any, that she has been my girl for nearly a decade now. She would not be troubled by any full disclosure compunction to mention that our home has by no means been the same house all these years. When she fills one up we either have to give up breathing or move somewhere else.

Monae is a hoarder. It started with food. She specialized in spilling milk under the bed for awhile. Perhaps she was confused about that expression about spilling milk and crying parents, but it took off and generalized to shredding newspapers and books, the larger the better, sprinkling cooked rice and noodles on the rug, then mashing them in with her bare feet, throwing Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs and paint brushes wall to wall, then opening jars of acrylic paint, emptying them onto the brushes because, after all, why else would they be called paint brushes if they were not meant to be painted. and how else would one get that paint out of the jar without getting your hands totally icky, except she tried that first, thinking finger painting would be the way to go, but she didn’t like the way the paint tasted or looked on her formerly pink poodle skirt costume, although it was kinda good on the saddle shoes, which she wasn’t wearing, because she refuses to wear shoes or socks in the house, or car, so she had to find them in the piles of stuff that she found where it clearly didn’t belong, in her closets and drawers, then put them on to paint them so they would still go with the poodle skirt which was now a more festive pink and mahogany, or maybe burgundy, probably all three.

Ivy and I have been discussing politics.

I was advocating more restraint in response to her frequent excavations in my closets, looking for more resources for her scrap piles and garbage dumps she is growing quite abundantly in her bedroom. And, I was protesting her nightly raids into our refrigerator and cupboards to add more fuel to her private stores, and her lack of clearly defined policies to clean up her own mess, and her annoying addiction to turning on any electronic device of any kind, turning up all volume levels to full blast, including blood-curdling screams and howls and stinky air-polluting farts far louder than those of any other nation, or person, and her obsession with flipping on all lights of any kind, interior and exterior, never mind that its noon, and her addiction to driving to anything retail, with market trend histories favoring toy stores and any outlet that could produce anything resembling food faster than she could swallow it, requiring as little chewing activity as possible, because chewing burns calories and her short-term economic strategy is to absorb and hoard with as little loss and sharing as possible.

I asked her why she thought these behaviors should be acceptable to other members of our diverse family. She said she learned them at her school.

“Oh, right, in your U.S. History class.”

“No, I don’t listen in that class; in capitalism class.”

“You mean writing class.”

‘No capital is what everything starts with until you get to the end of a period. Then you have to start over again with more capital that you try to find in other peoples’ closets.”

“Maybe you’ve combined your writing class with U.S. history. You’re treating our home like foreign territory to be sucked into your personal magic queen-bee nest.”

“No, Dad, I learned that from you.”

 

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Polyculture Asylum

She still flinches

when a hand from on high

heads too close to her head,

like an abused undomesticated bitch

with too much oppositionally heated

bipolarity for safe freedom

outside silent medicated silos,

well intended asylums

without her sense of humor.

 

How would I live without her gift

of oppositional comedy?

Where yes means no, or maybe yes

or I’m not sure I grok what you say,

but I see smiling,

gratitude for time, life

mentoring me how we look to Other,

playing oppositional synergetic noticing,

then trusting functional potential

rather than swinging hand

from up,

and back at pain,

lost hope.

 

How would I trust without total faith in her

utterly sociopathic guilelessness?

She could tell a lie,

but why would she care enough

about what you think,

about what you smell,

about what you see, or don’t see, for that matter,

or even feel,

to bother to lie to you!?

 

So, when I ask her,

“Are you more happy now,

or more sad?”

and she opens her full radiant beams

up toward my hands

and lispily adds,

“More happy…what’s that smell?”

I know she would have said the same

even without this smell

I cannot quite sense,

and hope so much is not me.

 

To grow capacity for happiness

and brief glimpses of saner kindness,

like “Make me breakfast, please!”

without even a prompt,

and then the quiet “Thank you” gravy

as I turn my back

to wash her filthy dishes,

regenerates our polyculturing

lives of solidarity,

dancing eye-to-eye.

 

He, Yin son,

without capacity to language,

throws dimples on this dancing song

telling stories he learned by heart,

in shrieks and gales and waves of

rich composting laughter,

spinning wild saliva strings,

radiant Angelman joy.

 

Old Right hemispheric dominant

icon of ecological myth,

ego zero-balanced centric identity,

son of Universal Mediums,

breathes and beats his

well-indented teething ring,

hypnotic alchemistirring wand

drenched with passionate mindfulness.

 

 

 

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