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I’m Fine

His life felt sick.
Filled with ick

And she was sighing,
inside dying.

Yet, when asked,
her response
entirely unresponsive,
“I’m fine.”
puts her compassionate listener
in a double-bind.

Do I ask her if she is intentionally lying
or irresponsibly
out of her self-isolating mind?

Neither one
feels more kind
and patient,
still, uncommunicating
and yet curious.

Could it be
she is embarrassed
about being merely mortal?

A caregiver
without sufficient tools
or even weapons
to assure EarthTribe’s
resonantly healthy non-confrontations
with degenerative trends
sometimes overwhelming
normal regenerative
narrative twists and bends,

A mother
who must only be
an omnipotent caregiver,
without sustained support
as one of us
co-arising care receivers?

What good is universal health care giving
without reciprocal
compassionate care receiving?

And, how could we,
why would we,
when should all Earth’s caregivers
deny our patriarchal climates
of pathology?

When our allies are sick
and filled with unanticipated ick.

 

 

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Uncategorized

Hidden Valley Voices

We speak from

The valleyed river,
inevitably flowing away
from unattainable mountain caps
remembered with heightened longing,
stoned babblings

The silent zero
for predicting whole
fertile open wisdom
of the One.

Yin inside
needing to fulfill outside
Yang great thirsty need

Right embodied feelings
completing left mind disembodied dominations,
recreating mutually robust sensory wisdom

Of valleys
infinitely flowing out veins
from irretrievable mountains
climaxing history’s reach for light
sprayed
strayed babblings.

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Uncategorized

Silent UnPrivileged Stories

When I was a Big Brother
for Jason,
an African-American 10 year old male,
we went into his apartment
so he could look around
for a long overdue library book.

As I accompanied him
from room to sparsely furnished room,
looking in nearly vacant closets,
cupboards,
drawers,
the only book we found
was a phone book,
looking silently neglected
much more than actively abused.

My first white male privileged
feelings about his Mom
had to do with blaming her
for probably not even feeling ashamed
for her irresponsible choices
while economically and politically administering
their bookless house
in this pre-WWW information age.

But, then I began asking questions.
What could Jason tell me
about his Mom’s life
when she was his age?

What were stories
familiar to her,
read
or retold
or experienced
and re-experienced,
therapeutic or traumatic?

Through this widening narrative moment
of multigenerational conjecture,
hypothesis,
questioning,
contemplating,

I also learned to question
what traumatic straight white male stories
are experienced by gay
and bisexual
and transsexual 10-year-olds,
regardless of racial identification,

And by 10-year-old girls,
perhaps regardless of racial identification,
or even further amplified
by being doubly,
and silently, outside
straight white patriarchal privilege.

I found myself
suddenly
tearfully
incapable of briefly imagining
much less deeply,
unflinchingly contemplating
the trauma
of growing up poor
and lesbian
and black or brown
or too red
or too yellow
without any books
or stories,
read
or retold
or experienced
about how her 10-year-old life will matter,
could be healthy, someday,
would ever be felt safe,
unless held shamefully silent,

Not appropriate material
for books
or retelling
or experiencing straight
white
male dominant stories,
economic
and political narratives
about retributive trauma
and not multicultural
restorative
democratically inclusive therapy.

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Uncategorized

Advent of Climate Depression

After required Thanksgiving Day
and depressing night
I awoke surprised
by release into ego-homelessness.

What could sad night despairs mean?
Reiterating loss of identity
mysteriously appearing on this habitat’s coldly absent roof
of sacred grace
space.

Why would capital depression,
RightBrain suppression
and historic patriarchal suppression
suddenly gang up more gracefully,
less threateningly,
on ZeroZone ego-homelessness
freely chosen
before rudely thrown out
for lack of paternal place.

RightBrain fullness of soul
remains ZeroZen timeless re-identification
one empty homeless side without exterior shelter.
But, for how long could eternity reweave
temporary housed DNA souls
becoming Earth’s healthy resilient lifeline?

Advent invites homeless nurturing adventures
into matriarchal kindness, silent advances
into wildly blind blizzards
binding sun’s enchanting rainbow promise
of watery return to Earth’s temporary spring sanctuary
refueling DNA’s homeless
yet robust
absence of living boundaries

Toward, rather than against, Earth’s healthy wealth
future identity transgenerating
transubstantiating temporary sanctuary
in humane health-identity space,
Earth’s co-arising sacred time
of ego’s secular summer
for ecology’s climate climax.

Mutually homeless failing falling theology pilgrims,
EgoYang and EcoYin polypathic souls
overshadowed
by Earth’s great green sanctuary assigned
to re-study timeless regenetic root systems
playing WinWin ZeroSoul revolutionary games
for homeless trusted identity, sheltering
from wildly wounded wandering
within chronic asylum anxiety,

Lost in lonely inside forests
quaking,
outside breaking,
patriarchal fake-sanctuary voices
inside cooperative matriarchal wombing choices.

A lot of cold windy Dad talk
trumped
in each infant WinWin womb
by Mom’s resolute inside nutritional walk.

Homeless ego child
re-connecting this eco-womb,
preparing to journey home again
each sacred light of wintry advent’s dawn

After thanksgiving days
and depressing night
re-awakening surprise
of ego’s wandering
health-rooted
adventurous soul
revolution dawning in darkest brights.

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Can’t Make You Stalk Me

Turn up the lights
Fold up the bed
Turn up those voices
outside my head
Lay out for me
Feed me with lies
Just hold me up, your patron saint
Do matronize me

‘Cause I can’t make you stalk me
if you won’t
You can’t make your mind think something
it don’t
Here in my light,
in these early hours
I will pick up my heart
and not feel your power
But I can’t, no I won’t
‘Cause I can’t make you stalk me,
when you don’t.

I’ll freeze my eyes,
then you won’t see
The heart you don’t feel
when you’re not holding me
Evening will come
and you’ll do what’s wrong
Just give me till then
to give up this song
And you could give up our wrong

‘Cause I can’t make you love us
if you won’t
You can’t make your mind feel something
it don’t
Here in our light,
in these late hours
I will pick up my heart
and I’ll feel our power
But I can’t, no I can’t
‘Cause I can’t make you stalk peace,
when you don’t.

 

With apologies to Allen Shamblin and Michael Reid who cooperatively wrote one of my favorite songs.

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Uncategorized

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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Dillen’s Continuing DMV Adventures

I wrote a sad but true urban legend called “Dillen and the DMV” last week.
Here follows an update.

Background Review:

One of my health care employees, Dillen, has wicked ADD, borderline intelligence, not qualifying for disability supports, which are few
and those few minimal at best anyway,
but also challenged by things like getting to work on the right day at the right time,
challenged by processing verbal communications,
whether written or spoken more slowly than Business As Usual pace and pattern would permit,
challenged with struggles to establish and maintain healthy positive social relationships,
much more challenged by intimacy,
so often settling for companionship that does not foster mutually therapeutic co-mentoring,
challenged by his felt urgency for speed while driving,
challenged by States Attorneys who persuade him it’s OK to accept guilty as charged
for driving 45 in a 35 mph zone on his way to work,
never mind that so were all the cars in front of and behind him,
not to worry that this will inevitably result in a 3-month suspension of his license
because he can get a Work Permit,
except, oops,
never mind,
the DMV will not give Work Permits to suspended drivers
with more than three moving violations,
encouraged by State Prosecutors to go right ahead,
send in that Work Permit application
with his $100 nonrefundable fee
because the DMV is really all about punishing DUIs,
of which Dillen has none
because he doesn’t drink
because, in part, he knows it is bad for his mental health,
especially his chronic issues with depression.

In “Dillen and the DMV” I write to the DMV Commissioner,
the Chief States Attorney, and the Attorney General
about this series of unfortunate events.

Update:

I hear back from the DMV.
This letter patiently reviews Dillen’s multiple infractions.
Two involve having others in his car with marijuana or concomitant paraphernalia,
(why not just “supplies” or “equipment”?)

“Marge, did you order the paraphernalia for the copier machine yet?”
Word choices in the public sector often distract me.

but Dillen was not charged with driving stoned,
because he wasn’t.
He was the designated driver for his “friends”
who did not have their Medical Marijuana cards on them.

Then there was the time he might have been going 35 or 40 and hit black ice,
totaled his car
which ended upside down,
for which the local police felt they must issue some form of moving violation,
after all, we do have those towing charges
and the need for all those emergency folks to stand out in the freezing ice storm,
and there are these two drug-related violations on his driving record
so he was probably stoned anyway, right?

And then there was this time,
when Dillen was pulled over
ostensibly for speeding,
but really this was about driving on a suspended license
without a Work Permit
which he didn’t have because
(1) DMV didn’t have a current address to send him his notice,
so he didn’t know he was driving on a suspended license, and
(2) no one had told him,
including the Police Officer who pulled him over,
there is this Work Permit thing
which would have covered his butt
on this particular adventure in high speed suburban crime.

However, this letter from the DMV Director of Programs leaves out some details,
as does my summary.
Then the Program Director reassures Dillen and I of her concern for Dillen’s mess,
which someone else might have called unemployment
and yet another round of couch-surfing homelessness,
but CT’s pesky State Statutes wouldn’t allow her to refund his application fee,
and, besides,
the application form says right on there that it won’t be refunded
even if the application is rejected

Apparently for reasons that remain in the shadow of the public eye.
My two page letter was too subtle for government comprehension
of our own collective abuse and neglect.
She confirms the DMV does have explicit standards for rejecting applications,
including more than three moving violations,
but fails to apologize for designing her Program’s communication plan
to be sure that disproportionately young urban minority low-income males
with mental health and self-medication issues
would be fleeced of their last $100
ripped out of their hungry pockets
to apply for a Work or Education Permit
that State Statutes prohibit her,
so sadly,
from handing out like mother’s milk to a starving baby.

She also does not speculate about why State Prosecutors Dillen has met
are all apparently unaware of stipulated public, but effectively private, criteria for rejecting
pricey applications.

She also fails to mention what she might do to correct this situation
of not providing transparent public information
in a way that allows respected residents of the State of CT
to make a fully informed decision about wasting their money
by further investing in the future miserable outcomes
of shoddy DMV Programs.

She also does not explain where we,
the tax-payers of CT,
were when concerns about the need for job security,
especially for those in hard-to-employ populations,
where we were when needs for food and housing,
healthy wants for continuing education and training,
including the need for continuing education and training,
including the need for reasonable transportation,
even in the winter,
where we all were when these were not being weighted sufficiently against risks,
allowing licensed drivers with complex histories
to continue on their journey
the best they can.

Personally, I know Dillen responds much better to a warm hug,
a patient smile,
and expressed appreciation for continuing to improve,
and encouragement to continue with work
and sticking with a healthy daily routine,
which does not include speeding,
even if everyone around him is racing to nowhere good.

Yesterday I was mesmerized for several hours by a TV series
“Underground”
about the Railroad prior to the U.S. Civil War.
A champion anti-slavery attorney
confesses to his Northern wife,
as a younger attorney he used to settle estates,
including estates of slave-holders,
which sometimes led to the awkwardness of arranging for resale of people,
families,
often resulting in the tearing of children from their mothers’ arms,
and other similar heinous crimes against nature
and mental health.

For some reason
I kept thinking about that clerk at DMV,
reading Work Permit applications,
after depositing the enclosed nonrefundable $100,
looking at the high security publicly invisible list of reasons not to help
depressed people living mostly in their cars
have a modestly better chance at life,
as if what is a right for him or her
on his or her way to work and home again,
is a too luxurious privilege for a fragile at-risk criminal population,
enslaved by their need to self-propel their freedom futures.

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Love’s Last Litany

I have never known alone
as when I lie next to you.

I have never felt orphaned,
unknown,
alien,
as when cramped within our zoo.

I have only become this dark
when missing not missing you.

I am breathing in
hoping to exhale, all through.
I don’t want to want to hear you
when I look past our sad dark eyes.

I can’t bear to sing this song
slow dancing echoed sighs.

I don’t want to be this anymore
becoming drawn to close my door.

If you can love me as I am
please help me find breath’s floor.

I don’t want to play house anymore,
my soul wilts in air this poor.

I don’t want to want to breathe us anymore.

I can’t want to breathe this evermore.

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