stay my words

My body urges to have her close
and hold her form, feel her skin
it sends a request to my throat
"tell her, show her that I want us to be together. Let's meet".
My throat wants to
my hands almost comply

but something else says
you know it won't happen
you know it's not needed
and it does not do good

so I stay my words

force

I will not will myself artificially to do anything
if there is intentful growth to be done
potential to be fulfilled
steps to take
then FORCE THE FUCK OUT OF ME TO DO THEM
LEAVE ME NO BREATHING CORNER BUT TO SQUEEZE IN THE DIRECTION OF GROWTH
for I will not give a speck of my will
in a direction that I fake
that I do not feel
or in blind following

workshop - the biggest fear

A prompt:
- Write it down
- Think about what I would dive into.
- Give us 15 minutes to write. it'll be a quick thing. Will just write out whatever is in the heart.
- Then after 15 minutes, we'll get to request.

Only positive, constructive feedback.
Safe space.


The prompt is:

I want you to explore the biggest fear that you have in you life right now.
- what the fear is
- where the fear came from
- what would your life look like if you were able to release that fear, and step into your fullest potential. What would it look like? For me, for my family, for the world?

Always starts with the fear,
and always ends with the hope.

First poem:
(think about my fear while he reads the poem)
Father Time

a few more guidelines for poetry:
- almost no guidelines


2016

"explore", you say

face your fear, be free
a burning wall stands right there
a fire wall, impassable but through pain

I've had places to go before
oh yes, and I go to them
because I pushed "just a little bit more"

this burning wall, a fucking fake
illusion, there's nothing o the other side
I know
I say
to myself

what is the point of pain if I'm not pulled towards what's there?
why should I care, I know I'll die
anyway

the problem is not the wall
it's that I don't care
that it's there
for whether here or there
I still exist
and I've wished to stop living for decades

"so why not?" asks, my mind pragmatic.
a knife, some bleach, a tall tall cliff.
maim your body, block your lungs
a body is not hard to kill
so why?

the pleasures still seduce me
the undone pulls me back
and deeper, there's a knowing in me
i know there's more
for me in this world
or for this world in me
and that trust is deeper
but it's stupid, says mind.
a tantrum-ridden goblin.

An urge of change, and something jumps
inside, it hates, it threatens to scream
and kick and destroy and slash
so much to slash. Could I just kill everyone around me?
With claws like Wolverine, a laser disc to split bodies in half
quickly and efficiently
geometric technique.

Ah what the fuck
this workshop wants me to explore
what would it be like
if I did

I DON'T FUCKING KNOW
I don't KNOW what that wall is
I don't KNOW what I'm hiding from myself
except loud, never-ending tantrums
that I've had before and that lead nowhere

I have none to blame
for my sadnesses
and yet I blame all
My angry child wishes to kill
it visualizes it in detail
as I walk along the park
and see others.

Hope... what's the message of hope?
The message of hope is none.
I have no hope because I wish for death.
the sweet release of a heavy world
heavy with existence
let me
THE FUCK OUT

...
...
...
if I did not have the unknown fear
of the unknown thing
that melts my heart off with burning anger
...
what would it be like?
...
...
death
please


Find someone in your life to share it with.

open voice!

Wow.
WOW

Running and breathing and sweating
makes my body feel
OPEN.
OPEN.
OPEN TO TALK
TO SAY
TO VOICE
TO SING
TO YELL
OOOOOOOPEN, my throat is open.
Delicious.

virgin

the appeal of a new human connection
relates to how uncluttered the space is
there are fewer gathered assumptions
forgotten threads, hidden impasses
no scores to settle, no avoided fears

it's a newly frozen lake to skate on
a virgin field of fallen snow
a fresh patch of spring grass

expectation from memory is less
curiosity is more
and that appeals
to our child

unshaped and uncharacterized
we feel it has the potential
to be or fit any shape
that we can imagine
or that we expect

plea

A: what is this world?
H: it is the world of your creation. For you to live in. To change, to create.
A: I have no aim. I feel no drive to do anything. I don't care. What say you?
H: Patience, love. The time still comes.
A: I know, I've heard that often. But... again? I have waited. Can it be faster?
H: The world is as it is. You know that certainly.
A: My mind wants it to be faster. My mind wants an aim. Why not give it to me?
H: Patience (as it wrapped itself around me). Patience.
A: I don't want to. I don't want to do this anymore, can someone else do this for me? I'm tired, I don't care. Can someone else take over? I'll go to sleep, let me be set free, have someone else come into this body.
H: You know it's you. You wanted to come here.
A: (sobbing). I don't want to. Anymore. Please let me out.
H: Patience.
A: How do I bear my time here?
H: Soften your suffering with mantras.

eulogy

(Written on January 30th, 2020)

He lived wanting
to live more.

To put the pieces together. Not just to follow the causeway,
but to seek the jutting rocks, the empty trails, the forbidden woods and take steps into them.

"What's in them? Why are they empty? Why don't we fill them?"

Often afraid to leave his main causeway, though, so fatefully built with whims of chance, fueled with delayed bursts of intention and willpower, frustrated by slow and unyielding time.

So afraid of rejection was he, he barely offered, and his potential was lost. Onto the huge leaks of fear, doubt, and resentment that worsened with each unkempt year, each unkempt thought, emotion, frustrated impulse.

The potential he carried was lost. And his being suffered while he lived, because of this. He felt relieved, grateful to leave this life of pain, fears, loneliness, resentments, and indelible stories.

May he never return. May his concept disappear from all existence, his memories, and this eulogy.

The love he found, he felt, the help he offered, was most often helpful, relevant, and it helped others smile at times. Sometimes his quick shifts befuddled others' slower friendship rhythms, who felt betrayed by his quick winds.

He strived for truth. Without and within. At times old lies and patterns moved through him unconsciously and he lied, and sometimes consciously. It was his aim, though, to simply channel the true and helpful information in all directions.

And to play. Intensely. He found much fewer partners to do this with than he wanted, and he found less intensity in them than he desired. Sexually, taking chances, seeking newness, seeking joy... he found others did not trust him or his intention. And he felt deeply hurt much of his life about this point. He offered quickly, copiously, eagerly, often in desperation, and most often it was rejected or mistrusted by others. Not always, though. And when and where it was not, beauty and friendship bloomed.

He died at ISTA. At a shamanic ritual. He died willingly, and that's how we wanted to die.

Lack of partnership brought him loneliness, desperation, frustration, resentment. Towards the end he found a true connection, as clear as one could make a murky merging river of contrasting emotions, wounds, lifestyles, experiences. Yes, truth and clarity, and support. He felt grateful for this connection. And yet, he willingly died.

Seeking relief, Nothingness.

nurture

I thought I wanted to be with you

and to make you happy

and to watch movies with you

and go swimming together

and go dancing together

and go creating together

but what I really wanted was to take you

to have you

to fuck you

to feel you wanted me to be there

with you

to feel wanted

to feel needed

to feel desired

not to nurture you

but to nurture my own itch

to feel important

to feel useful

and you know what

I don't want that shit

I don't want that want

come if you want

don't if you want

be, and I'll be

and if our lives match

good

and if they don't

good