Pretension only gets you so far,
forces you into an ill-fitting soul-wrenching suit
to survive a while.
Undefended means show up again.
Disrobe, naked, not as a flasher
but as a lover warrior come at last
to sing the deserts,
the rim fires of the mesa,
the babble that was all the waters of earth
before and after the fall.
Close your eyes and know the beauty.
Count your fingers and toes.
Leave the old stories of the idiot child
slathering caged in the back of the peddler’s cart,
aching for home, like each of us does
when we step out of wherever night has taken us
and delivered us to morning.
Of course old wounds come to say hello.
Of course you fall into trance so easily.
How wide can you open to the pain of the world?
What the Hungry Ghosts want is resolution, ease, wholeness.
Feed them that.
Let’s share and do ceremony and
stir into the soup all the nuances, screams, rage, fear,
four corners, oblong moods, cheap riffs, ugliness,
skinny demands, beauty, dirty boogies, true marriages,
octogenarian dreams, scuttling, abstractions, stinks,
apples, scents, songs.
Come find your tribe.
Begin in the healing place.
Of course there will be knocks on the door.
You’ll lose your hair, balance, five year plan,
old friends, grooved pathways to your old tricks,
but savor this: soften, soften.
Call back your wonder and power that has never left
but is waiting cloaked and ready and wide
on some wind-swept mountain pass,
winter coming, allies everywhere.