I am a Lion, a child of the Sun.
I’m proud of my pride and royal blue blood.
I listen to all but answer to none.
I am a Lion with wings on my sides.
I use them to flee but never to hide.
I’ve known sorrow and wonder.
I have laughed and I’ve cried.
I am a Lion on a cobalt blue sky.
I have ruby-red diamonds where others have eyes.
I am a prophet to some because I have died.
I am a Lion with a powerful roar.
When I’m pacing the earth, all cowards run.
There isn’t a battle I haven’t won.
The raven caws five times, then the rain falls. Heaven’s sky tears down with a beautiful viciousness. Above my head, I study the layers of silt & dust on the avocado leaves. I think, “This is the accumulated detritus of this past summer’s Icelandic volcanic eruptions.” It was a summer deadened by the horror of war scattered without rhyme or reason upon this pristine cobalt orb we call home. It was a summer of threats against one nation or another by one nation or another… a summer of soccer Moms down on hope but high on Crank, cruising Meth Street USA. It was a summer with Blacks living more & more in their world, while Whites are living more & more in theirs & they never kiss anymore! It was a summer of Polar Bears without homes, Coyotes lying motionless on the side of the road & giant Blue Whales washing up lifeless upon California’s shores. I confess, I confess, I confess, my spine had almost fused with futility … until the rain came.
I walk briskly at first. Shuffling sacred boulders between each foot. I teeter on the edge of humanity. I skirt the jagged precipice of earth’s flaming lips. I am stunned by this fragile porcelain cup brimming over with exquisite insanity; a wondrous mathematical equation. All of earth’s treasures are scattered before me. I jump high. I rise-sail, I soar up and over the south into the west over & over again. I jump a high-dive. I skydive into the heart of our miraculous, breathtaking mothershIP. I am a skimming stone on a great pond we call the ring of fire .
I sit in pitch-black silence of cosmic thunder on a luminescent perch of a lost star’s most vibrant ray. I am of one mind with a lost star, lost but never to disappear. I never sleep. I lay awake thrashing through every galaxy we share. I am hyper-sonic consciousness flying high on the coattails of a hyper-sonic shooting star. I keep my eyes wide open looking for… for someone like you. But there is no one like you. I know this is so but it’s a brutal thought. I’m afraid I’m not good enough. Self-doubt is a phycological terrorist. I have never given up though. I do not know what giving up means. When I fail, I fail big. There is no shame in this. When I fall, I rise again. There’s no shame in that. There’s no shame in being who I (or anyone else) was born to be. Thank our creator for small favors and great miracles because there you are. I see you. I can see clearly now. You know me. I know you. We simply know each other’s soul’s desires. No words are necessary. It’s easy to recognize a beautiful thing. You’re a beautiful thiing. You make me feel I’m a beautiful thing. You make me feel. I fear nothing. Together we’re a beautiful thing
His brand of religion breeds heartbreak and pain.
He’s a born again Christian with something to gain.
Deceitfully convincing his flock of salvation,
In return he receives a standing ovation.
His glorious sermons preach schemes of division,
Exquisitely crafted to prevent any schism.
Triumphantly pitting his will against right,
He lusts after money & covets your wife.
An unnatural affection for boys under ten,
He’s drugged quite a few on his couch in the den.
He’s suspicious of women and fearful of men.
There’s a gun by his bed marked ‘specially’ for them.
He’s a beast. He’s a monster. It’s sad but it’s true.
His secret agenda keeps Jesus from you.
He’s afraid you’ll rise up if you find out the truth,
Afraid you’ll tip off your wife & your youth.
He’s a huckster, a shyster, and the devil disguised.
He’s a freak who insists only his god is wise.
This prince of invective is consumed with desire.
While preaching forgiveness he’s stoking his fire.
You’re my lady in waiting. I’m your man on the moon. I’m Magda. You’re Anjum. We’ve Indigo eyes. I’m Mosena. You’re Sallie. We’re two of a kind. You’re Marty. I’m Moses; We never chose love, it is love that chose us. We’re sisters & brothers, spiritual lovers …
… I was an innocent in the time of the great plague. I survived while all of the giants raptured around me. I believe I was meant to live before and after the great deluge. I believe we were all meant to live before and after the rapture. The most merciful and kind were the first to go. Only the good die young. We’re still alive. Only the strong survive. It is the meek who shall inherit the earth.
Life is short but terribly eternal. Regardless the seconds or decades we are gifted with, the remaining moments of our journey will be mercy and kindness incarnate. We are sisters and brothers. We’re opened windows without any walls. If one of us trips, all of us fall.
Burnt onto the pages of my ancient history,
is the story of our love;
a spiritual decree.
Penned onto the memory of my simple,
fleeting life,
is the epic of our union,
quite beautifully described.
I am stunned by the depth of your soul.
Shall I be forever mystified?
And this evening,
brazenly confetti’d up on a Hollywood freeway overpass,
I saw your initials set upon a fractured heart.
While my soul bleeds adoration in silence,
I wonder if this is love’s crucifixion?
Is this the way Mary felt in the garden?
An answer is of no consequence,
for what I shall remember long after I have died,
is the memory of your face,
indelibly inscribed.
I tossed and turned throughout the night, something amiss, not quite right. Thunder rolled across black skies, lightning struck shut both my eyes. My bed lay shattered upon shards of glass. Clouds swirled by like comets, fast. I wondered if this night would pass? I prayed to God this would not last.
Take me away, my soul please spare this doubt, this pain, this noise I hear. This heavy night I cannot bare. What I can’t see is what I fear. When sunrise creeps into the day, what in God’s name will loved ones say?
Morning came, morning went, my body wracked, my spirit spent. The day turned into early eve while deep within my dreams did weave. Finally, my conscious broke into a world where flowers spoke. The life I’d known was all but gone. Rocks and trees sang sweet love songs.
I looked around for someone to share this miracle I swear I hear, someone to see the Robin’s egg jump up and dance upon the chair, someone to play that old guitar driving by in her yellow car. I realized then, it’s just me, alone again, just me who sees. I wiped the sweat clean from my brow. Who would believe me, anyhow?
My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I’m diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine. Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.
The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter but light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but to the joker within my skull, I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned!” Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.
Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must.
Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders. My mother was born & raised in New York City’s west side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Omens for both of them, yet they overcame their fate of birth with a passionate belief in the power of love. They dug deep to survive. I have had to dig even deeper but I’ve learned to love getting my face dirty.
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.
Good morning, beautiful people. I received another 21 day meditation challenge from Deepak Chopra and Oprah Winfrey. I looked at it as I always do, and I thought to myself, “Dear god, aren’t these people rich enough? Don’t they have any shame?” If they want the world to sing in perfect harmony then why the XXXX don’t they just give that XXXX away for free; those ubiquitous gems of bliss they so boldly steal from our collective consciousness?”
I’m sorry, but this cannot be expressed any other way. This is why I have always felt Chopra was a fraud and Oprah? No, I don’t want to judge. If you agree, buy the world a Coke.
Of course, you may not want to buy the world a Coke. Who can blame you? This planet is all cranked up on Coca Cola. Our mind is squashed, Our pipes are ruined, and all of our hair has fallen out. Perhaps you may wish to treat the world to a Dr Pepper? Because, after all, I’m a Pepper, she’s a Pepper, he’s a Pepper, they’re a Pepper, wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper too? Drink Dr Pepper. Be a Dr Pepper. Drink Dr Pepper. Be a Dr Pepper.
.
I once witnessed
A brilliant galaxy platinum
Abruptly vanish
Into a hovering cloud
Of dense
Black erotic
*
I saw a stunning world
Hanging on a midnight sky
Like a black pearl
A world j
As our very own cobalt orb
Explode
Into self-red flames
Then stop to exist
*
I was once
A butterfly who loves
To dance in circles
To the beat of the sun
*
I’ve been charmed
By the ruby-red eyes
Of dusk ??
Swollen sky
*
Suspended
Mesmerized
I’ve been hypnotized
By defiant stars
Pelting Hercules ??
Over the Aegean Sea
*
A baby
Opens her eyes
For the very first time
And the Universe is born
Once again
Is the face of God
The lovely face of God
Good morning ladies and gentlemen,
this is your flight attendant speaking.
Please fasten your seat belts.
The captain has asked me to remind you,
there is no smoking permitted in the lavatories,
and to tell you we are going down!
Down!
Down!
Our fiery crash landing into the ice-capped mountaintop
should be relatively painless but one never knows.
The temperature at the site is a brisk zero Celsius.
Should you require assistance upon our arrival,
do not hesitate to call upon your flight attendant.
Beverages with continental breakfast shall be served at Heaven’s Gate,
located in the main concourse compliments of our Lord, Jesus Christ.
Everyone is welcome except reverend Frederick Phelps of the Hillsboro Baptist
Hillsboro Baptist Community Church, Topeka, Kansas, sitting in aisle 4 seat 2
You are going to hell.
Hell!
Hell!
Because ‘Freddy’, www dot god hates you dot com.
Thank you for flying our friendly skies.
And have a nice day.
I followed the song of the nightingale through the forest to the edge of my mind. I remembered to cut lilacs from the bank of the creek as I raced to the place we first met.
The Muses found me naked singing lullabies to shooting stars over a blue harvest moon. Fearful for my sanity, they summoned the Elder Blue Sprytes & Green Wood Elves; all very odd creatures revered for their great healing powers. Do you remember the cliffs of desire where we first met at the edge of the world near the temple of the heart where a forgiving ocean meets the grateful sky? Do you remember Frey, the golden bear who wished us well?
The Elder Blue Sprytes were certain I must be either crazy or insane from hunger so they fed me cherry blossoms. They were trying to distract me with fantasies from the other side of time.
The Green Wood Elves insisted I was a sign from the great source of our belonging. They proudly displayed their magic to me. They showed me how they had learnt to make stars sing. I had never heard a true symphony until that day.
They taught me how to expand my heart beyond what I had believed was it’s ultimate frontier. They showed me how they weave their magic spells with hope I might finally free myself from the ghosts of my past & the image of you when we first met. I could never let that happen. Sometimes Green Wood Elves can be so naive.
I love this cliff near the den of the bear where the sky drinks the sea & mountains stand tall at the edge of my mind where we bathed in an ocean of forgiveness. That was 10,000 years ago but here I still stand. The Western Wind says you will be home soon. I knew you would return. Hurry. My whole world is waiting for you. I am still holding lilacs too.
HE SAID:
I am only human. My voice is powerful so I never shout. We share many of the same thoughts. We come from the same womb. The source of all our inspiration never cries but laughs a lot.”
HE SAID:
If you abort a child whose heart has begun to beat then that is murder. If you have not, do not worry or force your views for The Great Source of Our Belonging will see to a loving rectification. If you have then remember this: I have seen the light of forgiveness in the eyes of eternity & your story must be told. Your wisdom must find its home, so speak your longing.”
HE SAID:
The Bible has sharp & angry claws yet still great & wonderful truths are alive & found everywhere across its pages. Stay aware of deception concealed with stunning craft. There are lies stitched into the timeless fabric of my clarion call to salvation. They are scattered seemingly without rhyme or reason by infiltrated wicked minds who hate love. There is nothing random or unintentional about these untruths. Do not allow the haters of this world to keep you from me.
HE SAID:
Judas is my brother. He loves me very much as I do him. That Judas was a traitor is just one of many deceptions. In truth, he gave the ultimate sacrifice for me. Without him, our Father’s plan could have never come to be. Love Judas as you do me. Sift through the holy pages of The Word. Discard that which your heart says is untrue. I say, ‘listen to your heart’ for it is there I dwell forever. Everything I am is within you. Go there now. Ask if these words I speak are true or not. Feel if what I tell you resonates with the piercing sound of truth. Either way I am the light & I am the way.”
HE SAID:
Do not take it upon yourself to sit in judgment of your fellow man. A man takes the life of one man & then you punish him by taking his life. Who will punish you for that very same offense? Compassion makes me happy. Forgiveness gets me high.
HE SAID:
Be happy. It is your birthright to know joy forever. When pain comes & come it shall, embrace it rather than run away. You will never be able to hide. So sharpen your courage. Kiss the ground you walk on. Take the path your heart desires. Be kind & love life. This is my devout wish & hope & plan for you.
He smiled a smile of ecstasy as he turned towards the rose dusked sky & slowly walked away.
DISCOURSE AT OJAI WRITTEN by SCOTT UTLEY at OJAI, SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
ФИОЛЕТОВЫЙ ДОЖДЬ: НЕБО УКРАИНЫ
Спиральный шар моря зеленый синий ворвался в шар рубиново-красного пламени, не оставляя ничего в его просыпаться, но молчание завернутый в чернильно черный слой внутреннего зная. Вы рядом со мной улыбается, что улыбка только вы можете улыбаться сказал громко и ясно: “все будет просто отлично”. Разве это не правда? Не правда ли?
Наши пернатые крылья были королевскими-фиолетовыми, недавно проросли и безукоризненно задуманы. Танцуя с радостью от одного облака к другому, мы прилетели в наше будущее с нашими непобедимыми душами; непоколебимая вера в славу и арест красоты совершенной веры. Мы поделились, что улыбнулся только зная, что Бог может принести. Чистая радость… Мы наполнили мир чистой радостью. Это верно. Не правда ли.
PURPLE RAIN: THE SKIES OF UKRAINE
A spiraling orb of sea green blue burst into a ball of ruby-red flames, leaving nothing in its wake but silence wrapped in an inky black coat of inner knowing. You beside me smiling that smile only you can smile said loud and clear, “Everything will be just fine”. Isn’t that the truth? Isn’t it though?
Our feathered wings were royal-purple newly-sprouted and immaculately conceived. Dancing with joy from one cloud to another, we flew into our future with our unconquerable souls; our unshakable faith in glory and the arresting beauty of perfect faith. We shared that smiled only knowing God can bring. Pure joy … We filled the world with pure joy. That’s the truth. Isn’t it though.
I woke up late today in such a ferocious frame of mind, I could have easily ripped to shreds the canvass of the sky, then an hour later I write this. Ma Shivamayi Acharya would understand why but I’m afraid to ask.
“I often quote the Bible, I have never read it. In case I ever do, don’t spoil the ending for me. Thank you in advance. You’re thinking, “How do I quote that which I have never read?” I’ll ignore that question. Instead I say, “I have never use a Biblical quote unless the Koran and the Torah share the identical content. It may shock you to learn that all of our prophets speak the same language. That makes sense. They are brothers and sisters born of the same source. I am convinced each of them breathe one mantra. “All Life Is Sacred.” When devout forget this, there is a disconnect. It has become an out-of-control conundrum. That is why their reincarnations are flooding into our world.
We are awash with the Indigo children of Indigo parents as well. They hold the vessels of the great source of our belonging’s pure love. Hopefully if one knocks at your door seeking shelter from Helter-Skelter, you open it. Now, maybe you do not believe in God. Maybe God doesn’t care. Maybe, just maybe, God doesn’t believe in you. Think about that, why don’t you? It’s not as if it makes a difference. How kind are you? Are you making every effort to be a better man or a better woman to our world? Are you a being who, when after you are gone, our planet will lovingly whisper to the western winds. “I am happy they came. I’m sad to see them go but I am happy they stayed as long as they did?”
You once asked the reason.”Momma, why clouds cry?” Now you know. The rains are tears of joy … how kind where you in your life? That will be the only question. That is all that will matter then. It is all that matters now.
The upshot to this story is: Trust your instincts and follow your heart, this where God resides. Maybe you will rewrite the Bible or whatever other scriptures you hold close to your heart and by doing so, change our world for the better … or not … your worth as a living being was measured in full when you were born. You were born without sin. If you don’t believe me, go within and ask Jesus or one of his friends. Do nothing if that is your desire. That’s what I do. It may be your destiny. I hope it’s mine.”
Because of hunting by unknown suspects of the Second Court (The MET’S second court, along with glue-sniffing Sunnyside hippies, this lovely (albeit obnoxious) parrot has been reduced to just a small section of its former habitat. To be exact, the courtyard and fifth-floor roof of 48-25 46th Street, Woodside, Queens, NYC, NY.
There are an estimated three left but the Bronx Zoo is leading the way in bringing this gorgeous nut eating bird back from the brink of extinction. (They think.) I happen to know two of specimens (Tony and Angelo) are naturally homosexual males. Neither one shows any interest in conversion therapy, nor does Milissa, the third specimen. She shows no interest in Tony or Angelo but has a thing for a female Blissful Nut Cracker Squawker hand puppet called Ellen.
Researchers are enthralled. That very fact bodes well for the species. Researchers world wide believe that gay parents are the only parents worthy and smart enough, overflowing with enlightened compassion to save the universe. Good luck with that. If I had my druthers, I would nuke the planet into sense. I don’t though. I would never do such a thing. Perry Mason and Alfred Hitchcock make life worth living.
We remain a beacon of light up on the hill, yet we must never let loose the reins of power to those who would be kings or queens. Do not abandon your mighty domain for the fruitless terrain of perverting robber-barons. We together, cannot stand here today, breathing the air of a real, true, manifested destiny, nor feel it rising swiftly through our hearts & minds without the great sacrifices of untold millions of souls just as you and I.
Think about what you want. Think about what you have. Think about what you deserve. The wisdom of many a great sage directs us to be grateful for what we do have and be here now. Nowhere will you find any great thinker admonishing you to relinquish, relent or let the winds of empty promises impale your dreams of a greater longing. By your understanding of your own ultimate authority, which is the source of all power, you will achieve-without the burden of a anxious attachment-that which some call your destiny fulfilled.
Your dreams are the fuel which propels our collective spirit to greater heights. I call this state of being,”Perpetual Blossoming”; a frequency of light so finely tuned into the spiraling universes we have inherited, it is a thrilling euphoria which we call, “a happy sound”.
Will you cave into the blighted whims of nefarious wills, thus shaming you & your ancestors? Then get up and fight the good fight. Who cares how many times you must fall. Rise up & fight the good fight. If you believe we have already lost the battle, you are delusional. Never let them win. Never forget where you come from. Never forget who you are.
II
AFTER the war was over, and we were certain our truth had triumphed, we returned to the scene of the killing field where we had staggered home from, bloody messes, less than one full moon before. We searched until sunset. Baffled but relieved, there were no casualties to be found.
It was mid-day when we arrived. The clouds were playing ‘tag’ above our heads. The only sounds we heard were the soothing soulful songs of Yellow Orioles. This was all there was left behind after the war was over. It is a new day. William Styron, the great American novelist, says it best in his breathtaking novel, “Sophie’s Choice” (1979), when, as the curtain falls, he says, “It is not judgement day. It is morning, excellent and fair”.
His ascension came twenty-one days to the day he left his beautiful body. A silhouette was all that we could define through the sun drenched smile he wore. It is impossible to mistake his world-class smile for that of any other. A starlight flurry of goodness blotted out the pain of our broken hearts just as dawn galloped in.
We told each other later that we had witnessed a chariot of gold sutured with platinum thread; a glistening chassis beriched beyond conception with spinning, light-bolted studs & each masterpiece capped with an astonishing precious gem. Some jewels were not of this world. Some jewels were not even of this universe… such magnificence as none of us had ever seen nor would ever see again… a true sweet chariot of the gods propelled by the holy willed power of four & twenty black maned stallions of equal majesty. They pulled the suns & moons from galaxies nearest our own across a royal blue-blooded, yoke-tinged, cobra-laced sky.
Our souls, bedazzled & breathless, reflexively thrust an ovation onto the astrolabe of dawn. Only delicate golden orioles could be heard singing good morning to this beautiful day. Alex preferred it this way. In a favorite past incarnation he was a Roman Augur, therefore his heart was rich with fondness for every winged being he ever knew.
Ruby red diamonds, yellows, blues & Tahitian black pearls from yet another sweet time & place rained upon everyone~ pulsing unified code~surfing crazy shiny-mind waves of Mother Milky Way. Their mirrors reflected wondrous images. Among them were holy men washing the feet of beggar men & the women who keep the fires burning dancing a fantastic dance, millions of them & more but numbers do not go up that high, especially where numbers don’t count at all.
There were many women dancing a fantastic dance. I was reminded of the Black ladies who sing the gospels; from the hips, hands to the sky, left then right; a supplication out to front then down to the ground and over again.. There were smiles everywhere & love, joy & more joy. If you could get close enough to these mahogany ladies you’d find that there is a lot of space & a great freedom around each one, yet from a distance they look packed together moving in unison; perfect choreography like a water dance; up, down, left, right & happy. Did I mention happy?
This must be the part of heaven God has reserved for poets, from the first poet to the last, from infant poets to great ancient oracles. Everything alive & electrical is heading the same way. Everyone loving the same because love moves in the same direction as our galaxy & the cosmos. It must be the joy of the spiral, from helical strands of DNA to the great spiraling universes. It is a perpetual blossoming. It makes a happy sound. Our nature is a happy sound. Laughter. Smiles. It is a great way to live. It would be a wonderful way to die if there was such a thing as death.
Alex smiled his way throughout the universe just as he had done throughout our lives. He never cared for anything in the world but pure love. God loved him for that. We all did. We all do. More than anything else, more than his mind-blowing mastery of numerous forms of art & branches of science, Alex Johns was a great poet. They say the same about saints who come to visit us. The love of great poets defies profound. Such purity of soul makes you want to cry. I don’t know why they bother with us unless it is because they love us so much… as much as we love them.
I am sitting on a filthy floor in an emptied room in front of a fireplace that has never seen a true fire. I survey the battlefield before me. I silently marvel at the accumulated detritus of three years worth of grief. But this is not the war I fought. The war here is so much bigger and far more brutal than the lonely war I fought. Moments pass backwards until I remember this is the place. I am it’s lone survivor. Below me is the exalted grave of a spiritual warrior. I remember now. I wonder at the emotions and crack-hearted questions splattered all over these wounded walls. There is blood on the floor leading into a darkened hallway. I thought I knew where that hallway lead to but I don’t remember. As hard as I try to recall, all I see is a blank screen. I am a television turned to mute with thunderous static. If I were not deaf I would go completely insane. The channel I am looking for has been moved to another world where I don’t get the signals.
I vaguely recall a man’s heart dripping a trail of tears; tears of blood from a shattered heart. That”s what these stains in my eyes are. I remember a man squatting in the corner of this room with eyes shut blind & ears with no sound to hear. He looks like me. I turn my head away as fast as I can. In that moment I am afraid. I am too frightened to breathe but not afraid enough not to cry. It passes. Moments pass into eternity.
War is over. I’m alive. I have been crippled but I am not lame. I’ve have scars deeply etched into my soul’s flesh; the ones which never heal.
I hear music. I hear a song. I remember this war is over. I hear music even when it isn’t playing. I know I shall sing once again.
This is a bittersweet farewell. I see snapshots of your mind. I wonder why I wondered how the debris on these walls and this floor ever came to be?
Thank you for taking my mind to a different sort of landscape. The soul creatures you create are quite beautiful. The ones you sent to cover my heart in winter will always keep me warm. You are so much more than kind.
You of the many muses remind me that all I have to do is turn the television off. It’s as simple as that. Off.
I hadn’t noticed the songbirds outside my window before. They sing as if their lives depended on it. They are so happy to be alive. That must be why they sing as they do.
I feel like humming a tune too. PER ELISA. You loved PER ELISA. You never told me that. I only know it because I saw you in a window early one morning dancing your heart out to PER ELISA. I had to smile. Alice came to us from the peerless library of our dear friend, Marty Lont-Lamar of Amsterdam. Remember? I know you do. Farewell my beloved. I will sing for the both of us until we meet again. Until then, may I have this dance?
The raven caws three times, then the rain falls. Heaven’s sky tears down with a beautiful viciousness. Above my head, I study the layers of silt & dust on the avocado leaves. I think, “This is the accumulated detritus of this past summer’s Icelandic volcanic eruptions.” It was a summer deadened by the horror of war scattered without rhyme or reason upon this pristine cobalt orb we call home. It was a summer of threats against one nation or another by one nation or another, a summer of soccer Moms down on hope but high on crank, cruising Meth Street, USA. It was a summer with Blacks living more & more in their world, Whites living more & more in theirs & they never kiss anymore. It was a summer of Polar Bears without homes, Coyotes lying motionless on the side of the road & giant Blue Whales washing up lifeless upon California’s shores. I confess, my spine had almost fused with futility until the rain came.
Our queen is a day laborer. We are the lords of her kingdom. Blessed be our lovely queen, forever and ever. Amen. Our queen is between our eyes. She never calls herself a guiding light. We do. Her wisdom is priceless. She gives it away for free. Not because she has to, because she wants to. Why do we call her holy when she passes us by? Why do we burst out joy wherever the sun touches her face? Our lover, the sun, also touches her face, her grace. The sun, our lover, is reason we bloom. She is our perpetual blossom. She shares the same face, same heart, the same earth. We spin; we are double helix strands spiraling souls into one perfect utter bliss. Her Grace reminds us we were born to shine and light the sky. Her face? Shimmering jewels of wisdom gifted unto us by the lonely vagabonds of her heart & the holy swine who rule this place. You may if you wish. Go ahead and touch the sun. Don’t get burned. It is a diamond face with spinning nuclei. Buddha is in the middle … another face. That one is not human. Our Queen is a lonely piper of tones in shades of love. She is a continent on a lonely planet singing joyously with the universe, and the universe next door.
Eighty-three minutes left. One hour twenty-three minutes thirty two seconds left. Thirty-one. Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. I got to stop here a bit Think this out. What can I say that might make some kinda difference? I feel maybe I can shed some light on how y’all look at things. Some light in your world. I won’t be hangin around to see the final curtain but that’s OK by me. The world I’m headin to be some fiery place down south somewhere. That’s what that fella on the news said this mornin. Can’t blame him I guess. Jesus H. Christ. Texas is cold. Colder’n a witch’s tit. Even the java is cold.
I did it. I ain’t sayin I didn’t. Musta been that damn speed. Tina they call it. Crystal Methamphetamine. Real vicious bitch. Devil’s drug. All over this place too. Everywhere. Y’all don’t even know yet. The shit’s gonna hit the fan. Yep. Musta been the speed. In real life, I’d never hurt a fly. I deserve what I gettin. No real punishment a’tall if you ask me. One hour twenty-one minutes from now the show will be over for me but you…you’ll still be here sufferin. You got the short end of the stick if you ask me. I know y’all ain’t askin bout what I’m thinkin but that’s what I’m figurin. You were stiffed. Fifty-six. Fifty-five. Fifty-four. Seconds. Feeling kinda weak. Life force gettin mighty low. Almost gone. Near time to go.
Hypocrisy? Yeah, that’s the word? Think so. How does a solid, good old Judo-Christian society like we’s got can condone the death penalty? Don’t make no sense if you think about it. Look at Betty Lou Beets. That old lady they did in the other day. She suffered. Always cryin and teary eyed. I don’t pay much mind to other’s hurtin so I don’t know what she did. Done kilt some husbands or something. Is that right? You don’t need to think too hard to ‘cifer out some truths. The law and my Lords a tellin me I gotta pay for takin a life. Maybe society has to pay too if it takes a life. You look at these kids round this great country of ours. Columbine, that six year old the other day, the list is endless. You can tell them anythin you want to but they see y’all put to death a person and that is what ya teach them. It’s ok to kill. Don’t matter what you tell them, it’s your actions and what ya’ll do that is instructin em. I ain’t preachin but I don’t know how y’all figure.
Then I hear on the radio evangelists talkin bout the difference between murder and killin. Don’t make no sense what they’re sayin. Think maybe it’s more to do with them feelin good bout themselves. Rationalizin all the blood on their hands. Living is sacred is what I say. I’m sorry to that fella’s family. So sorry. Thirty-three. Thirty-two. Thirty-one. Gotta go now. Think bout it, won’t ya? If y’all run into the devil, tell him Emmett’s got a bone to pick.
If you’re mystic, come this way
and play for me.
Tune your strings sharp & clear
with all the pressure I can bare.
If you’re mystic, stroke my hair,
kiss my lips,
take me to your mother-ship.
Rifle me with your tough grip.
Anchor me to your bright blue.
Show myself to me through you.
Your platinum strings ring clear and true.
Play your harp, this is your cue.
I know you’re mystic, I am too.
Let me play my harp for you.
Joshua Tree National Monument
This is where I go when God wants to speak with me in private.
I am standing naked. I’m drenched. My is head turned toward the sky. Cold rain pours into my eyes. The cobra skinned clouds and the moon play tricks on my mind. After what seems like days of rain, the clouds part revealing a crystalised haloed moon. Blue dot-light stars splash across the night sky. My sister, Johanna, is preparing me and the world I know for the saddest moment of my life… lives really…hundreds… maybe more. Edith is my favorite mother of all time The first mother walked out of Africa. Edith was that mother. I am grateful she chose me for a son. I suppose she was looking for a challenge. Is Edith Failing? If so … will she return?
I once slew a beautiful beast. I brought you meat and a silver sable fur to keep you warm through the coldest winter we’d ever known. I was once a saint who loved throwing miracles at your feet. I was a devil who incinerated your generous spirit with my savage desires; I ate your heart while it still beat within your magnificent breast. I once was an angel who held you tight throughout a dreary, catastrophic night. I was once your lover who gave you the world in the shimmer of a solitary black pearl. I later lost it for you in a gorgeous canyon at the mouth of the southern sea. Once I was a man who cared a lot. I grew a gorgeous crop for you … just for you.
Just say no but mean it this time. Don’t glamorise infamy. One thought pulses through us all: Revere life. Those who see only a bloody mask in their fractured-mind mirrors are to be allowed to return back to the nothingness from whence they came. Never give up. We shall be fine. Our twenty and twenty-first century experiment lightning-bolt paced technology is a wasteland without breath. Stop. Breathe. Pause each day to ponder what it is which truly abides. We will all stand tall with love in our eyes; sparkling lights every mother knows so well. We honor her devout wish we should all know joy forever more. This is just not a dream some of us have. Love as if it is going out of style.
I am sitting on a filthy floor in an emptied room in front of a fireplace that has never seen a true fire. I survey the battlefield before me. I silently marvel at the accumulated detritus of three years worth of grief. For a flicker of a moment I think this is not the war I fought. The war here is so much bigger & far more brutal than the lonely war I fought. A moment passes backwards until I remember this is the place & I am the lone survivor. Below me is the exalted grave of a spiritual warrior.
I wonder at the emotions & the crack-hearted questions splattered all over these wounded walls. There is blood on the floor leading into a darkened hallway. I thought I knew where that hallway lead to but I don’t remember now. As hard as I try to recall, all I see is a blank screen. I am a television turned to mute with thunderous static. If I were not deaf I would go completely insane. The channel I am looking for has been moved to another world where I do not get the signal.
I vaguely recall a man’s heart dripping a trail of tears; tears of blood from a shattered heart. That is what these stains in my eyes are. I see that much. I remember that much. I remember a man squatting in the corner of this room, his eyes shut blind & his ears with no sound to hear. He looks like me. I turn my head away as fast as I can. In that moment I am afraid. I am almost too frightened to breathe, but not afraid enough not to cry. It passes. The moment passes into eternity.
In the next moment, war is over. I am alive. I am crippled, but I’m not lame. I have been forever scarred by razor blades deeply etched into my soul’s flesh, but now I hear a song. War is over. I hear music even when it isn’t playing. I know I shall sing again.
This is a bittersweet farewell. I see these snapshots of your mind & I wonder why I even wondered how this debris on these walls and that floor ever came to be. I don’t remember now. Thank you for taking my mind to a different sort of landscape. These soul creatures are quite beautiful. The ones you have sent to cover my heart in winter. You are the most kind.
You of the many muses remind me that all I have to do is turn the television off. It is as simple as that. That is what I have just done. I hadn’t noticed that the songbirds outside my window are singing as if their lives depended on it. They are so happy to be alive. That must be why they sing as they do.
I suddenly feel like humming a tune. PER ELISA. You loved PER ELISA but you never told me that. I only know it because I saw you in a window early one morning dancing your heart out to PER ELISA. I had to smile. Alicia sings like an angel from inner space. She came to us from the peerless library of our dear friend, Marty Lont, in Amsterdam. Remember? I know you do. I also remember, it is the simple things that matter most. Farewell my beloved. I will sing for the both of us until we meet again.
My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face. I’m thinking, one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab, (paid for twice over, but never to be owned), will not subdue the bestial morning’s sadistic appetite. The secret is out; Fire Island tragedies are lurking under star-crossed pines in paradise. My eyes are held in place midst the wreckage of my face by shear will. I think, perhaps one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab paid for twice over, but never to be owned, will obliterate a debauched morning hangover. What about an aspirin or a bloody Mary? Maybe if I take a dive into the raging blue Atlantic waters of forget me nows, my sins will be erased along with yesterday and my inhuman slurs and beat you down puns. Even if the divine in divine mind could muster mercy for my soul, yes, even if I acquiesce and bow to their Latin liturgies, and I finally see that all my prescriptions are merely the fleeting tonics of a foolish mind, I will never find repose. Consequently, (I will not deny this) a loaded Colt 45’s horsepower is my medicine of choice. What other elixir will suffice when you wake early on a brand new day and your mirror is exclaiming, “You’re old, decrepit, and to boot you’re gay? These are but the rage-dreams of a narcissist’s self-absorbed preoccupation.
In ephemeral brevity, my spirits rise high as the sun glides its way into mid-day. I take a second look at that man in the mirror I know as me. I think the history of my face and the fractured emerald matrix of my eyes look familiar to me. I confront myself. Are you ancient splendor garbed in hues of wisdom’s wonders? Or are you a masked imposter stoking a Fire Island tragedy lurking under star-crossed pines? My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face. I’m a silly man. I think I look dashing as my life and times and face decay. I think, “Oh, what’s another cocktail, or a line of coke or two, with this blue-eyed prince of a man; paid for twice over?” The fine print says ‘on loan, never to be owned.’ Nowhere does the contract state ‘this stud, despite his sublime stature cannot subdue another debauched mornings’ hangover revenge.’
On Fire Island, ghosts lurk scarecrow, screw-faced under littered dreams. Theirs is an insatiable hunger for any soul so predisposed to join their twisted spirits in a ritual of howls. Paradise Lost Paradise Found Over The Rainbow Smashed To The Ground. My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face as I slowly turn to ashes. Please, just one more cocktail with you, my beloved, blue-eyed Aphrodite! I’ve handsomely paid for you twice over, could you love me for any fee? No. Not he or any living mortal can subdue this debauched morning hangover. Finally, I take yet another look at that man in the mirror I know as me. I think the history of my face and the fractured emerald matrix of my eyes look familiar to me. I confront myself. Are you ancient splendor garbed in hues of wisdom’s wonders? Or are you a masked imposter stoking a Fire Island tragedy lurking under star-crossed pines?
My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face. I think, one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab, paid for twice over, but never to be owned, leased but never mine for evermore, will not change the fact that no mere mortal will ever subdue my demoralized mornings spent between heaven and hell. You see, here on Fire Island, ghosts lurk screw-faced under star-crossed pines howling without sound
THE UNSINKABLE TITANIC ON HER FIRST VOYAGE:
LIVERPOOL TO NEW YORK CITY
The TITANIC struck an iceberg on April the 14 of 1912 at 11:40 PM and sank a few hours later. It was early morning of April 15, 1912. They were four days out to sea on their way to New YorK City.
The UTLEY lineage begins with (documentation secured) William the Bastard, the fist Norman King of England , with his marriage to Matilda of Flanders, May 20, 1058. This is when the parish of UTLEY was founded; a gorgeous piece of land just a stone’s throw away from what is now the city of Leeds, Yorkshire, England. Even now, nearly one thousand years later, UTLEY parish remains barely unchanged in architecture or attitudes of its brilliant offspring. All men and women of UTLEY are above average.
THOMAS UTLEY & SONS
The UTLEYS were one of the leading maritime brass founders in the world, having also produced sidelights for Lusitania and Mauretania. They made many of the brass fittings for the Titanic and Olympic. These included the Titanic’s bells and Gothic patterned windows for the ship’s bars and dining rooms.
The disasters of the RMS Titanic and the RMS Lusitania were two of the greatest maritime tragedies of their era.
They were all too similar in scale and loss – the Harland & Wolff, Belfast-built Titanic sinking on its maiden voyage in April of 1912, after colliding with an iceberg in the frigid waters of the Atlantic ocean en route from its final port of call in Queenstown (now Cobh, Co. Cork) to New York. One thousand, five hundred and twenty-three of the 2,240 on board lost their lives, the confidence in one of the grandest ships ever built shattered.
Titanic’s bells and Gothic patterned windows for the ship’s bars and dining rooms.
I know Utley women who speak of premonitions. They even bank on them. I don’t bank on anything. I don’t trust banks. I do believe that there is great reason to trust our intuitive nature. For instance, Jane Utley, wife to Thomas Utley, declined, and coaxed her husband to decline a first class luxury cabin aboard the maiden voyage of the Titanic due to premonitions of a catastrophic event she clearly saw involving the fate of the Titanic. So much for a mythological UTLEY CURSE. Again, one more example of a misinformation rooted in fake news. I rest my case, except to say:
UTLEYS have been burned or hung in England (and probably in the early American colonies) for being witches. One documented example is Sarah Utley, hung 1620 in London. Mother Utley was the name her people called her. She was accused of witchcraft when all she really was guilty of was being a bit misunderstood. A Room with light is more than a match for darkness.
The Utley women never speak about their clairvoyant powers. Perhaps because society associates premonitions, miracles, telepathic powers, etc., as demonic, satanic or of the dark occult; to be feared when it is just the opposite. It never ceases to amaze me. Almost everything we have been taught & think we know is really just the opposite.
NOT ACTUAL LIVE FOOTAGE OF TRAGEDY
September 13, 1907:
Lusitania arriving in New York on her maiden voyage,
sailing past Battery Park.
Lusitania arriving in New York on her maiden voyage
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RMS_Lusitania
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RMS_Mauretania_(1906)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RMS_Olympic
Part of my face is an immense crater. It is here I spend all my free time, sitting beside myself sipping tea on the lips of my cheek bones. I talk endlessly about your perfection; what a profound defect of character that is. I then respond ad infinitum. We compare notes. We laugh, cry, and wistfully whine, sitting beside ourselves, sipping tea, watching you.
Words carry tremendous power. They help create our experience. We may feel anguish at not being able to change a situation or alter the path of someone we care about. We are not able change a soul’s journey.
I was borne of vapor rising from the hairline cracks of skyscrapers. I could fly before I could run. I could run before I could walk. I’ve seen the world in flames. I’ve heard my mother sobbing. I know your pain because I am an old man dying inhaling the newborn’s breath. I am the wind that churns. I am a young bird weeping. I am the center of the hawk’s red eye. Is it any wonder I cry so hard?
Is it any wonder I laugh so loud? I am a towering tree. I’m a shooting star. I’m the ocean I swim in, the mountains I climb, the lovers I’ve known, the light & the dark & the children at play. I am the song of souls singing this song called life.
So is it any wonder you’ve been perfect from the start? You’ve always known how to sing, you simply forgot the song ’till now. You are an old man speaking his wisdom to the universe. You are a young bird singing. You are its mother laughing all the way, every single day. It isn’t any wonder.
In various shades of suede stood Rex, King of the Galiathans. The Great Dane beauty had lived his life according to the laws of our universe. Kilos of muscle, tendons & fierce intelligence griped the cliffs. Behind him, carrying a pail of lotus leaves galloped Alex, a prince of a man. I loved him for that. I saw a field of Orange Mandarin Poppies bleed into the horizon. I saw both giants lay dying to their earthly vessels.
Where the sky meets the raging sea, dreams weeped along the mouth of the mourning coast. Big Sur cried throughout the night. Angels sighed as the ocean, lapping needling pines, felt such fiery, scorching compassion that the rain came. As eve dipped into the pitch black ink of night, these two giants laying there gave witness to eternal splendor. I loved them both for that. Frosted lava waves breached the shore where I lay crying.
Morning came without her sirens. All was calm, when before my eyes I saw a dream come misting forth upon the western wind. I looked to where the giants had laid down their heavy journey. On the very mark they had been supinely entwined near the raging sea, ocean-eyes wide open, were two splendid Giant Birds of Paradise. I loved God for that.
At that very moment, a clicking in unison caught my attention. Just where the waves turn to froth, there they were side by side, riding the tide with their Dolphin tails. They shot forth into the sky spiraling downwards then flipping back. They were happy. I smiled. They then waved so long for now. Yes, indeed, until we meet again. I love God for that. I love God. I love you.
ALEX & REX at 8 weeks old. San Diego.
Our queen is a day laborer. We are lords in her kingdom. She says, “We were born to shine.” We think she was born to shine. Blessed be our lovely queen who dwells between our eyes. She’s nobody’s prophet, she says. She never calls herself our guiding light. We do, but never in her presence. We know better. When she blushes, the sun becomes a scarlet moon. Her wisdom is priceless. She gives it away for free. Not because she has to, but because she wants to. It is her destiny calling. She is the lady with the holy in her face. She’s a humble force of a beautiful mercy. We burst out joy whenever the sun touches our face. We are reminded we were born to shine. Her face is shimmering jewels of wisdom gifted unto us by kings in vagabond garb. Swine who help her rule this place are angels with purple flowering feathered wings immaculately conceived. We are reminded we are more than looks perceive. Go ahead and touch. You want to, so go ahead. She will not mind a gentle touch. Hers is a diamond face; spinning prisms of nuclei with Buddha in the middle. There is another face, but that one is not human. Our queen is an elegant piper of tones in shades of love. She is a continent on a lonely planet singing along with the universe, and the universe next door.
I’m standing at my kitchen window. The dusk is passing into early eve. There is a wind storm going on. I’m concerned about a hummingbird nest that is in a young ficus tree raised from the dead itself; a stick two years ago in the backyard of my neighbor who had neglected it. I thought I’d just water it and see what happens. It grew. Now I am worried the wind will blow the nest away. I just saw some photos of baby hummingbirds in a similar tree across the street. They are so beautiful. That was earlier today. I won’t venture close enough to these here in my yard… just in case. But I think …
If all animals feel, and they do… how often have we seen the pitiful agony of struggle in their eyes against that which they know intend harm? If they fear they must know joy, they must love life. Instinct just doesn’t cut it. In fact, dismissing such behavior as reflexology is near-devious. It is verging … no, it is ignorant … it must be another form of crime against life.You see fear in all god’s creatures.
If all creatures feel fear, love life, know pain and sorrow then they have soul – if you consume soul – you must be an animal without one – or perhaps an animal who has yet to open their eyes wide enough to see – so – I ask, think upon this. I could be wrong – I know I’m not.
If life were fair, the creatures surrounding this beautiful beast would be quite dead & lifeless. Y’all sprawled out on the ground with that lovely, godly spirit and halo mane smilin, his hot, smoking bazooka enjoying their meat.
SANJI-GAN: Hello Mr Scott. I’m surprised. I’m very happy to see you, Won’t you please come in? Come in. My beaming smile is my answer. Sanji understands everything without words.
I wonder about his past. I’ve a million questions. I never ask. He tells me bits and pieces as he sees fit. He gives me what I am ready for. He is Buddha-like that way. “Whatever needs no ears to hear is what I need to know.” I sometimes think he is Buddha. I would never tell him that. He might think I am crazy or I know too much.
Sanji-gan lost his entire family to Enola Gay. That was the name of the B-52 bomber which the USA used to attack Japan. Enola Gay dropped the first, but not the last, atomic bomb used with absent minded malice upon another nation.
The bulls-eye was a gorgeous pedestrian bridge at the center of an equally gorgeous Japanese city called Hiroshima.
Sanji-gan was ill the morning of the blast. He survived that endless summer of “Walking Ants” made zombie-like by the “false sunrise & great wind” because he was at his grandmothers home recuperating from a stomach bloated by a “premonition”, he said.
His grandmother’s home was far enough from the epicenter of the giant mushroom stem with its power to evaporate souls within the blink of an eye.
Sanji-gan once told me of a young man who lurched forward many steps trying to flee the bomb but his feet were amputated. He was running on the stubs of his knees until he died right where he fell. Seventy-three years later, Sanji-gan remembers every detail as if it happened just yesterday.
The “Walking Ants” couldn’t do anything for anyone. They were funded without power to do much more than die themselves; an eternal agony. For those of you who believe in the devil, this must be the hell where he lives.
Sanji remains a happy man. He is a little old man who does nothing but smile and laugh. He loves life. He is a gentle man. His name is a mantra which may open the hearts of the most heartless among us.
Full moon silver frosted leaves; glassing dew robed sycamore sleeves. Sagacious spiders (masters of weave), slept snug and warm beneath creaking eaves. Our creek roared fierce with a late spring rain. All things full must surely wane. Perpetual blossoms should not be sad yet how do I sing when I am mad? Atomic beats drove me insane. The sight I saw played in my brain. I wondered, “Does the sky feel pain?” Suddenly black on black from front to back, a Raven soared into attack. The hawk’s quick eye did catch the beast but not before the raven’s feast. The hawk chick fell from the sycamore to the rocky banks of the canyon floor. The rest, of course, is etched in lore. An angel garbed in feathered dress descended from her perch of rest. The battered babe, his blood now cold, rose from the dead on wings of gold. Miraculous in the Phoenix mold; fell from the skies then resurrected: A god-shot is quite unexpected. For when the reaper comes it’s time to go. Since the first dawn this has been so. But then again, how’d I know? Heart returned to our beloved’s sky, & then the glint in our dear chick’s eye. The babe ascended his lofty nest to the greatest comfort, a mother’s breast. Successful in her Angel quest, our heroine in feathered dress returned to where all angels rest. And to this day this lore I’ve told delights all children, both young and old.
There is no way you can avoid this moon tonight.
Do you hear me?
There is no way you can avoid this moon tonight.
At this moment
It is framed by my giant regal avocado tree in bloom.
There is the face of Buddha in it.
That is very clear.
Or should I say, ‘He is very clear?”
There is a nucleus spinning rapidly.
There are lotus flowers morphing and diamonds too.
They are in the mix.
Another face but it is not human.
There is a new moon full tonight.
It is not like any moon ever before.
I am Christian because I know Jesus. He knows me. I am most definitely Muslim. I am Jewish by proxy, Catholic, Wiccan & Siek. I am Muslim. I’m proud of my pride. I love souls who strive to become one with all, who love knowledge and share it. I do not care much for nations who are not able to sue for peace. I have never met a nation who loves war whom is not a failed state at an abysmal core all along its watchtower. If you are a leader of men and women who are living in an anxious future, never knowing happiness or peace, then you are the wind without wings behind this failure. I once heard a professor of mine say people, nations, get the government they deserve. I thought that was true. I fear I still think it is so.
The only religious instruction I received as a boy was meeting up with my great pal, Darius. God blesses him. My eternal gratitude is always at his feet. Darius’s mother was a slight Irish-American woman who married a tall, beautiful man from Persia (or Iran as that land is now called). Darius’s father was hardly ever in the picture. I am certain I met him only once or twice, then I never again.I suppose I will never know the entire story of what was obviously an ironic & paradoxical match, much like the match between a poor deep south Delta Mississippi orphaned man and a woman born and bred in Hell’s kitchen, NYC. Such were my parents. That man too, I hardly knew. I am thankful that my mother had the balls to leave him when she did. I was only five and my baby sister was two. But my older brothers, three of them, now all gone from this earth and my eldest sister, who was also in that first wave of children, suffered immense pain because a soldier who wields a rifle for his country from WW II to KOREA & VIETNAM with great honor does not necessarily make a good father. Be armed and forewarned.
BREATHE
Darius went to Muslim school. That is what he called it. I would follow him from time to time. On rare occasions he would relate to me some of what he had learned. It was much like pulling teeth but I was a trooper who never gave up just as I am today. I learned about the poetry of the KORAN. I learned that Muhammad was a friend of Jesus. They in turn shared Buddha, Krishna, my Momma, Confucius, Louise Hay,and all their other friends with each other, with all the world just because that’s the kind of sons & daughters they are. No elitism there, here or anywhere. I have always held in deep reference the holy words of inspired scripture, even if I am an amorphous eroticist knower of Divine Mind. I have had the direct experience. It is so simple that way. To achieve it, you must be it.
IN
In my early years as an emancipated minor I studied & graduated from Laguna Beach High School. There was a professor there who taught us who was a Rabbi. From him I learned that every land has its own wisdom. From him I learned that there is so much to learn and even more we shall never know. He made quite an impression on my heart & those kinds of stains are like blood, ruby red and never coming out & isn’t it a beautiful world? Mary & Buddha are great friends of mine. He is always smiling whether it rains tears of blood or the sky goes on in a cobalt blue hue forever and ever. I dress him up sometimes in drag. I snap photos of my mad creations then I make digital art out of them. He doesn’t mind at all. He is happy to be of service regardless my whimsy. Mary just laughs and laughs as if that is her birthright, and so it is.
EXHALE
I know another god who lives secretly out in the open. This one is everywhere and in everything. I can’t say enough about how beautiful this god is … who can be still & see & hear & know silence as it thunders through the cosmos & not marvel in wonder? ~ I wish for you to understand that there is nothing that separates us from each other but illusion. I wish for you to know that all life is sacred. There is much that cannot be explained in our language but that is not a prerequisite to entering the door of our birthright. The sages say that birthright is to know joy forever. We may face trials that will truly push us to our limits and sometimes over the rainbow and into a void of nothingness, but in a strange yet wonderful land called truth & faith & love there is a place at the table for you & me. There is no division. There are no arguments at all. There is only a sense of pure joy. That you know this to be true is my wish for you.
BREATHE
INCINERATE MY SAVAGE SOUL
I AM PAPER BURNING AT ALL MY EDGES
YOU ARE THE SMOKE I BECOME
WRITTEN BY SCOTT UTLEY – BURN
My prophet rises from snow white sands. He is cut & bruised with bloody hands. His metamorphosis is marked by purple flowering feathered wings immaculately conceived. He reaches into the eye of the sky & fondles memories from before my time, back when this river flowed with twice its heart & the sky more volatile with twice its strike. When this desert land was twice as young, He walked along these very skies now dusked across my mind like a churning holy electrical explosion.
My prophet rises from the deep blue sea with gaping wounds for all to see. His metamorphosis is marked by the inhalation of deep & conscious breath. His yellow diamonds are draped upon his brawny chest strung side by side with cosmic thread. He is future, present & the past. He’s courage fed by fathers brave & mothers strong. They’ve taught him well, both right & wrong. This world unceasingly expands its view. With opened eyes & a child’s pride, He is my harness. I love this ride.
My Prophet rises. I am He. I’ve wept in pain but now I’m free. Upon this sand my heart is burned. There is so much I have to learn. My metamorphosis is marked by the song of my soul echoing through the cathedral of my mind. I know I am more than looks perceive. My well is full. I have no greed. Christ is here & surely bleeds. He is my lover. I am He. Continue reading MY PROPHET RISING
