last night i dreamt about worms
not the fat slimy ones that you dig
in the earth
not the ones that
dads bait on hooks for fishing
laughing, beer in hand
hold the camera steady, dear
cast, johnny!!!


not the ones that gather in
shallow pools after a rain
a rain that drenches the earth with glorious
tears
their scent filling the air
returning, rerouting


no, last night i dreamt about
other worms

the kind that come out
of your ass
usually in the night
under the cover of flesh
the ones that infest, consume
occupy and irritate
the ones that itch and threaten and

devour

the ones that feed, nurture and grow
sucking
gently
so we think we like it


even when we don't want them to
the parasites of the earth
building, growing, changing
before our eyes
in spite of our eyes
fucking bastards
give me a stick
to poke out their eyes

do they have eyes


then i can return to peace

within us each
lies the birth of a flower
within us each
roots that connect
within us each
lives a connection
to soul
within us each
divine love pours through

hello dearest friend,
i know the dark space
from which your voice emerged
as you boarded the plane

i know you struggle
like a worm in a cocoon
i offer this as an insight that resonates for me
and may also resonate for you
in my own inquiry i have been asking questions about
oppressed and oppressor

in nature, in spirituality, in cosmology
it seems possible to achieve balance
harmony
in human nature
it seems we have not yet learned that
archetypal skill
reactionary,
the oppressed becomes oppressor
in intimate relation, in community,
between genders, ethnicities, nations,

it seems to me that
this is the threshold on which we stand
in humanity
your personal experiences are only a microcosm
of the whole
lovehate
peacewar
we are the final stand
for the reclamation or the disollution
of the binary nature
of humanity

in these moments when you think you don't
know who you are
i hope you will choose to shed the darkness
accept uncertainty
live with intention
and make a whole lot of fucking noise

the kids are in bed
and once again
the metamorphasis
the slow return to me
after the books
the stories
the laughter and bath time
between the shadows of what is said
and what lingers
shrugged shoulders
that carry a thousand words
hugs, tears and a few deliberate
punches among siblings
just to keep things straight
of course,
in the pecking order
beautiful blue eyes
finally glance inward
bring home their innocence
after the dishes are done
the food, the clothes, the remnants of the day
put away
piles of work pushed aside
to allow for something greater to come
here it is
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