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Poem: Dad You Failed Me, But What Gifts Were Bestowed September 2, 2010

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Mystical, Personal Journey, Poem-A-Day, Uncategorized.
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Your funeral was the moment
I felt closest to you, Dad.
I always knew some things
about you, it turns out. Playful
Monkey, you had a spirit
under the Budweiser Bravado
that just wanted to goof around.
The part of me that is Type B –
I gotat that from you.
I empathize with how you were

in the civilized world. The cave
in your back where a spine
ought to have been – I have
that too. It’s awful, but you
knew that. The drink did numb
that raw feeling, I’m sure.
I have moved away from all
medic, compelled by a ken after
my birthright, Happiness.

Part of your gifts to me phoenixed
out of failures. The utter sputter
of a project gone bad, then BAM!
of palm on kitchen table
upon hearing of an error I made.
Your surpising sadness you
tried to hide when you understood
I was just like you. Destined
for a life at others’ whims.

You couldn’t prevent these things.
I know that now, I’ve had to go
on this journey blindly,
willfully. Blow-and-go, you
accused me. I felt such a hurt
at that, but we know you saw,
you understood, you felt afraid
for me, and it made you mad.
A dragon lived in me.

And I was the last to know. Today,
amidst these men who come
together dick-to-dick to heal
our wounded boysleves, to foster
a sacred erotics rooted in our roots,
to reclaim our innocent black hearts
hidden in the muck and falsity
of our enthralled artifices,
I will face my fears at last.

You saw your work as a failure.
But you were also so so denied
a means to claim the birthright.
We’re so easily impressed
and helpless young. Unless
safeguarded by wiser elders
we become enmeshed in the land
of not-good-enough.

You just followed the pop-sci
proppaganda of the age. Deny
your common sense, the experts
have all the answers! Sterile
form of mysticism devoid of heart.
only too late did you realize
the error of your ways. Even that
was covered in muck. You thought
my gayness was the issue.

Like you, I got suckered, Dad.
The bait-and-switch of debt
overtook me, and a virtual
Marshalsea has arisen
all about this foolish God.
This Deity’s journey has me
to follow a labrious trek.
Hercules at Mayan Calendar’s end.
Accelerating time, gone mad.

A most bitter gift, Dad, given
unconsciously as it had to to be.
Before you passed, I knew
the Alz was a graceful reward.
The wounded child cried “Unfair!
How come he gets to forget?
He should suffer the harm caused me.”
O how you suffered too.

A moment of generosity, small,
that fractal of power, never
to be forgotten.  I toiled hard
for that chess set, backyard sun.
I sure learned the value
of a 1980 dollar. And off we went
to the toy store.  Surprise, you pulled
out your wallet and splurged. I got to
keep my hardwon gelt.

I do know you loved me.
I do know you wanted the best.
I do know you failed yourself.
I do know your dad failed you.
I do know you couldn’t escape it.
I do know you wished you could chuck it.
I do know these things and more
Because I feel them all cellularly.
Skin, head, heart, cock.  All.

Somehow, ancestral blood lightning
courses through these veins. No
awareness could get through for you.
My suffering has sparked an awakening.
I’m here to heal a family wound
and boldly dive into the cesspool
to reclaim the split-offs, discards
that I’ve needed to hold dear.
No division, no conquests. Wholeness.

And it began awhile ago.
A tree started its slow growth
the awareness of self-loss
with you, Mom & Sis over phone
that miracle day I called you
ending five years of silence.  A seed
in the ground broke the alar.
Bold young World Tree grows, shines
with mana, divine radiance.

I’ve learned not to slay dragons
but to discover their lessons.
Transform and puriify intents
away from Darth Vader rage.
I reclaim my two year-old
and I father myself in process.
The man I’m to be emerges
and the mourning dove you came
to be becomes proud.

I trust you’ve become aware
how powerful I’ve always been.
Somehow you and Mom both knew
I was to have a hard life of progress.
That I have it in me to succeed
on terms that only I can set.
You challenged me with raw words.
Grieved at some groaner choices
Watched helpless somtimes to help me.

And today, a new man comes forth.
The one who was always beside.
Best, brightest future Self
speeds backwards in time,
a Gandalf to guide this God
inot the mantle of his largesse.
Generosity, glorious sex, healing,
teaching, making soul-full art.
The path alights itself.

So thank you Dad, Mr. Play Monkey
The spirit lives on in me, quiet
at times, Coyote at others.
I’m sure you’ve still got tricks
up your sleeve.  The ancestral realm
flimsy veil partitioning after all.
Perhaps one day you’ll poop on me?
Some sign to watch it?

You carry on in me every time I hear
that comforting coo, see a pair
of these reassuring feathered
sentinels that appear at choice
moments.  You went backwards in time
yourself, appearing that day in Madison,
when Michael and I cast a circle.  Thank
you.  Today I live in the mystery.
Having outgrown mere answers.

Written on August 25, 2010, Easton Mountain, Greenwich, New York

2012: Time for Change Preview/Panel Discussion in NYC last night July 9, 2010

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Civilization Anonymous, Cultural Janitorial Detail, Poem-A-Day.
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I got off the Megabus and beelined for Boston Market for a cheap dinner.  I had time to kill, so I walked over to 6th Avenue, thinking I’d go to the B&N that was on 6th and 22nd. 

Well, it’s GONE!  To become Trader Joe’s on Monday.  Hmph.

Anyway, I did go to the Union Square one, then booked over to SVA to get in line.  Ran into some old buddies from a 12-step fellowship in line, and sat with them.

Watched the film, and I must say I enjoyed much of it.  Reminded me a lot of What a Way to Go: Life at the End of Empire by Tim & Sally Erickson, due to the whole thing being a personal journey sort of narrative.  Daniel Pinchbeck tells his story, and features his one stint on Colbert, which was hilarious I must say, even if it mocked the 2012 people.

I personally believe as one of the interviewees does, that 2012 is but a signpost.  Whether we as a species live or die at that time isn’t really the issue, it’s what we do in the lead-up.  Do we finally surrender and discover the right use of our wills?  Or do we keep on doing the insane things of demanding our world be a certain way and getting more and more shrill and violent when things go the way they go?

The film did give some focus to the 2012 doom crowd.  (I like to use the word “Doom” ironically, because I wish for the civilization’s doom, but so the human race might survive the onslaught a-coming.)  Pretty much everyone interviewed remarked that the choice is up to each individual, and it will pretty much go with how they view it. 

The panel discussion afterward featured Sting and Pinchbeck of course, as well as a native guy T. Ghosthorse (I didn’t get his first name, alas), Paul Stamets, a yoga expert named Ganga, and the film’s director Joao Amorim.  Interviewees included Penny Livingston of permaculture fame, Gilberto Gil, David Lynch, Ellen Page (!), Dean Radin, Dennis McKenna, Barbara Marx Hubbard, and others. 

One thing I need to remark on, a personal sense of judgment I felt.  I decided just to wear a polo shirt and shorts to the event.  Some people were dressed for work–they’d obviously knocked off for the day.  Some were people who were “walking their talk,” and they were dressed “weird,” but that was who they were.  But I noticed a lot of people really dressed up and a few who were trying a bit too hard to fit in.  I felt pain around these sorts of people, because it reminded me of the bar scene.

Ew.

Anyway, the really interesting thing was that the most questions went to Mr. Stamets, who brought a bunch of kits to grow one’s own trees in cardboard boxes.  It sounded quite interesting and cool to try and do, but it was only for those in NYC.  (Not that I was interested in that–we’ve got lots o’ trees up north, molto grazie.)  He also brought a bag of mycellium and straw which he explained was for the Gulf of Mexico, to help transform the oil there.  That was one of the fascinating parts of the movie, mycoremediation. 

(Since my last name is Morell, I have a little bit of a soft spot in my heart for die shroombahs! Richard means stern king, so I could be the Stern ‘Shroom King, n’est-ce pas?)

Sting got a couple of questions.  He talked of his ayahuasca experience.  Something I didn’t know about these drugs used in African/South American rituals, is that with supervision, they can help with depression and addiction, among other things.  Part of me longs to have an ayahuasca experience, but I won’t.  Still, in light of my previous blog postings about grief vs. depression, it’s something I’m pondering.

It gets to be a bit frustrating in the Q&A’s to hear people asking “why didn’t you include this?”  Well, editorial choice is up to the director.  There’s all sorts of things the film raised that could make their own interesting films.  (The creation of a green roof for example.)

I stayed around until it was time for me to walk up to Penn Station.  I was glad to have gone, and I wonder what more will come from it.  Perhaps some of this will finally spread up into the Capital Region.

For me the most memorable line of the night:  Mr. Ghosthorse said “I don’t know about you, but I’m really looking forward to the days after America.  It hasn’t been so good for us.”  (Mr. Ghosthorse is a Lakota elder with a show on WBAI.)  He invited people to come to their ceremonies.

I
really
want
to
take
him
up
on
that.

Poetry Reading Tonight June 11, 2010

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Capital Region Notions, doom sonnets, Poem-A-Day.
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Where: Upstate Artists Guild

Lark Street, Albany, New York

7:30 p.m.

I’m one of two featured poets for the 2010 Pride festivities going on around the region. 

Hope people can make it.  I’ll be reading some of my Doom Sonnets!

Poem: Spiritual Queen, not Musical Theater Diva Grande Alcoholica May 4, 2010

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Mystical, Personal Journey, Poem-A-Day, Uncategorized.
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Once upon the time.
That time before. Many years.
Enamored of this place.
For so long, I felt my future
would certainly begin here.

And it did, but not in the way
I thought it might.  Tchotchkes
of fame, to roll in green stuff?
Heh! No such luck.  But heart
matters directed me first

in this walled-up fortress,
this truculent warrior place
deploying Turns Rose, and Don’t
Cry for Me Argentina Twists
Despite them.  And TO spite them.

This is their town, army of wraiths
ye also rans jealous for crumbs
of recognition, forcing themselves
onstage vainly trying to make
us be entertained with their cruelty.

At some point, I left Carrie
Bradshaw to wallow in her hell.
It’s the appropriate thing to do–
let the City that Cannot Sleep
have its Dignified Bottom.

So, cleared out, fated it seems
in retrospect.  Having come up
with job and apartment both that
day in late August.  The Troy boyfriend
having hooked me in, allied

as Jody is to the Hudson,
to this undiscovered emerald
nestled in a river valley
filled with trees, art and quiet beauty.
But also there are its cities too.

I woke up to Spring’s gorgeousness
in New York City, communed with Park
Tompkins trees, with the four directions
and elements, and an awareness
of the oh-so-many other worlds.

Gratitude for bazillion AA meetings
overflows this spacious core.
Yet enough yielded to enough. Fame
bug long departed for graveyard
where Oya blew its ashes into beyond.

A visit here, to escort a friend
clutching on to a tenuous freedom
from Evil White Powders sanctioned SAD*
this grand opportunity
to reconnect with that time.

Somehow I’m blessed with letting go
of that Jonesish clutching after
recognition and acknowledgment.
Your approval?  Well, nice and all.
Needed not.  My breaths and God connection

Have strengthened me thank you much.
I don’t write for fame now, just joy
and expansiveness conduct stanzas 
and energize the stage speeches.
I want to share this heart’s contents.

Whatever arises from that? Accidents
to be sure.  Sometiems happy, terrors
at other times.  They are points besides.
Sitting at this table, this cafeteria —
This timeless joy of breath–Enough!

______________________
*SAD – Standard American Diet

What Is In My Heart? #1 April 15, 2010

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Capital Region Notions, Mystical, Personal Journey, Poem-A-Day.
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For the past few months, when I get outside on my lunch hour I attempt to sit by the Hudson or at the downtown Bruegger’s and write from the heart place.  I finished writing the first draft of a one-act play a few weeks or maybe a month ago (and I finished typing it today–it’s hard to type one’s own work when working as a secretary for 8 hours…), and lately it’s been poetry. 

I do seem to be called back to a strange and difficult script I started writing several years ago, under the sometimes formal direction of Cerridwen.  (Hence my other blog “Cerridwen’s Mountain,” for she is the steward of the mountain of playwriting. And in fact, I need to honor her for the finish of the first draft of Doin’ Damage, as well as typing the first draft of an even older pair of full-length one-acts I’m tentatively calling vEmpire’s Last Grasp.)

So, I thought today I’d try and blog what is in my heart.  It’s not an easy thing to do if I don’t really know what’s there.  At present, the feelings are a warm electric buzzing and a potent sense of possibility.  NOthing immediately springs to mind.  Just pure potential at this point.

Though I feel I desire to manifest a few things.  My plays and my other writings are in their own ways spells.  And I will sit with these works for a time, and contemplate their present state.  They will change I know.  As all of my scripts must. 

There are plays I need to go back to and revision with the awarenesses I’ve gained in the past 10-12 years.  I’m a very different person than I was when I started writing Adrenaline, Killing the Audience, Mutable Grand Cross.  I feel content for the time being with My Littleton Play.  But there’s tweaking that needs to be done there as well.

Last night I read Doom Sonnet #37 and Iron Pentacle Power Point #4 at the Live in the Living Room series at the GLCCC.  Felt good to get back into poetry in Albany.  The featured poet read a couple of Schenectady poems.  Yea!  I need to write my own homages to the spirits of the various cities, neighborhoods and region.  That will be fun.

What is in my heart?  Quite a bit I see.  But it comes out in dribs and drabs.  As it should.

Lightning Quick Poems (3-7 words) January 20, 2010

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Poem-A-Day.
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Psychopath

Vote for me!

****

Liar

Musta been drunk…

****

Liar (caught)

Hmmmm…. Phone broke?

****

Love

I’ll help you bury the body.

****

Suicide

Officer Reilly!  How much for that blowjob?

****

Obtuse

You don’t know who you’re talking to!

****

How to deal with a looneytoons…

Interesting.  Have to get back to you.

****

A.D.D.

And then–oh!–Hey!–chill…

****

Schizo

And I said… and I said

****

Humility and Pride are One.

Thank you, thank you.  I know.

2 Haiku January 19, 2010

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This one has a title, but it’s better to be read at the end:

Don’t be afraid! Should
this haiku be quote-unquote bad,
over before you–

(Title: “… Oh… Moving Right Along–“)

*****

I Ching’s changing lines
Portend Absolute Stillness.
(Everywhere collapse)

Iron Pentacle Poem Cycle: Passion Point #1-#5 January 17, 2010

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#1

The young, maverick playwright, me, at work
in a back room on a crappy computer (Zenith
bought on credit at Sears), typing from pages
handwritten in my “koobeton,” characters in dialogue
interacting, being catalyzed and catalyzing, I,
a creator of theatrical delivery systems
of ideas, relationships, ideals, dreams – oh that black
innocent  zone of possibility glows, spirals
out a joy, orange and magenta light cycling up,
down, rotating north-south, east-west all
possibilities.  This is when a christed moment appears
when I lose the ego inside a creation emergent.
Such a place is not shared generally; for that
there is a different passion flavor.  One as sunburst,
but one that adjoins, connects, enraptures
souls in on another’s glorious divinities.  The fat
boy wolf who adored the incongruous football
player, and fantasized a loving embrace, the teen
spirits! Sniffing at each other to suss out love from dreams…

#2

It’s all about opera, magnificacion grotesca
Everyday Don Giovannis betraying Daddy.
Run-of-the-mill Toscas holding emotional hostages.
Mundane Carmens, targets of hopelessly deluded lovers
outside the girls’ romantic purview, toyed with,
discarded.  Tabloid, soapy, passion gets whored
out, trashed in the degraded talk show format.
Fingerpointing, wholesale judgments, themselves
deprived flowers and zeal, perverted through egoic
envies.  To be certain, passion’s exaggerated color
can overrun right use of will.  Elemental nutrient
of soul and spirit, one can binge on the stuff.
Even the essential heart, the source of wisdom,
can be drowned out by the din of  throbbing blood beat
compelling us toward a knife, a trigger, a roof’s
edge.  But broadcasts lurid and tarted up,
photoshopped for distorted bolding, make so-called
common sense suspect.  The hosts and anchors
must wear the makeup to hide their Dorian
Gray shells, rotting in their corrosive greedy bile.

#3

Keep it new, keep it fresh, keep it growing.
Ah, there are times when the bloom falls away,
the petals disintegrate in moments too early
to maintain a work’s energy.  The fuchsia
pool stagnates, or sours because some essence
has vacated the scene, some elixir’s potency
fell past the expiration date.  Or a noxious
toxin wheedles in, say a lackthought remark
spoken at a fragile instant, or awareness
the idea circulates passim in Mouskekulture.
The issue is one of keeping the fire burning,
making sure the fragrance stays strong,
ensuring the waters hold their constant renewal.
To live in passion flows me through perpetual
baptism, a waterfall of mana generating dynamic
curiosity, attention, heart and soul engagement.
In this way, the left foot dancing a twirlsome
frolic feeds right hand power aspect, the fecund
prelude to action ripe with sumptuousness.
Passion is where the arrow shoots, releases its payload.

#4

The words keep coming on the beach, Grand Cayman.
(As do the pretty men in their bathing suits
it would seem.)  The raspberry sea inside me
sometimes seems to shrink to nothing, but oceans
are oceans, and the inexhaustible supply births
new ideas and concepts, poems and essays in waves
of their own.  Sometimes these announcements roar
a raucous “I’m here!”  Most often they’re just another
ripple rushing to the shore, inevitable contact with sand
made, perhaps a relief, then receding back
into foam and deeper color.  My passion tastes of salt
a connection of this left foot into the sandy fluff
traversed by unwitting muses spilling their qi
in clueless anonymity, mid all the other prana
generated by Yemaya’s simple rhythm, ebb,
flow.  Passion’s relentless attention triggers arousal
and I can’t help the groin stirring up Alder
ardor while I venture into the sea and pull out
the occasional nautilus, hardened fractal, or best,
a shell expressing a mother-of-pearl variety sheen.

#5

Water, huh.  Really?  This passion becomes stir
of dihydrogen oxide source?  Why does it make
me so hot then?  A magenta blaze electrifying
this body, tapping in from left foot earth contact,
spiraling like the helix at the root of all life
osmotically through this whole enchanted corpus.
Oh, the invigoration, the magic fingers manipulating
creation, flow, sparks and dance in rhythm’s ferocious
and languorous by turns.  Passion for poems, ardor
for the sweet sweet dumpling squash, the glorious zeal
to paint a tropical mass of papers clips – wherever
the sensations of this God may rest – oh, the elixir!
Delicious on every level – wild, genius, divine.  Love
to be caught up in this multicolored tiger’s growl
stalking the triple alignment outpouring of process
and product in perpetual conversation.  Godsome
words spill out of inspired characters’ mouths.
The markers and glitter glue enliven my lover’s image.
The patient and maternal stirring and baking of root
vegetable goodness on a winter’s night.  Drink. In. The. Yes!

Cross-posted to ordinarysacred/livejournal.

Iron Pentacle Poem Cycle: Power Point #4 January 7, 2010

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The power of the pause, of the bow strung tight
before archer’s release into the air.  Potency
of that little breath, somtimes stretched between
out breath and in, in breath and out.  Strength
of this icewater lupine God, right hand blackest
maroonest, forest-est point lives breathes, feeds
from this pause before the release.  The squirk
moment before unleashing the cumspurt, bestowed
on those I choose.  The power of the right words
said, the requried restraints applied, hurtful
exchanges truncated without engagement. Obatala’
coolheadeness descends, an androgynous grace
unassuming glory only witnessed by those attentive
to such.  Indeed, mine is a power quite subtle
at its best, though I’m not averse to the flashier
statement judiciously selected.  And balance with child
spontaneity, for Nimue flashfllod, lightning strike
does arise Venus-foam surprise as well.  Channels
opening will do that, as various gods inside this one
compete for the control panel, this corporeal being.

Cross-posted to ordinarysacred/livejournal.

Iron Pentacle Poem Cycle: Power Point #1-#3 January 6, 2010

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#1

Tsunamis, floods, earthquakes, landslides! Unleashing!
Those all carry an awe I must acknowledge
for all these Force Majeure events, Acts of Gaia enacted
on the face of this ever-turning sphere must hold fast
our collective attention.  And yet, this point right hand,
everyday interactions, contains a gentler pressure, hidden
in the simple glance and smile, a sparrow darting
in and out of a bush at morning, a walk by a river
sitting seemingly inert in frozen landscape, but lo!
how much action happens below the ice, and between
the subfreezing, packed molecules in collective dance.
The simple fact of the lightning in blood velocity
crusing hundreds of miles an hour through veins
and arteries, transporting the living elixir through valves,
vessels, down to capillary suburbs, in digital
extremities.  And consider the liver’s occult grinding
of debris and offal to suck out remnant nutrition
and cycle the remainder out into digestive tract.
Ye Goddess of mystery inhabiting the cavity dark
unseen in the realm of eyes and light, I behold thy true POWER!

#2

Our vEmpire culture with its cocky, preening, puffy,
overemphasized, surely gets it all wrong.  Empty
penis shells, muscularity enveloping hollowed-out cores
like a fleet of disappointment chocolate Santas with airy
vacuum inside –this is what is extolled as great?
Truth be found! Greatness is mediocrity refined most
fab, a far cry from quiet excellence.  But power
resides in the latter, and only bravado and force
populate the ranks of the merely great, the grandly
audacious.  This point too becomes com-ballooned
with its excess.  The twisty tree stands black, crimson,
forest, would seem to the unitiated to be so many men,
so much battle, so little orgasmic time.  Warp-fantasy
of orgiastic blood battles steals Power’s true attentions.
And really, when thought of, just how could it be
that an empty eagle relate to a flexy Nerf ball?  The Sissy
in short-shorts and a pink Missy Attitude wields
so much more fear than the sternest base sergeant.
Our roller-skater fairy exudes unforeseeable potency:
Will he surprise you with a barb?  Or worse, a kiss!

#3

Each day, I work in the shapeshift mold, the vEmpire
which tries vainly to lure me into its sterile Heidi
Klum Klutches, its starched and pressed delusions.
I feel a bit of something slip away often, and come
to believe for a moment that I bring my death forward.
Because except for the blessed lunch reprieve
from moment I board 35X at Congress and Third
to the moment 9 hours later, when I de-bus
a block away, I have no real life to speak of. Henry
Miller’s Air-Conditioned Nightmare has me in thrall.
The unfairness of it all! O, the humanity, as I curse
berate the God that I am.  For somehow in my unconscious
Virgo-Libra life-phase, the post-collegiate, post-grad
fog of various compulsions leading me nasal, I became
enslaved to the zombie dollar.   The equation flipped,
I work for the money, a capitalism casualty.  No wonder
I long for the guillotine, the pink slip for the head.  The ax
to be taken in corporate severance from viral gray matter.
Power switched into the force-fear ping-pong game.
And some Jehovahsatan can’t come to end it all soon enough.

Cross-posted to livejournal/ordinarysacred.