This is The Temple: In Your Nutrient Fed Brain

Google can’t help,
Reddit can’t help

Unless you want to be an average,
The collective can’t help you

Nor can an individual,
But it’s a great tale:

The Mickey Rourke, saved by the Marissa Tomei –
It’s a great lie, that you can be saved by some girl or some guy:

Another’s love can not save you, cannot make you whole,
Impossible…

‘A Star is Born’, and he hangs himself in the end,
Never knowing how to be his own best friend

Pain, repression, denial, fear, worry,
All the dragons one must slay – they stand within

And you must face them within:
Without the crutches..

The wine, the weed, the woman – the funhouse mirrors – social media too…

As if they can show you a better side of yourself,
As if happiness isn’t health!

So the sage returns to the basics:
Food, water, breath, sweat, sleep, meditation, hard work – repeat

The means to get out of debt with Self,
So there is no longer, “I owe myself some high, some sojurn as reward” (…oh my)

Slippery slope,
When one needs escape to cope

You don’t need to get away,
You need to come back home

Where you’re peacefully alone,
Giving yourself that radical forgiveness, that raw self-love, which connects thee to the above

Your medicine is Grace;
The space for your inner child to play is how the dragons are slain

Homeostasis, balance,
In your nutrient fed brain.

Savor It

Dear boy, you want love,
But it takes steps,
Listening to Ariana Grande’s,
‘Thank You, Next’
It’s crazy,
You look at Bradley Cooper and think, “one day, thatt’ll be me”
Just grown,
With my Stefani,
The Fame,
Crown prince of the pen game
And damn, maybe I’ll find her when I’m 40,
So until then,
I’m not worried about shit
Just myself, so I’m gonna savor it

Le Cost

I need love
But all I got’s a bong and a Peep song

Ain’t nothin’ wrong, it’ll do,
Beats being sad with you

And I’m still gonna break your heart for leavin’
Stuntin’ in La Lolla like Cary Grant, best believe it …

What the fuck they ever think I was gonna be,
So go hop on some late alpha dick – see em at my age and he really wasn’t shit

But see me grown and you’ll regret it,
Should of made the investment

Wrote me off like a loss,
That shit gives me so much motherfukin’ sauce

But I’ll never be lost,
Never beleive in love like that again

That’s why I’m still writin’ poems after all this time,
That was the cost, my only friend

This Pain, Uncommon Thoughts

There were no old men who came before me,
Not a soul who wrote a goddamn-fucking thing down!!!
Nothing passed on but these well-worn genetics:
For this I am ashamed
How the fuck does this happen?
Tragedy
And I’m born into it
What the hell happened –
Exiled into this world,
In my mountain home, by the fire –
A product of a breakdown in culture,
Capitalism birthed me into poverty
Why did my family choose each other?
What the hell was so special about them;
I know nothing of my ancestors
Just a little money,
A lot of Irish, and the dischord between …
Exiled from my grandfather’s “will”
My own father hated by his mother;
Ugliness all around,
Sadness;
So my family has never really lived,
Just existed –
I’m a needle in the hay,
First one in generations who didn’t rush to breed
The very word speaks to its unconsciousness
And I’m disgusted,
Like a cow born on the factory farm,
Knowing in my marrow something is wrong
WHY THE FUCK BREED
Look; I’m not mad to be alive –
Just wouldn’t bring someone else into this until it made sense
Because I feel like the first to be conscious in generations…
And I am in pain
Wounds that were shared,
Never healed
A dis-ease
As far back as we go
And I don’t blame my exes,
I’m stuck with myself
Maybe to be loved after I am dead
But I’d rather that than to share this selfishness; this lonliness
This pain.

And I’m sorry this poem is so sad,
And I – but I’m glad to be thinking uncommon thoughts.

Where All Boys’ Dreams Begin 

Motherfvckin-go-in on-this-poem like-a-koan,
I’m a pure Brahmin spirit, ya I know-em,
I could clone-em:
Take in the yin and the yang,
Fire and the rain,
The Masculine and The Feminine,
And you heal all the pain;
All the sacred texts say it again and again:
You put the jewel in the lotus – om-mani-padma-hum – and again and again, a god you become –
Welcome to the truth,
It’s the sage’s only friend
Cause she’s alchemic, shamanic, hermetic, daemonic –
Hindu Kush is my favorite, oh Poet Vyasa that’s ironic –
Now I’m at the temple door and my desire is chthonic,
So I bring the dark to light,
Dakini goddess of the night;
Inner insight, my anima restored inside:
Two in one together, own the things I used to hide
Like the Thomas Gospel,
I am not Here to divide –
So people they meet me and they can’t even decide,
Is he a demon or a god?
You don’t know, but you like it;
He and Her makes Aman-Ra;
Even the Egyptians didn’t hide it;
So when we get naked, I’ll worship her as the highest;
For what the fuck else does a god look to, but a motherfvcking goddess –
So come with me, and return to yourself again;
And return me, to where all boys’ dreams begin.

Her, Him, She, We / Like Magnets / More Than You Ever Dreamed

“I want to swim away but don’t know how.”
Jesus fuck I love Blue October
Love her,
Love my pain
This stoned, emotionally overwhelmed feeling
Just how many poems can I write to say your’s was a heart I never fully entered
But I hope my pain left you a key, as your’s was to me
Because I am open now: I am in my own heart as I’ve never been before,
And there’s no more sitting outside on the stoop, smoking cigarettes,
No more pouring poison down my throat because I can’t get in;
No more abandoning myself;
No more needing protection in another;
Finally, having awakened to the duality of my inner and outer, male and female consciousness:
Yes, complex people have complex identities and require solutions more complex than in your books –
And I think about her, and my Anima, and how she wasn’t who I tried to project my inner, feminine self onto,
And I think about how I too am dead to her, in that she knows I am also not the inner masculine she projected onto me,
And I know we are both freed
For, I know Her now: She is in Me
And I hope she knows Him, or finds him in someone else…
But it can be HELL trying to find yourself in another
And you could get lucky, but you better hope to fucking god you are simple in your heart,
You better pray to be a basic #happilyeverafter bitch,
Because you’re probably not
I looked for myself for 15 years in other women, relationships,
Other as in separate from Self
And my heart was mechanically separated, like a chicken on the factory line, every fucking time
That was the price
But in seeking, we find ourselves – the gold in the pain, real treasure: Jules; Althaea;
Parts of Her were found in her, and in her, and in her, and in her, and in her
I could describe my inner feminine self using a portmanteau of my exes;
Their best traits are all in me, living, present, graceful, alive, in this room with me tonight
And She’ll keep expanding outward, in twin flames and in soulmates and flings, and friends, and they’ll hate us for Our security, sincerity
Because We’ll never confuse her for Her again,
Alas, the anima gets no other avatar than the Self –
But this is a gift once you realize
Literally, your Other half, which you found in your other other halves,
Goddesses born and dead,
We find ourselves in other people,
This is how it works, like magnets attracting and repelling.
But god it hurts. Until She or He emerges in you.
Then you’re whole. Then you can look outside, complete within.
No longer afraid She is Medusa or Grendel. Or your exes. ;)
But You. More than you ever dreamed.

Thank Gawd We Only Give a Shit About Ourselves So We Can All Stay Fucked (These Days)

Days like this,
When I am working like my Dad,
He hated what he did – Rest in Peace
His son still hasn’t defeated the oppressive computermatron,
So I’m in SQL (Sequel) hell – database slave, level -32

Days like this,
When my dreams don’t budge an inch –
But still, something moves, the pain in me
It pushes me,
Says, ‘Fuck this’…

Days like this,
When I look back on all the love I had, lost;
The wreck I was
Dread Pirate Roberts –
But I turned from my nefarious clients, ran from the dark web

But I’m still slutting it up for a check,
A pay for play hoe,
Like all of us – pimped out by the system…
We have to be, it’s the FREEDOM of capitalism, in this fucked Darwinian system of uber competition and commoditization of the worker, till we are all living the lowest common denominator life, only enough to get by… and Trump, the fucking dream daddy of ‘Murica, gave the corporations billions in tax cuts…

FREEDUMB.

And the Communist Manifesto, which the title alone makes those fortunate boomers in the winter of their lives piss themselves – the Communist Manifesto spells out the glaring truth, plain as day:

“You are horrified at our intending to do away with private property. But in your existing society, private property is already done away with for nine-tenths of the population; its existence for the few is solely due to its non-existence in the hands of those nine-tenths. You reproach us, therefore, with intending to do away with a form of property, the necessary condition for whose existence is the non-existence of any property for the immense majority of society.”

And we are the 9/10ths, the 99% – we vote for this SHIT.

For days like this,
When I am just shouldering the roof over my head,
The sink full, the laundry bin overflowing
No control, limited power, all advantages and disadvantages made plain,
Life reduced to a birth lottery

For some are bred and some are born,
Into these days.

Young Prince

I’m letting go of her,
Committing to myself, my plans,
To being secure in myself;
Maybe 5 years single,
If need be:
I’m Walt Grace and Walter Mitty:
I have my dreams;
Secure in my loyalty to them
I’m laying in bed all day,
A black robe open, stoned
Cookie dough and colby jack for snacks
Jackson Browne’s ‘These Days’ (Live) on repeat,
Reading Carlyle’s ‘On Heroes, Hero Worship, And The Heroic in History’
My great-grandmother’s copy
A singular hand me down,
But a treasure, a key in itself,
For her great grandson, whom she never met, would be pondering the divinity in humanity, himself,
92 years after she wrote her name inside the cover 
Talk about a relic (Ready Player One),
A story that had me in its destiny long before I – 
And within it, ideas I hope to enlarge in my own life, wonder 
And Sunday night now upon me, I say Assuredly 
Unto myself eternally:
Relax and trust, young Prince,
Relax and trust… young Prince. 

The MS-13 Killing Fields

Preface: trigger warning. non-fiction violence. historical mass genocide.

… Soy un artista y solemente tengo respeto por las personas y la historia de El Salvador.

There are enough people to some and to some these beings are animals,
But there’s ancestral pain behind it, much more than an anthropological story,
But a story, of a people stripped of their religion, their culture, their everything.
And gangster rap and the Kardashians projected upon them; well, guess what,
These are the real hard motherfuckers,
Society left them one role,
In total fucking poverty like you can’t even imagine until you feel it in your stomach.
Add alcohol and the worst drugs, meth, PCP; fucking no options in life,
So, these kids, without whole societally integrated fathers for generations,
Well, they’re gonna play that gangster role like its their last..
And if you were them, you probably would too;
You think you wouldn’t: but you would.
Just like you play whatever role you play, whatever mask you wear, whatever hand you’ve been dealt.
You play the fuck out of it.
Because you have to: it’s all you have. All you know.
So, just further marginalize them, stigmatize them, or like welcome them back into society,
So their whole culture isn’t a fucking scary Gotham City villain.
The face tattoos are just owning the villain’s mask.
The crimes – the killing is just fitting in.
What other chances do these youths have to move up in the world?
If you had only one shot to be a big shot, would you take it?
Some always will, particularly when there is no other respect to be had, to be found.
When there is no power, fear controls, and when there is no future there is no fear.
So lots of violence,
At least in prison, they’ll be with their people, safe.
They don’t lose any respect by going to prison; what fucking shame do they fear?
Being a pussy. Not being a man.
And worse, not getting any fucking girls. The teenage hormonal equivalent of dying alone;
So it’s ride or die, no big deal. Shit, death, they grew up around it.
Nothing to fear. Only getting hacked to pieces with fucking machetes. Multiple assailants;
Strength in numbers. Gangs.
The original human social groups: what do you think a tribe is –
And they have to have an enemy, someone worse than them,
Because no one wants to be born at the bottom.
But some are.
In countries practically without economies, and in societies with lost, usurped cultures.
What the fuck do you think the inquisition did? Burned people and worse,
There is great ancestral pain in a million broken family stories, great sadness,
And shame to be from the dirt. And only the lowest jobs available. Forget about education.
Just violence, ugly drugs, and bullshit to worship: gangster rap. Tony Montana.
The guy getting head from the fine girls blowing him to score.
What are you going to do? Be a fucking pussy and maybe get killed, in a terrible way (So your enemies fear you),
Or are you going to choose to live as a man; to do what you have to do to compete in your culture – to advance – to survive?
We hardly even live on the same planet as them,
And outside of maybe academia, no one gives a shit about them, in-fact, they’re not even wanted,
Sub-class.
And they’re teens: schools won’t even fucking admit them (For fear);
Damn FBI MS13 Task Force might make a lot of dicks hard in Washington but deportation only grows the numbers: surprise, surprise; El Salvador has the highest murder rate in the fucking world,
Their own government hunts them with fucking death squads: El Sombre Negra: The Black Shadow.
They hunt them in LA too, these clandestine Salvadorian kill squads. It’s the inquisition all over.
The nightmare, the slaying of indigenous people never ended.
Now a small number of elites, Palestinian Christians largely run the country
And the original Lenca language is extinct.
Then came the Olmecs (After the Lencas),
Then the Mayans,
Then the Pipil people,
Who called the place Kuskatan, meaning, “The place of precious jewels”.
And these people were ready warriors when the Spanish came, telling them, “You want your weapons, come get them.”
An they actually defeated the conquistadors until subsequent expeditions, led by the brother of the first conquistador, succeeded – almost…
Legend has it a Maya-Lenca crown princess, Antu Silan Ulap, travelled from village to village, uniting all the towns against their Spanish conquerors, whom they drove out and prevented from rebuilding at San Miguel for ten years, until the Spanish returned with more soldiers, including 2,000 forced indigenous peoples from neighboring Guatemala… who chased the Lenca leaders into the hills, allowing the Spanish to recolonize in 1537.
It would be almost 300 years, in 1821, when El Salvador would no longer be under Spanish control.
Then the powerful coffee families ruled. Oligarchs who raided the coffers. A coup here and there,
And then the threat of communism, until La Matanza (The Slaughter), the Salvadorian Peasant Massacre of 1932, in which 10,000 to 40,000 were murdered by firing squad after being forced to dig their own graves.
It silenced dissent and was another twelve years until the son of a bitch – hijo de puta – was forced out of office, by the student led ‘Strike of Fallen Arms’, in which people just stayed home.
Once doctors and professionals joined, society was crippled, and Maximilliano Hernandez Martinez was out…
Follow that a bit after with a 12 years civil war 75-92, in which 75,000 were killed,
Including women, elderly, and children, as in the El Calabozo massacre, another slaughter,
This time US trained soldiers did the killing, and they used acid attacks too: government still hasn’t admitted or even acknowledged it;
A government slaughtering its own people,
This is the whole fucking history of this country, don’t you see?
But godddamn does that volcanic soil make a good tasting cup of coffee.

Kindling The Light

My neighbor, a Vietnam vet, yelling at his dog,
Who only gets more anxious –
I tell him,
He disagrees
I pet the dog,
Calm him,
Both our hearts race

The Vietnam vet, boiling my blood pressure as my father did countless,
On childhood days when I did not understand my biology was being twisted,
Like the poor, anxious dog, who barks wildly after I leave, to more yelling

So I’ll take him out again soon for another hike,
Where I’ll talk to him,
Stop and pet him, hug him

Cooling our hot blood,
Soothing our nerves
Nature, in its moments, gives us a purpose, together and alone
Something other than life to focus on, outdoors

A place where no one yells at you
Where you are equal to every living thing
Where you can just be,
Thinking what comes most naturally because you are free

For, as the book I now read tells me:

“You are like everyone else, “an infant crying in the night” – something trying to be made whole, something with a deep yearning for security, a deep and unspeakable longing for love, for protection, and for peace.”

But here’s the sad irony:

My neightbor yells at dog because he is anxious
His dog barks and whines – an anxious response
This is energy
It does not always bolster – it stings, burns, scars

Sometimes it twists like missing someone,
Sometimes it scares, like yelling,
Sometimes it hurts, like hitting –
And sometimes it still does,
When it’s over and it’s dark and night, and quiet

When it should be peaceful,
It remains caustic inside –

And love is the answer,
Convince me otherwise
Only, the dog doesn’t know how to love his hurt,
The child doesn’t know how to love her hurt

And the adult still sometimes doesn’t know how
After decades on earth
And the offspring are nervous
And the cycle continues

For what?
Survival…
Because our human hardware is one-hundred-thousand-years-old
And the amygdala, in the dog and the human,
The mirror of emotional learning,
Responds, making us want the love more, anxiously

But the whining dog, like the needy human, who needs it most, wants it most,
Is often rebuffed

And rarely in it’s existence
– fuck, he’s barking in the distance as I write this poem –
Rarely in her existence does the nervous, scared child ever know The Calm
Because for as great as this world is, it’s not that loving

Look at what we love, we vote with our dollars
While our families, our friends, our kids, our pets, ourselves
We all shudder inside, for want of love, which is The Calm
And there is only one among a thousand and two among ten thousand who know it,
Who can generate it,
Share it, kindle it,
In poems and letters, in the everlasting word, in the bravery of their love,
Which they can give away freely, posessing it wholly – as few do,
Even though they sometimes still feel it, when it’s dark and night and it’s quiet
They kindle it again

We call these people poets, mystics, shamans, teachers, empaths, healers –
And if we are one it is because we were the scared child,
Who kindled our light in the dark,
And in saving ourselves, brightened the world we touched
And brought to light,
All the fear, which still haunts billions – withough repreive

So, if you have light – I say to you:

Do your duty – share it
The world needs you, more than you can ever know

For it is you who are the illuminati,
The illuminated ones, the brights,
Up by the full of the moon,
Kindling the light