Astral Ostrich

I teach what I feel best about; and that's home.

The only culturally specific chant I know is an uneven cry amounting to a quiet scream.

I am angry with myself for allowing a homeless man to briefly watch pornography on my computer.  I have no couth, no modulation in my relations with others.  No one will teach me how to develop it or where it comes from. 

Lesbians change.

The Goddess changes.

I have tried to embrace the beauty in life that so much of what is culturally transmitted attempts to hide.

Please understand that a poem that fails to believe in its own beauty is a way to coldness.

I am trying at the same time to integrate myself, to integrate the world around me, and to separate myself from that which seems to be destructive as well as separate what does not seem to me to belong together. 

This began as an intellectual project, but now I understand that without putting life first, it can become prelude to horrible destructive acts.  I just wanted to go back to myth, in my own life and in my intellect, to undo the separation between poetry and philosophy that Plato introduced into our "civilization."  Now I am clinging to the shreds of wholeness that remain.

You probably want to stop reading what I am writing.  Before I go, let me simply let go of the sick pressure to communicate in coherent language what must first emerge from spirit, feeling and love.

I hope you will read this and not think it a total regression.  I've attempted that also.  It does not work, leading only to a self-enclosed entity without outward activity or inward awareness; in other words, a kind of death.

Say, how about them artist softball players?

You know that it's okay today because no one is making my anger anything but a distraction from hope and not an unbearable and inescapable wrath a la Jehovah.

May your awareness of your life give you pleasures great and small.