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prose
July 2009 
into my wild
Posted on Mar 21st, 2008
by 
mary
mary
i feel a lingering anomie
in the sense of alienation and lack of social control
as opposed to lawlessness
i had to stop watching nature documentaries, which i used to love
but can't tolerate the continual loss and no solution
and can't trust the agendas anymore
people seeming to want my allegiance and my money
so they can solve the problem somehow
in a way that is never quite clear
and meanwhile my sense of crescendo increases
the mounting chaos and unraveling of the old ways
and the mounting tsunami of intelligence and nascent knowings
and all i can do is muddle in my puddle
and dig as deep as i can
with this little plastic trowel and bucket
and the beautiful sky in candy wrappers spinning above
and the thrum of iron crystal spinning below
and my head and heart and belly all spinning within
and this body a future corpse still breathing
still dancing and warm and wild
and wanting to wiggle lots of which-ways
from full to empty and back again
in and amongst all the wigglers
or cut off and alone, in the wilderness of me
all that emptiness
inside and out
strange, how there is more than one flavor of emptiness
the slow, existential cool-down when we are empty of meaning
the dreary exhaustion and depletion beneath emptiness of energy, motivation
and the howling vortex inside experienced
when we are empty of mattering
empty of love
but this new emptiness emerges full of dark-light and joy
in my mind, recognizing this singular point of awareness
in the vast emptiness of mind
which is exalted emptiness with no beginning or end
always there when i come to sit
and peer at the inky silence from this rim
into a void crackling and pregnant with potentials
this emptiness of mine
i used to feel the howling vortex within
but that is long since healed ;-)
and my work is to hold this tiny thimble
beneath the waters of niagara
and catch who and what i can
and pray for us all
concentrating in my mind
all the magic we are
and willing us all to live
LIVE!
i have all of myself wired in, there
all my subneurons pumping juice
through the sluice gait of my heart
thrown wide for the waters to flow
from pus to blood to clear
i have walked into my wild
and learned that happiness needs to be shared
only i didn't die the same as that beautiful boy
i died the slow inside dessicating way
but when spring rolled around
the river was high, but not so high
i could not grab the hands reaching out to me
watching that movie
into the wild
i thought of the foolishness of groan-ups
always slapping and shoving and hollering
and i wondered how people can take themselves so seriously
all acting out parts in different dreams together
in a stilting marionette dance
a shadow-play on as many screens
as there are eyes to see
last week a string of disasters
a crescendo of descending
minor and major scales
but in between, the ascending scales
like life dancing up and down the spiral staircase
and you and i, we keep whirling, don't we
stirring up the deeps to rearrange
the winners and losers in our hands
for holding or folding or walking away
so life is full and empty
like cones rainbow-stacked and dripping
all ooey-gooey sweet and sour
natural textures and flavors
disappearing down the gullet
and not one napkin to be found
in the mama's kitchen
she the wild, wild woman
who loves us all
as she feeds us merrily
and spanks our bottoms
and shoos us out the banging screen door
into the wild wild woods
to play
Access: PublicTagged with: prose
this nature that has been supressed
it has no cause, no placards
it is the inner self, the inner spirit
the wild within that has been ravaged
dulled and lopped by modern living
we no longer hear the soul's bird call
the chirping of intuition, chirp chirp
the flowers of imagination no longer bloom
in the wild, desolate, plains within
hi mary, that was my little riff on reading your work. I took it in a different direction :-)
and yet LIFE so wants to become
to crawl from the deeps to the light
to become what she so wills
that the dreams are stirred in the bottomlands
and the nights wring with the sweat of sub-knowing
what the days' clamor can barely conceal
the ever burgeoning of that hidden wild
pushing through the concrete skins
and skeleton eyes and ipod ears
all wired for sound and fury
and she will bleed beneath their fingernails
without heed of the marks she leaves
on those stiffly pressed shirts
and pretty little skirts
which are but threadbare protection
from the sweat and hair and mucous
that push through every pore, every orifice
of this living wild flesh
viscera so warm and wet
barely contained in membranes
so paper-thin and translucent
and death, in her wisdom
in her merciless grace
forever holding the mirror
hello, fellow practioner
of the art of Wandering!
welcome ;-)
So lyrical like the dance scene in American Beauty with the white plastc bag and fallen leaves floating even above the roof line.
Love your empty Mary!