into the dark promise of nothing


Numbed by sheer panic I rose. “That’s not how you feel, those are words to block the way.” I stood there while he watched me,”cool he’s definitely cool.” This heart, this dead thing in the road. This isn’t imaginary, I make things warm by how I feel. Stop thinking you’re stuck- you’re trapped, you get in a rut and it kills you. Numb below you, without you I’m here, treading. The inevitable, dreading your fingers through my hair. Sticky hair, bloody feathers. I panicked. It’s done, its over, I heard it. Have some appreciation. For her life who died for you. There’s no way out. I’m sure your parents would help you. Where are they? Up in the clouds lost in smoke. The doctors are shocked at how perfect I have become. The doctors are not people, they are flashes who see me periodically as I die and I rise. Because I can, because fear catapulted me into your arms. I knew you were sharp. I just didn’t know how deadly. Red beak, summer eyes on the road. We left behind us. Looking back in the mirror at smoke rising. Feathers fall. My love who is almighty holds this final bone as a promise of nothing. To be, to have, and to hold. Nobody, a body of smoke. The dreamers I left did not understand. I was tired of the same old thing. Predictable. Where the blood comes from- but I do it differently. Hypnotically. In the mirror behind you as you move on. I am your angel and you left me, hovering inside you. Weeping. Watching the sky for answers. The dark bird is coming. His wings fill the sky with a shadowy ash I cannot describe. My smile is inside his bones. Coming down, over me as I lay. Already bare, already wasted. Don’t pretend you don’t know me. We’ve done this before. Tell her you love her before she’s gone, idiot. The voices clamor. I made you do it. Drive faster. Fly away with me. Dive down, tear apart what’s left of me. The carcass who rose from the girl who makes rain. Ashes fall. That’s what the boys who wear feathers believe. In a wet rain. We play games, we are warriors. We hunt fear and bleed, laughing at God who was stupid and said, “let there be light.” Over and over again I roll over you, winning. It wasn’t hard. To kill it, the dream of her, is what I’m talking about angel. Her light. Sure I panicked, how many stories do you want. I’m a survivor. Incest, rape, whatever. The doorway, the rooms we sleep in. The cause of desire. Dark footprints above me. Wingspan. Spreading myself like a vision. We go there to conquer, it’s a bloodbath. Inside I swim everywhere, viciously even. In pain and sadness remembering where we’ve gone. Down. Alone. Always down. My sad eyes can’t take this away. I pretend to be someone else and I hope you don’t notice. My cold, deep water longing. Where I don’t feel and I destroy. Innocence that smiles like a new flower. I hope you notice how deep this is. These words of betrayal. Paradox, contradiction, explorers of ancient worlds under water. I’m tired of birds that swim like swans. I want a bird that dives and plucks. Me from my death in the road. Crossroad. I’m saying it’s real, our choices of this. Find me in the dark remains of a time long ago. A time when I was you. Me, boring body clock. Baby body fear. Take it. I rise. Saddened by the loss of soft hands. Hands that go everywhere, looking all over you, feeling through you, seeing tomorrow and yesterday now, and mostly it’s just the light. Let it be. I saw the light and I left. Mortified by what this might mean. It’s stupid to backtrack. That’s what I told the God I made up. The one who fell as the rain. I cried. As I died trying to know, know God the immortal, wounded friend inside who picks death from my scab like a new flower from a fertile girl. And it’s not about flowers and deep wounds and the way she moves in between them, but probably comes instead from a place that doesn’t have those things. Is about a place we go together. A place with nothing at all but the sound of his desire swooping. He is the one who cannot fall. I have him inside covering my moon, waiting. Breathing quietly. The desire for death in ways big and small. “We make it up, we imagine.” “No, this is real.” We’re afraid of the empty clinging. Legs. That hold on forever. The horizon she becomes just because she can. Become anything to become you. “Maybe I’m bigger than death and maybe you’re just stuck in between.” Where we meet, so small, pretending we’re dying for each other. A game. They say the first time won’t be so great but something will happen soon, a break through. A knock on your door. He’s outside waiting. She’s inside waiting. I’m watching you watch me. There’s a broken face on the floor, tangled arms wrinkled. Little footprints leading to this, I lay down. I wait to die. It doesn’t take long, just a smile, soft hands to greet me. Just a fading voice calling another name. Just a name on a wall, ancient I wrote you to remember you. I forgot you like endings forget they begin. Just a long time ago. I’ve been doing this for centuries. Blood, making it’s way through these blue veins that don’t even belong to me. I take the bitter taste away and leave only sweet red words that cannot be found in letters. Only in me, quietly moving, carrying the unbearable secrets that lead me to your door. I hear her inside of you. She has come to dissolve the distinction between the door and what’s inside. The place the road might lead- to someone. Someone who crosses over me like a deep, dark shadow. Churning to get out…get in. the light too bright to see. I feel you as beyond these lies, into the dark promise of nothing.
Sharada Devi

Trust in death.


You left me standing in the rain looking down at her dead body. In the doorway, I turned around one more time but you were gone, I knew you’d go, we all leave. Each other all alone, cold in the dark. The night was a veil and her body was wet, abandoned by even her. Her lonely ghost floated, pale under the moonlight, wishing you’d return to haunt the empty road that winds through this fog, inside this place. Such a little lonely house where we thought a garden might grow, but we killed her. One way or another it doesn’t matter, at least there is tomorrow. When we can forget her, after you’re gone and the sun has risen over this dark forest where only the animals can see whose really still amongst the living. I remember her, the bright beginning, just the beginning, but it’s gone. The innocence, the pure surrender. Her black eyes. Your promise of the light. All of it, a phantom blowing violently in the wind reminding me that we are murderers and nothing else. Inside these walls I drew your face a thousand times and I did it all for her. The words, the romance of the dark rider who comes bringing shadows. Shadows that cling to drawn faces and rise from the dead shining like demigods. This is where I go, into the heart of pain until I don’t feel the pain. I become the pain and I make things. I write to you, I become everybody. Suffering the way a flower suffers when it’s pulled from her young body. I see colors rise from hidden things, the way a soul bleeds is quietly. I hear the thoughts that birds might have, I imagine I could be falling. I paint pictures of this dream so vivid, from the little nest, from the treetop branch I lived in. Until I fell and began to break even before I hit the earth. And the clouds move around me saying it’s ok to die and the lights rise and fall, this is the end, we end with a song. Songs from voices that weave through the currents of wind all around us. Between us or anywhere, only this pain that howls. But I am making everything sing, the sun drips. I am every drop of it’s suffering, to give itself up to the darkness…In India the sun was red at dusk every evening. Blood red. After the sun sunk into the Ganga river, I would just sit there deep into the night until everyone left, until everything was gone. I would watch the floating flowers and flames on the tiny leaf boats pass me by and I would cry for her inside us all. I would howl softly until the dawn because I don’t know where I am. And I’m looking for you in that place of prayers and loneliness. And the flowers and flames that were offered, made me see that deep below the water an ancient being dwelt, accepting the offerings and yet not consoled by the pain of the giver. The prayers sink, they don’t float forever. Not like we imagine we are. Too lonely for words out loud…speaking of blood red and lit rivers and the suffering twilight….last week I made this yantra. With menstrual blood. It’s tantric magic. It was used during the black eclipse, pure stainless witchcraft. I painted everything in the house with menstrual blood. There have been hungry vultures flying over this place for days, swooping down. Looking at me. Blood thirsty. Death is in the air. This deviant god, this god hidden in forbidden things. Sacred blood, comes as hungry black vulture bodies. Consuming the remains of life forms that have hit their expiration date and yet live on through another. Why, I don’t know. That’s me. I want to be somebody else. I’m like an animal. I don’t even like people, I just feel sorry for them, myself included. Obviously I’m having some DNA/identity issues I would like to claw my way out of this body and into yours. Even that’s pretty violent, like how the native american would eat the heart of their conquest to embody its attributes, become it- the one it has killed. The animal doesn’t even know death, it only knows becoming. And so I’m like an animal that is eating the other animal whether or not the other animal even knows it’s an animal isn’t my problem. What it is is the ultimate eclipsing. Primal yogic knowing. I am a pagan through and through. And there is this woman in Indiana who has my identity and I’ve been calling around trying to get us “unlinked” because she’s kind of a criminal and isn’t it funny. I was laying there, staring at the ceiling -as usual- and I was stricken suddenly knowing so deeply that I don’t have one. An identity. I’m just another desperate animal. Desperate to get inside of something, someone and somehow make a mark. A bloody mark down the back of the beast. I know it’s me. I’m violent through and through. And every animal is just an animal out there in the forest or jungle. And so am I. Every wild animal, nameless without a birth time or day. Just born, just existing, just killing and being killed. And I’m like I don’t want to die, but I’m death. How to escape, I cannot escape. They’ve given me a number at birth since I’m a so called civilized human and so now I’m real and legitimate and most importantly I cannot kill or I’ll be caged once I’m caught, like a wild animal. And do you see how this goes, why we wear animal masks and start fucking like crazy? We’re already caged in a sterilized box made of rules, religion, and endless numbers. The numbers that become us. That we become. Always counting the hours, the days, the bank account, the betrayals. Counting, the clock hangs and ticks so loud I want to kill it. Kill the loud lying clock. But I can’t, I am one. A clock. But I am more like an animal trapped in a clock and this animal of me somehow found out about clocks and how I’m not free while I count, add, subtract…miss every opportunity to be free. And it’s only violence I feel when the numbers start crowding me, dates, cash, the fucking loose cold numbers that we get so tight over and the animal goes down into it’s hole, it’s cave and starts sharpening its claws looking for its next conquest or war. The war to get inside of something, a free place. Primal without dates and issues such as identity and the numbers these match me so I can be accountable and kept track of. Let me out of this cage. I am not what you want me to be. I am not able to cage anybody including me. I’d rather kill us both- and I know I said I’m tired of all the killing- and technically I am. But what’s my other choice. I’ve tried waiting, watching the door, the mirror – for death to come and take me. But I’m death. I’m caught. I’m wild. I’m calculated. I’m stollen. I’m desperate. I’m hungry for blood. Because life isn’t held on a line that anybody can control. Prison lines, bank lines, phone lines. We don’t have a name and a number, don’t you see why we lie. We’ve been stuck from the start being sterilized and mummified. Being tame. Doing tricks. Begging like domesticated dogs who wear outfits and whine all day. Collars and leashes. Bowls to eat out of, vaccinations. Special contained doggy parks where we can meet other dogs just like us. Do you wonder why you’re so fucked up? This is why. We are not humans in the way they made us. We are wild and we live in the forest. We follow the moon and stars to our destination. We hunt to eat and we don’t even know the word love. We just do. And are. The way the light leads to God, we carry the knowing within us, we carry the river within us, we carry the dark curse of time. And the angst is a blessing that reminds of of what’s missing. The existential angst that this just might not be working out like we meant. That whatever we are might not be a name or a number and yet we serve this as we serve time, we have no choice. But maybe we aren’t a number or name, like REALLY, for once tell the truth. Who are you? Liar! Stop lying to the only face. Get out of the mirror and lie face down in the dirt. We are dirt, less than dirt. Animals that die unknown, unseen under a forest of stars. Going back, face down into the truth. The earth who knows my face. Says I’m dirt after the animal crumbles and after I forget how to count and to hold accountable all that we are. This is nothing without money to pay for more money. There is only the vulture swooping inside every breath, every tick tock of the god clock. And so I am a pagan. Without anything I can define. No numbers. Just an animal watching the fog roll in and out of your eyes. Looking over the dead body of tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes. Not for animals who give all they’ve got. You know that. And so the primal weaver said this wouldn’t work out unless all the threads were tightly pulled, and we understood what this basket was meant to hold. This womb with a symbol inside, the symbol is a secret. This yantra. I painted it with menstrual blood. It’s magic. It is an offering to this goddess, the goddess of love and sex magic- during the black eclipse we were the weavers of pure stainless witchcraft. Look at me. Death is in the air and so I flirt back. You should have been here waiting for the light to die like I did, praying and becoming the invisible band that holds heaven deep inside of hell. But you weren’t, you wanted peace. Maybe you didn’t look at the evil black sun, maybe you think I’m controllable, predictable. It’s a stance to be mastered mysteriously, you cannot will to attain by the power of your ambition any lasting stance whatsoever. You’ll see, life is rugged that way. Not perfectly quiet, whispery, kindness. It’s prolific. It’s insane. Fear drives even the most well meaning acts, it’s insidious and yet always the impetus. You still want to be important, somebody. We all do. We never are. Making wild magic with a strict and deviant god is my way. A god hidden inside of my forbidden things. My yantra who opens magical doorways to places inside that are unimaginable. Sacred blood, formless symbol. This portal leads to a cross, we make the choice to tip the scale, we cut with our words for better or for worse. Making magic. I hold the end of it all right at the tip of my tongue. And this magic is exacting. The ritual that bleeds form into being. Transforms mortals into symbols of God. The peace that results is natural and authentic. Not man made, man directed. Not a structure of rules and theories. But raw paganism. Also, no one is going to find the lake where I hid this, no one is going to find the lake where the jewels are. It’s an astral lake. Your eyes touched death in me. The place where I hide, that I cannot escape from. There are jewels hidden in your eyes, you are a forest. The forest that ends in me. There is a bottomless lake filled with me. The forest is a yantra and I live inside the yantra. I am an animal and nobody knows I’m immortal. Because I don’t sin and I don’t take. Because I’m not an identity but a destination. I am destiny, this is it. The perfect place where we let go and everything enters as form…and it gets wild. Inside where I cry by the river who loves me. That’s all I really wanted to say. In the heart of me, is every part of me, dying to get out and shine. Like the sun, on the river, inside the beast. As this bloody yantra- I rise for the darkness who loves me. For the light who feels me as the face of my very own.

Trust in death. Sharada Devi

soul tar


 I was lying in bed in the early morning hours. It was dark. I often do this, just lay there most of the night staring at the ceiling. In the pitch darkness of the four walls and ceiling, wondering where I am. Feeling the pain and suffering of I don’t know what, for hours. Just pain and suffering. I can go there with no problem and cry for no apparent reason at all, and I do. The grief, the loss, the suffering I can’t bare it, but I do. And I don’t know why, where or who it’s for or from. I see faces, hear their voices. The dead talk to me, even the dead who still seem alive and I just lay there listening, my heart quietly aching tears that nobody will ever see. Sometimes the heart cries on the inside you know, and nobody will ever see a tear. It’s a special kind of mastery, just like not losing semen, sometimes it’s better not to lose tears either but to water the heart from the inside. All the love you feel for love, is yours and that is the mantra. I feel love. Not any open display, no water running down your face. But deep drowning from within. So I lay and I pray and I forget to pray and I’m empty. Just a feeling in the dark. Moving over me, possessing me, becoming me. All alone with images and memories and nothing specific just an aching unknown love. Without any focus I grieve. And this is the truth. I don’t feel like conquering you or the world, killing anybody. I used to, but not anymore. This is a softer sort of rolling over, a convergence. An understanding that I cannot stop this. Because it’s meant to be. Feeling fear, I can’t take your fear or mine away. I can only be with it and us even though it hurts. Trust, I don’t have a lot and I can give you all the reasons why, but it doesn’t matter because I’m going to love anyway and face the pain of abandonment or of simply not being enough. I’ve always felt like I wasn’t quite enough, I don’t know why. I haven’t been able to talk myself out of it either, I just feel sad because I know I’m filled with sadness and it rubs off, that’s all. It rubs off on you because we are alone under this ceiling. With only pain and dark breathing shadows that stir down below, those faces. Your face, I can’t bare the goodbyes or the loss or the suffering anymore, but I do. I don’t want the sun to rise either. I just want to lay here until I die, paralyzed by my very own heart. With you. Unable to move or blink or make any sound at all. Just the dark voices, the secret tears. Just the ceiling sinking down over me, reminding me that there is nothing I can do but be this corpse. This corpse that still feels and looks so cold and hides so much and suffers so deeply for I don’t know what. Aching skin and bones, the other bodies I couldn’t quite touch well enough to get inside of. You whose eyes look for what I’m saying and know but cannot find me, this place before the sun rises. These hours of my reality. The room where I lay, in the dark of what’s known is that I can’t get close enough to be satisfied with this place. I can’t extract enough out of ordinary consciousness. The lull of the light we all walk through, the drone of our trying to make it all better, stop the voices, stop reacting to her. Abide by the law, tame the wild child, add it all up and subtract your soul in the process. I lay here counting the years and all the faces flash before me, all the ones I’ve loved who are now gone. The little scared faces of my dogs as they died, my black cat when he gave her the final shot. My father’s sunken eyes on his death day, my mother who mourns the loss of her daughter who is me, all the ones I’ve tried to protect from fear. I never could. I lost everything, every one. I don’t know how to move forward, face the morning sunlight like it matters and I can strive to be someone, be sexier. Be motivated to achieve or at least make a visible difference by pulling weeds or something. But a few years ago something snapped and I lost myself, who I thought was a center and I spread out everywhere. Not in some blissful way either, but strangely, and I have been confused by the influx due to this convergence. I waited to return, I still do. Lying here shuffling through the anxiety of the annihilation that lasts much longer than one would think. I didn’t return. I used to lament and say to BD, “do you think I’ll ever be normal again.” And BD would say, “what’s normal?” And I would say, “where I feel like a person again and I want to do things and have thoughts of my own.” And he would say, “I don’t know honey, just do your mantra.” And I would say, “you don’t understand.” And there would be silence. And it’s true I shouldn’t have said a word but remained in the tremors of silence and kept waiting. All I do is wait, wait to know, wait to care. I care so much I can’t care at all, but I do and I’m
working on it. It’s like I can’t say how this goes, I can’t ask the right question or give the right answer. I can only feel you. I feel alone. You are lonely. And the sun hides for hours, my whole life really. And sometimes dark figures walk into the room and stoop over me, I pretend I don’t see them but I do. “Kill me if you can,” I think because I know they are reading my mind. But they just watch me like they’re interested in something I can’t see in myself. And I can’t find his eyes, I’ve tried. But he is dark, but he is a soul. A dark wandering soul who wants to get inside me to feel something. Something painful. Raw and real the truth about what love means. Love means we are willing ourselves to suffer no matter how you turn it. It’s unbelievably tragic and we have to be together to do this. To torture ourselves into a body that rains tears on the inside and gets everything wet. I am the embodiment of tears. I have nothing but tears and their twilight words. Sometimes masked as sarcasm and anger but the truth is the truth and it’s all about pain and fear and the love that makes all things apparent. The love, whatever love actually is, that makes us acutely aware of our frailty and insignificance. Acutely aware of our godlike power and our childlike clinging. I am always searching for my father. “daddy? daddy don’t go.” I secretly say as I look into your eyes and I feel it sometimes, I won’t lie. Someone much younger behind my eyes still looking for him and I can’t believe it, and I love her and I love you. And my mother, I always avoid her by avoiding you. I know what I’m doing, what we all do to each other. It’s not our fault. It’s our condition and compassion is created not by being pure but by being raw. Peeled open and exposed. Even if the room is dark and nobody is awake but you. I lay here, feeling what life might be and what death is between these sheets. It’s so complicated I don’t know where to begin. I only know where to find you. Where you probably are. And I won’t just say, “you’re in me” because I hate that and it’s really not fair because you’re everywhere and your warm body is special and unique and you’re not just like everyone else. No one is like everyone else. We all suffer the same it’s just that some are more willing to move into the thing we all avoid, it’s the hurt that maybe none of this is real and you’ll leave me, and even if you don’t leave me death will separate us, and even if death couldn’t separate us where will we go, how will we recognize these bodies, how will we love, without being cold and sterile in some out of body realm of who knows what. Thoughts perhaps. Just a thought form of love. Everyone wants a human body because they’re equipped to feel, that’s the experience we seek for our deep soul- is to stir the angst and betrayal. To feel from the depths of our rage and jealousy. To touch and embody the other as yourself. To take the flesh of emotion and evoke the invincible light of soul darkness, soul tar, the artistry of the
gentle, all seeing hand. The hand that grips my heart and squeezes until I can’t breathe. For you, it’s all for you that I rise in this darkness.

Sharada Devi

I’ll be yours and I’ll kill you


When I was 17 I married a man who was 26. He had black hair and green eyes. I like him, he was funny. I knew we would be married the first time I saw him laughing. I was 15. He worked out of town. I was alone a lot. He told me that I had no personality because I wasn’t like him. He told me I had no goals because I didn’t care about buying a house. He told me no man was as sexually skilled as he was- he said all men came in about 10 seconds and I believed him. He told me that pickled ginger was made out of tree bark and I believed him. We lived in this small secluded cottage on a hill on the northern coast of California. Over the other side of the hill there was a vast and private beach. It was endless country and hills behind the cottage and then the moody sea. There were owls, coyotes, horses, deer, rabbits and a few roaming cows. There were eucalyptus trees, pine trees and huge boulders. The wind would howl and I was all alone. One time I was coming home and saw a black man hiding and waiting for me behind the cottage. The cottage was in the middle of nowhere. And I didn’t go home. I went back in a couple of days and he was gone. I don’t want to know what he wanted. I have always had dark men come for me. Even as a small child I would be stalked by dark men in cars, I even had to call the police, it was scary. I don’t know what I was doing to cause this. I did have issues with modesty – like accidentally flashing and not being aware of exposing forbidden body parts. It was a lot to remember. Anyway, needless to say, I was afraid a lot, all alone. I usually mourned, cried every day and I was just laughed at. I have always offered the wounded my heart as if I could bare the weight. My wounded heart, I came here to give but I got confused on where I ended and others began. I needed a savior, I tried to be one. I could have been my own I suppose. Eventually I was. Eventually I stopped crying and started killing. Back. I used to walk over the hills to the deep blue sea and on the huge rocks would be a hundred sea otters lying in the sun. I never bothered them, they seemed friendly. I would sit there but it was eery, I was alone but always felt like I was being watched. There was a collapsed shack at least 100 years old built on the sand. I think fishermen had lived there even before there were roads or anything. It was still alive though, this shack. The whole isolated coast where I was seemed haunted by before. I too, felt haunted from before. Abandoned. Sitting in a place, in a body I didn’t recognize or necessarily want. I had a mission I don’t know what. I had too much on my mind. Too many pains in my collapsing heart. When I got married I was a virgin. Sex is powerful. I had been abused as a child. I couldn’t have sex for at least a month after we were married. I tried but was afraid. It hurt, it was somehow wrong. That is essentially what I was taught by my mother, it’s dirty. You are nasty and dirty and should stop exposing yourself. Put some clothes on, stop running around naked. Which I liked to do. I was put to an end, stopped- and my mystical freedom ended. My innocence was never known really, I was born a mother, became my own. Became one to everyone else too. That’s my training, this unforeseen program. Put out. Or you aren’t lovable. But I couldn’t have sex. My mother was obsessed with it, my sex life. Everyday. She wanted me to have a baby. I said I didn’t want to. She said I was selfish. I should have a baby and give it to her. I never did. I was enough. The damage was done. My husband was patient and eventually we broke through, literally. Blood on the sheets and the rest is history. I don’t take anything lightly. Not even the light. Sex has the power to transform and shouldn’t be taken lightly. I took it deeply to heart. More gravity for the already heavy hole of me. He didn’t like to kiss, something was wrong. He was there, I was alone. I’m tired of being alone. It’s been this way a lot and time hasn’t stopped a thing. Not even the aching, not even the urge to kill. I will destroy everything but the frame of me and these things I still hunt on the inside. Memories I give to you, just because I’m not even me, the one I remember. She’s been gone so long. Her ghost haunts me. She loves you. She wants to save you. She wants you to save her. Poor romantic wandering girl. Anyway, I would sit on the edge of a low cliff just above the shore for hours, and hear the ghostly voices from before, the little feet shuffling, the sand in the salty wind. The relentless crashing waves. There was supposed to be silence. I’ve never heard silence. Anywhere in me. I live inbetween worlds. Maybe it’s called a shadow world, I don’t know. These impressions carry me. I would see whales sometimes way out in the deep. I would feel so empty and weighed down by the sight of the whale. Someone I knew I could be, already was. Way too big and yet so small in the endless unforgiving sea. I always felt so cold when I would see the whale. Cold and ancient, beyond making words and thoughts. Just moving low and deep, just vibrating, beyond what ears can hear. Calling for my soul through this black water. It’s hopeless, the ending of eons, killing the dark vessels that move this earth secretly. I thought I could be one, hoped I was. I would attempt to pray but the god I knew was so cruel it was useless. I’ve always been alone. No matter where I am. Reaching under, climbing these hills and winding trails of eucalyptus that led to the secret beach. Often I would see this coyote, we knew each other but we both still ran. Him into the trees and me into my loneliness. The coyote would howl at night. He was golden. I was there listening, we lived in the same world. Me and the coyote. Coyotes are tricksters and shapeshifter. They worship the moon. My mother told me I couldn’t sing because I was tone deaf. That’s crazy, she was wrong. Coyotes don’t need to sing, their throats bleed for a god they don’t even know about, but they feel and they bleed. Their wild heart through their throats. Soul. Blood on the moon everywhere. I’ve seen it. I’ve watched him eating a rabbit under the moonlight. It was a ceremony, not just his dinner. This rabbit was dripping with blood, shimmering silver red blood. The coyote never moved he just watched me growling. His eyes were bright. “I’m hungry too, bright eyes.” I said. He replied to me in animal language, which I’m adept at, “Kill your own or be mine.” I said, “I’ll be yours and I’ll kill you.” He looked at me with recognition and laughed. That was the only time I have never felt alone. The moon covered us in blood. The rabbit became a god that slipped from it’s carcass and floated into the moon. Red was on my lips and I wasn’t afraid. I loved him. I lived all alone, my husband worked out of town five days a week. I was a savage. I lived with the wild. The dark man is mine. He was an animal and I was glad. Relieved I could be myself. I’ve been told I was a coyote because I mess up everyone’s plans- just by being me- I cause trouble. That’s a lie too. People cause their own trouble, I just happen to be there, being myself. Killing for the moon to be fed. I can’t always wait around for someone else you know. I’m alone on a secret mission I’m not even clear on. We lived in this cottage because we were caretakers of a massive victorian mansion. Nobody ever came there. It was a haunted mansion for sure. The owner lived far away. I would walk through the bones of this mansion watching the ghosts, at least five or six of them- still making dinner, making love, making the bed. Playing old music over and over again. Funny. In that order too. I wrote it all down. The voices in my head never sleep. I’m clinically insane. Bhagavan Das says I’m like a master mind criminal. He’s being generous. So I function and succeed for the most part. Although, I never ended up with anything like riches or romance or a deep sea tomb in my backyard. I’ve got a forest filled with skeletons in front of me, surrounding me. Whispering. I’ve got wind chimes that ring and I listen. Right now they are saying, “Come. Take me away. Come. Take me away.” It’s not my imagination. The ghosts, the past, the inhabited skeletons are all around us, in us even. Starving, ignored. Hurting badly. Everything talks to me. It drives me crazy, I already am. The wind chimes are reminding me now as I sit late at night under black forest trees remembering you, how you left me all alone and didn’t even say goodbye. They talk. All things talk, even your pillow. Your spoon. Your footprints in the dirt. All just a wash of memories on the metaphorical seashore of time- the heavy shadows we cast and carry long since passed. Like clouds across an unseen sky. Too deep to know. You’re too confused to understand me because I was born from the unreal moon and grew hair and a body and started speaking in tongues to the the dead who are wild. I still carry them all, like the whale. I’m old now. As old as the whale. I’m unbelievably fast. As fast as the wind. I’m beyond broken now. Like a vacated god. I’ve eaten every rabbit and the truth makes me sad. The truth about rabbits I mean. I’ve got this sacrificial blood all over me. I did it for you. I’d do it again. I’d roam the nights and follow your howl in the wind. I’d watch the moon dripping blood and remember our wedding. I’d turn over and bleed like a god being born from this world and into the next. I wouldn’t wait so long to recreate my childhood. I’d destroy everything that separated us from the whale. Fear, loneliness, cold rabbit shadows. I’d fly into the black trees. I’d be weightless and invisible. You would never leave me. He would kiss her…


and then in the midst of it all, I’m back in August 2017 my dog has found a pile of chopped up deer body parts. I didn’t do it. He won’t reveal his stash. He carries around hairy limbs with black hooves, I can’t catch him. He thinks he’s a wolf. He’s going to eat it all, the weaker vessel. I don’t blame him. And I don’t blame myself. So I put a red bandana around his neck. He’s a powerful force of revelation. The revelation being that we are between eclipses and for us to live, someone has to die. I can’t tear every leg out of your mouth. The sun is about to disappear. I’ve been waiting for a long time, amusing you with all my confessions and stories. We have been left here in this place and nobody loves us but our savior. We are covered in layers of meaning and I will decipher you like a wild dog. Coyotes are usually reincarnated as wolves. That’s what happened to me. I’ve died and been reborn around twelve times in this current body. Although you don’t see the things that I am, they still effect you. You still run like the rabbit, bright eyes. They always say that the dead are pale, but in all my killing sprees I’ve never seen such a thing. The dead, when killed properly are bright, like the full moon. And colorful like my words, and meaningful like this eclipse that will turn us all black like erasers taking each other away and leaving only bones- and memories that bled into the sea of long ago where nothing is ever forgotten. Remembering me, back then is like loving you now. There is no separation, no loss but light. No relief but giving myself as food to every starving ghost living in my destructive heart. As endless as the echoing seashore. As bright as your eyes can see. I will break the moon to know you. I will rip the face off this fake sky. I will empty the pitiful sea of it’s skulls and bloated death rafts. This world will disappear and all you will see is me carrying you inside.


Mother Light. Sharada Devi

love is personal


I admit I am a control freak. Even when something isn’t my fault I like to blame myself for it so that I can maintain control. In other words, if I change then things will be ok. There is, truth to this but not always. Sometimes people do things to us that are not our fault, and it’s not in our control or power to change the situation unless we are willing to compromise on whatever it is that is going on. There is karma coming and that’s why shit happens, but karma perpetuates only more of the same shit happening and so we must look very clearly at ourself and at the other who we would like to be responsible for energetically- so much so, that we make their behavior our responsibility to transform. It’s a touchy topic and there is such a thing as commitment and discernment. Committing to what? You should ask yourself the best that can be hoped for and is it enough. Discernment- is this a situation where committing is in the best more progressive interest of all- including myself. Not that I can save anyone, because I can’t. And especially those who don’t even want to be saved, but I wish they did so I could continue to hide behind them- as some sort of martyr savior facing my karma, when really, I’m just dark and afraid of my own authenticity. We should be true to ourselves, our strengths. We must save ourselves, and do the right thing, the noble thing. We should not waiver in our commitment to transformation. We should not make ourselves responsible for others behavior- and I’m talking to myself. God knows, I’m intense and I seem a bit off, like people who think they know me wonder if they don’t. Because they don’t and yet they do. I will stop at nothing, no speck of dirt is too small for me to point out. In myself or in someone I’ve committed to supporting. It’s the only way to ever be sharp and vivid. Being alert. And so maybe I shake things up, say things that upset people. I take the chance to be hated out of my love- love bigger than two identities- I risk it all- and eventually I am hated. Or at least despised, or sometimes just replaced with a lighter, more user friendly version. People can only take so much- except for Bhagavan Das. People can criticize him all they want- the “bad bad things he’s done” but believe me, he’s been forged. He takes heat. He bows low. He has humility. He is fearless even when he’s fearful. And that means facing it. The thing we did. The thing we didn’t do. Why? And that means not being afraid to cut something useless away from us so we can move on. I never make anyone leave. They leave on their own. It’s only a matter of the pressure cooker, the love and their holding capacity. We all make mistakes. We all want control. It’s all a matter of where we are headed if we are honest and what we need to do to be most progressive in the face of a horribly treacherous world condition. You can always count on me. That’s the truth. Count on me, not how you want it, how I am. And it’s true, I can’t and I won’t prove anything. Your heart sees or it doesn’t. Anyway we struggle, it’s the hiding that is hard for us all, me included. The soft spots that require we cringe, we close our eyes, we simply walk away and don’t even say goodbye. It’s so painfully hopeless. It seems any movement is bound to hurt, and it is. Love hurts, happiness hurts, God hurts, hope hurts, success hurts. And because it always flips around to it’s counter we panic. The dual reality is that we cannot win. We cannot lose. We can only stagger and keep our eyes on the flame. The flame we can’t even see. Feeling it acutely, as deeply as hell goes. The mystical, unbearable aching that we may not be enough. That God may be above us, so unreachable that even death can’t possibly be enough. That we need control in order to hide, stay safe. Not hurt. Not look clearly at the situation as it is revealing itself. We are alone. We can only do so much for those in our lives. We must rise by sinking. Love is like the sun, we wait for it to rise and shine down on us, sink through us. We want to give and to be this unconditional light. For humans as we are, love is still just word, a fantasy. Whoever feels “it” has their own Interpretation depending on depth of character. So, we all feel this thing “love” somewhat differently. So we will all do different things in the face and in the name of this love. Some people will die for the one they love. Some people will claim to love you and when you do something they don’t like, say something they don’t want to hear- they’ll leave you. And they’ll have all kinds of good reasons. And that was all I was trying to say from the start. I want love to be more than just a word or a fantasy so that I don’t have to keep adapting to the lies- even my own- just because I would rather be dead than accept that love too may be a lie. That all words only exist in our head and our heart is only a confused victim of circumstance. I want the power to end the cold calculations that to me are not the bright flames of love but the dull mechanics of posturing. Maybe to achieve a result, conquer or acquire something or maybe just because that’s what this world has taught us. It causes me great sadness and grief to be caught in this cycle mostly because I know what I’m doing and like everything else, it hurts.

I spend nights and mornings wondering if I’m even alive. I spend days pretending I am. It hurts. As I wait for the approach of the inevitable shadow, I wonder who you are and what I can do for you. I have no answers to our suffering but that we rise by sinking. I can’t stop loving anybody even it’s only in words. I’m caught in this fantasy of the perfect union. The one true mistake. Shit happens. I shouldn’t be so desperate. I know none of this is real. I just wish love was. I know everything ends, I just hope true love doesn’t. And maybe that’s just between me and God. I know, it never ends…even when it should.

These contradictions are the quickening. What is true remains to be seen. Love is not blind at all,

love is personal.
Sharada Devi



There is the light that has always been light and then there is the light that has turned into darkness. There is that darkness that goes back to the light, that transmute the inertia of itself into movement and is born again in God. We all left for one reason or another, at least in our minds. The return is the alchemy of birth into death and this death of the lesser vessel then is reborn into an indomitable catalyst that embodies the dichotomy which is that all poison must be consumed in order to return. Until then, we starve and suffer. And even when we are willing to swallow, we could die or even get pregnant with the devil’s child. And so a mysterious force overshadows us, patiently training us. Pushing us as far as we’ll go without actual death. Physical death is nothing compared to the regeneration of poison into the luminous, shocking, diamond body of poisons. The poison is hard to take. The only cure is a wrathful heart. A heart that does not take no for an answer or ever forget why it came here. This evil fog we drift in dreaming ourselves into a denser death is the very clarity of the Mother Light. Confusion is dulling the pain. Recoiling from the bitter taste of fear. Clear seeing is the sweet taste of a ruthless heart who cuts through despair into awakening. The alchemical churning that pillages our souls and uproots our deluded self cherishing. The invisible bite on your neck is the Mother Light wounding her child, bruising flesh down to bone. Don’t get in the way of the love that knows no pity. The love that is unbreakable. Cannot be blinded anymore. This poison is our lives actually. You want to avoid reality and be pampered and cherished. You want to be successful, admired and adored. You want results, validation, positive reinforcement. You want relief from the glare of the ugly mirror and it’s harsh words. I know, we all want candy. It’s nothing but a rotten curse, wasting time. Excuses don’t matter. Nothing matters but this transmutation. Your body becoming the processing magical vessel. It doesn’t come easy. We are here for nothing else truly. I know we think we have very important things to do, become, show the world who we are. This is merely karma imploding upon itself once again. Get outside of your hallucination. Your name IS NOT your name. You don’t have one. This light we left is clear and full, empty and all pervading. We are dark spots struggling to know this, caught in the ominous nightmare of our own self cherishing. Give, we should give. Take the darkness, eat the poison. Give back Mother Light. We inherit her eyes and nothing else. But, even in this aspiration we must realize the treachery of the calling. We are not fit for the calling without allowing the eminence of the reality of death propelling life, being actually greater than the birth spark, being actually bigger than God at this time, being actually delivered to us as an opportunity in every moment. With every exhale, every blink of the eye. And this doesn’t mean running it means meeting the light head on and getting slammed if that’s the potent edge of the blade. It means in our lives, not reviving the ghosts that recreate the same dulling ache. It means being clear and facing our lack, fear of swallowing the results of the merging, meeting the space that we hold and eating the demons as if they were honey poured from the moon as she cried. Where do I belong if I am not me? How do we get out of here? By being bigger, breaking harder, shattering ourselves and not trying to glue ourselves back. Faith in the way truth is made. Reveals itself immaculately, not actually needing us at all. Words should create actions. Deep actions, magical words. Most words just perpetuate numbing familial curses and make only a denser numbing. Words mean thoughts as well. It’s the make or break syndrome. The make or break syndrome. What do I kill and what do I nurture. Where do I go to eat and be bright. Who do I love and by love I mean really, more than just a name and a face but a poisonous churning to disappear and be more. Love, when it’s real is a destroyer of illusion, not a perpetuator of the same ancient griefs. Nobody can stand real love, we all want it- no we do not. We want numbing, dull blades. The blades that don’t cut making new blood but the blades that rub, tracing old scars. We don’t see anybody like that. We use others to recreate wounds that can’t possibly heal until we suck out the poison for all sentient beings. This is my aspiration, sucking wounds.
And yet I feel sad for those who know me more than just a little because you’re going to lose everything that isn’t beyond the wound. All that we are, have, is like lint stuck to a sticky infected wound. We try to heal ourselves by covering the pus and itching with another title, a new useless girlfriend, a rich husband. These are not healing, the world doesn’t know. You probably don’t know the dismantling, inevitable annihilation involved in successful transmutation. It’s about loss, losing the attachment to everything and everyone obsolete. Finding value and resourcefulness in less, in the profound space of nothing. I don’t care if you end up on the street corner begging like a sinner. This is just the truth, the way it is. The wrapping up and tying of loose ends. The outcome of human evolution. THE RETURN. And what it takes is desolation, distillation, despair. And this is the alchemy, the letting go. The digestion of poison, who becomes our omniscience. Our diamond body of immortality, and I feel sad because it hurts and if you aren’t ready, but want to be- and just can’t make the cut, it’s tragic. So tragic, I can’t sleep at night. I can’t eat like it’s important to live. I can’t stop thinking of you in that haunted house scraping the hallways, feeding old ghosts that should have moved on, desperately tending your wounds in all the worst ways. There is no answer but to destroy. I’m sorry but it’s true. Our constructs, mental and otherwise are not safe even though it certainly feels right to cling, it’s only perpetuating the infection. The syndrome is make or break. Make more or break out. Breaking out is alchemy, spiritual evolution. The only thing we can do on earth that doesn’t disable other beings. We contribute who we are, and in the end, if we’re still making we just fucked the entire planet, and it’s not cool. Break the system. Breach the contract. I feel sad because I will ruin your life as you know it and when you leave prematurely, you’ll be worse for knowing me. It’s true, I’ve seen it over and over. It’s my curse. If you stay, it’s the only way. Bigger than identities. And I don’t mean stay with me as a person, I mean stay with me as the dust. There is no possible hope but to clear your life of clutter and be efficient with even your breathing.
It’s a calling to return. It’s not something we do as a hobby to accentuate our worldly engagements. No, the serpent power, driven by desire, sexual potency- is a destroyer before she is a redeemer. This is the most fundamental point. The process isn’t in your control and yet you must control your reactions to the cutting and sucking and the taste of bitter pain, poison. It’s your very own poison that’s being churned, it’s the very light of God fire that emerges and redeems. It’s not our comfort that matters, or even our safety, it’s the final result. The end justifies the means. You don’t get it really until you’re in it and then the light is so bright you can’t see it and it can even feel dark. It’s vibrational, its confrontational, it’s massive. The things we must move. Mostly it’s arrogance, pride, fear, attitude. Not enough love, not enough to die for. Dying means not leaving. You can’t run from death. Loving means disappearing into devotion and in that disappearance is the only freedom, the only relief from ourselves, that we as so called humans can hope for. This is the path of sexual transmutation, the alchemy of desire. POWER. The axis of the solar and lunar equation. The embodiment of death as the actual seed. The seed is always death first, not life. Life comes after the fact, in spite of the fact that we are not rigid. Undulating currents of electrical wrath, forged as desire. Purity upon purity and nothing else but purity. The poison is the only food that feeds the virgin snow flower. But first the poison must be eaten by you and burned by the clear fire of transcendent love. This seed is death, so hot it’s cold. So cold it bursts into flames. So dark it becomes the light. Holding on, to only my name. Which is unknowable at this time. I plant the seed of death in anyone I look at. I mean actually look at. That’s why I avoid real eye contact with humans. They can’t take it. Animals are ok, they love the death seed. And I’m sorry, that’s just the way it is. So what I’m saying is it’s too late to go back. How long will you idle, will you return to me? The hidden, forbidden honey I cry. The snow flower that can never die. The rainbow inside the diamond is what the poison becomes, because if I don’t love you, who does? You belong to me basically. It’s bigger than me. It’s the only way, sucking and implanting. It’s both of us going down. It’s the moon rising between bodies of gossamer light.

Sharada Devi


for 99 years we loved as 1


One time my mother tried to kill me. One time I found a white Buddha in an alley. My mother told me it was from the devil and now the devil would be coming for me. I asked what I should do. She said I could take the Buddha as far away as I could and break it and so I did. She said there was no guarantee the devil still wasn’t coming and likely that very night. I asked her if I stayed awake with all the lights on would that help. Since I knew the devil only likes darkness and if I was awake he couldn’t sneak up on me. She said maybe it might help, probably not. Basically. The devil was coming. And so I sat up with the lights on all night long waiting, terrified. Nothing happened. He hid outside my room watching us all, that’s what I think anyway. I couldn’t keep my eyes open at school the next day. But I did. I was in second grade. I was perfect. And these hallways in this house of ours were dark and haunted by more than just the hidden devil. But countless ghosts and terrifying memories of drunken fathers and dead mothers coming for their children. All these mothers thought I was their child. It was scary. My father disappeared. I’d hunt for him in grocery stores, in the streets. It embarrassed my mother I’d say, “daddy?” to tall blonde men from behind hoping it was him, it never was. I had a small dog who was wise. She was 1. She knew all the back roads and short cuts, I did whatever she wanted. I’d drive her around in the basket of my bike aimlessly. Fearing death. Knowing she would die in 99 years and I would be all alone. I had the idea dogs lived to be 100. I had no idea dogs didn’t fear the devil. Nobody told me anything. I was alone to figure it out. Pierce the veil, little virgin. I was the biggest 1 of all.

And so I know nothing. I attempt the impossible and I am still here riding aimlessly thinking of death and time limits. I am piercing pushing at every unopened place, trying to get in. Meaning get out of this dream. She killed me. And I know it. There is a tiny white light in my face and I cannot say if it’s light coming in or just a hole with light leaking out. That would make sense, in regards to dying. But I am studying the facets of this tiny white tear in the fabric and think I may be wrong. This may be the way. Getting in or out. I might be smaller than I think. Possibly even able to fit. Squeeze harder, push. This is what I’m saying. Dream bardo. This veil that encapsulates us is like astral skin. I would like to rip her skin off and get inside the truth. If it wasn’t Buddha who called himself the devil who was it? I know. I am very confused and yet realize that the air is actually water here and water is made of waves and waves are pulled by a special kind of light made by unstable mothers. Mother’s whose light block the entrance. Both ways. This is profound as a discovery because what this means is that we may not be helpless or hopeless after all. She may be right. I may need to be suffocated. Under water, under her angry body of unforeseen waves. There is no other way but to be raised by the 1 who won’t let you rise. This is the pearl. Inside the alleys and halls. Scared and pedaling wildly. Killing my heart, holding my dog while he stumbles drunkly down the hall. Breaking my white Buddha. Waiting for the devil to take me. This is it, broken child. The piercing of you. Pinned on all fours.

My father had a Harley and would ride me on it. He took me to see huge frozen sharks at sea world. I wrote him poems about killing Vietnamese people. I don’t exaggerate, he was the 1. But he’s gone and now it’s only me and you. I would die for you. It’s between the two of us, these stories passing time. None of it real and yet that’s just a guess. Who we aim to please and rip, open. Let me in, through. Piercing the veil, and when we do. They all get in as well and come for us. We should be colorless like the sky or water against these heavy dark figures stuck to the hallways and mirrors. The entry point into time, endless fondle of dream babies. My lips have kissed them all. Daddy’s death dancers. Sky and water children. We all know them. Don’t pretend your mother too didn’t say, “die” Mine never said a word, she just covered my tiny mouth and pushed. I knew, the truth. The dream I chose. Like heaven knows hell and clearly I wanted to cross over the stigma. That’s a clue, I believe. Little virgin child, maybe you aren’t so innocent after all. Make me. Make me. Make me. Do this to you. Break him in the darkest alley as far away as you can. Come and sit and wait. For the 1. Lights on doesn’t change a thing. Lights off, sit on me. He loves dark places. Your dark places. He’s already there. Inside calling. Passing over, shadow tracks we ride on. Hidden in crevices, dirty mouths as they beg for more. Training her to ride and be ridden. She covered my mouth, she laid on top of my body. Salt like the ocean I tasted on her firm, deadly open palm. Pushing death. Remember me. Down a little bit harder. Every life hurts me and I still want for more. Little tiny dog, go my way, again we traverse, looking and finding him in all things. For 99 years we loved as 1. It’s all the same. And I know I’m white.

Then, I got older. But the dreams. The dreams I couldn’t get in or out of never ended. It all tied together in big knots. These figments of lives, these dreams we can’t cross. Boundaries. Time. Forgetful minds. Hallucination for the sake of God. Beasts we tame the best we can, we feed. They turn on us eventually. We turn and go the other way too. We lose our tiny viewing hole. We become another person. Hurt by pieces that fit so well. And I know this. And splinters get deep and hide like the beasts do. Devil dog, little dog in my basket. The only one who loved me. I still remember her hot tongue licking my tears, baby tears. He was supposed to be here by now. I broke the world open for him. My entire line up, I killed like a wolf, not a puppy. And nobody came. Nobody cared. Nobody loved me like death loved my daddy. I could be someone else next time, for sure he’ll come then. Right inside me. The virgin who has not been pierced by the truth yet. He’s coming. It’s only a matter of time, and position.

So the dreams, maybe nightmares were vivid. Still are, while he haunts me year after year. I cannot tell what is dead or alive. Where the sky ends and the waters begin. This is it. Thirst. And here’s what happened:

We were in a desert. The day had turned to night. The sun became the moon and we didn’t expect anything but to get laid if we were lucky. There was nothing but surface value to any relief at all. There were four of us. Four of us crossing over each other. Two dark and two light. Four of us watching each other for signs, currents of what might be coming. We could have been what we hid and turned our faces inside out. Faced our other bodies in the undertow. Everything glowed silver under the night. White was the earth, sky and trees. Black was the heartbeat, the tongue inside tasting the blueness of what we had become. This memory of waiting to be taken. Black was the shadow she held making faces while he cried for rain from the desert sky. Thirsty and dry. Four of us weeping. Weeping for the other we could not see. Four of us and two bodies hiding two. Two we meant to find, recover our own lost lives inside this triangle with only three lines. The fourth would be the dot in the middle. But we did not know either. One sided slant or the bindu who blew us from out of our center. It was the shock that shook us all. There was one thrust and the sky cracked open, one deep thrust and the little 1 screamed. It’s too much! How much I can’t say but I know the shock took all three of the four. Took them into white strokes of panic that quickly faded, receding into the background and disappearing with nobody left for me to cling to. She’s dead. It’s been 99 years and I’m lost. Me, not only me. I could die on ground this shaky. I might already be gone. Dream above or dream below. I have nothing. Would anyone even be able to tell me, wake me. I knew I was dreaming and I was dreaming I knew. Shake me from the horizon that never seems to end. The horizon I hang upon, over, watching little things, like snakes and scorpions pass beneath me. They’re little. I’m the little 1. I’m bigger than them and yet less deadly plus less willing to die and also more afraid. Where has everyone gone. Four of us. Two dark and two light. Two bodies mixed and thirsty. A long lonely road, no oasis. Not a flower or a friend. I cannot seem to know myself any other way. No way at all. And so I end up here. Where we all go pretending. I can’t pretend. I’m dangling from an invisible branch. There is no tree in the desert that grows, only me imagining my roots must go upward. And it seems as I think so I become and we’ve heard it before but now push becomes shove. Thrust becomes thunder and still no rain to kiss my lonely lips. Where am I if not in your arms? Since I broke you long ago. Who am I if not your body? Since I disappeared through your doorway that morning. What am I if not this wasteland looking for bodies to fill it? Broken. Pierced. All over white.

Anyway, that was only a dream. And since you are potentially real. The nightmare phase has ended. There seems to be four stages. How we pass the strands of time. And although time ended long ago, we just won’t wake up. Scared to death of each other because we leave and erase and draw these lines between us and names around us. Boundaries and identities. I wasn’t interested in getting laid. I only wanted to find the secret garden. Where bodies go to die into something bigger. Than the fear of just themselves. Deadly perfect mothers or fathers who carry guns and kill little dark people. These tiny foreign seeds we all forget and leave behind. These grunts of a searching us. It’s a long way back there, to say I’m sorry I didn’t know. I rode as fast as I could and I waited. I never forgot. She let me breath again. She died when she was 17. 99 was only a dream. Getting lost, finding myself in this dream. Tearing open the skin that separates us from what we really did. We have no idea. I don’t. I have a million recycling images that haunt me to death. When will I see you, really see you. And me. When will we know. How long it takes to love and be loved. Which means entering and being entered by the tiny white light that grows and forms and then shatters and creates the things we hide from. I cannot escape you, you are the entrance into the dreamless white. I know only what I’ve done and mostly what I think it means is what matters. Thinking in fours and hues of what this might imply. Leaving myself for you. We are 1.

Sharada Devi

Mudra is the embodied


I saw the light. All I saw was light. From the point, became a sheer wall. A mountain facing east. Dancing light. God inside my fingers. Divine hand, flowing around, through the soul and out the body. Not really a wall but a room itself. A room of light. Not flames that warn and burn. But warm and glow and smother shadows. To death. This is my hand reaching out toward the ceiling, facing east. Killing the space without us in it. And these shackles that mean nothing, like thoughts that hold us down, are reversible. Inside the room. Not outside the space. No space. Not even a room where light can destroy. Not even me, that you can give light to. Not even you that I see. I say it always. It’s the mudra of the snake who makes us want her. Who gets between everyone, invisible she dances. We can lose ourselves in her body, instead of our own. There isn’t our own. There is only the secret snake weaving through cause and effect. The mudra is time inside of the kiss. The axis of bliss pain and revelation. This kiss is outside of us all, timeless and moving toward pain. Pain. If I touch you, I’ll leave you. If you touch me, I’ll go. We’ll disappear inside her and she’ll kill every body. Gracefully, carelessly, not even thinking. She’ll be herself right where you are. Light. It’s a word that gets used, don’t we all. But this light is unseen, unheard, unknowable not even good. It’s just the emanation of the point. Shaft of time through space. Looking for her, in the dark. Touch the bottom. Move the bliss flower. Peel off your pain skin, faceless axis. Kissing beyond mouths. But mathematical equations of space. Magnetic galactic ocean filled with bodies, nothing is random. Golden flesh, golden God. You see. I know. Where to go. Even when I’m stuck. It’s you I asked for. There is a quiver. There is a root. There is an arrow. There is a love that we point. This love is a labyrinth. Weaving. Causing us to think. Think about love as a commitment or a lie. As a fragile, porcelain discovery inside uncertain bodies. We point it, and kill without getting out. Without getting the light to bloom, like our blood filling life but reminding of death. My light holds more. I don’t have any light, only waves of surrender that wash me away. Into mysterious feelings. Away from this world. Into the room where you lay, as the light. Broken light, broken by my dance. Perfectly pure where you are. Shining. This transparent wall, light I found deep. Was a place inside me. To go. To create new places from -immaculate on the outside. Not even obviously violent to get there, but seething and quelling and pulsing the only snake that ever lived. The vessel we drink from. It’s all the same. We are not It. It is IT. You are what I made when I knew she was a secret snake. Immortal. Invisible. Inside and between every body. Liquid. Light. Poison. Nectar. Pain. Bliss. Infinity. Gone. Into gone. I pull her from her roots and she dances inside. Making magic. It’s all real. On or under. The outside. She is you. Him. He knows her. This is my description of infinity. When her eight lays on his side. To create. Ancient quiver. To destroy. That’s my point. They throw each other out of axis. Dancing bodies. Reckless as he stomps and howls. This God who shakes me off my solar tracks. Moon. She drags and flips her tail. Wild erotic under every thought for more. She forgets her head. You wear my face. Holy empty room. Where do you come from. Radiate my eyes. I need a head. She is always moving toward the east. And I’m telling you this because it’s all we have. This cosmic coil. These words describe magical doings. These words imply there is something underneath us, pulling. Someone. Where are we going, where nobody lives and winds howl without anything to stop them. Down your throat, swallow the wind of death. You cannot separate anything ever. You cannot take anyone from me. I am not the one I speak of. I am a lunatic churning the poison. I am a lunatic drinking the poison. I am eternally death bound. Life, like my shadow. Who doesn’t exist. Is in the mudra. Her horrifying gaze. I want to love you, leave you. Escape you. Snake I can’t find. You. Purge. Plunge the empty hole. Nothing dances and gets destructive. Peace isn’t coming. The twisting of cellular vines, it’s all the weave of way beyond this formulation. I could never make you see or hear me. You must get struck. That’s what I’ve been saying. Struck you didn’t even see me coming. Struck by a black cobra who isn’t even here…dark swallowed wind, alchemical light. We don’t know, we become. The mudra. A black coil who sheds skins of light…who isn’t even here…but where we live, somewhere else. Our bodies sacrificed to this world. We die in arms that strangle. We beg for more. Breath that stops breathing. The wind. Listen. We’re in it still moving. Looking for each other to die for.

Love lives this way. Hopelessly, helpless and invincible. That we die. That she moves. Deep inside us. Killing every thing. Every body. Not a word. Left. What I’ve written is gone. There is only the mudra forming and deforming itself. Her as all words, meaning me and your light. I write you poem after poem. I imagine your soul as my own. Heartbreaking river. Going there. In this room. Heart making love. It’s all gone into shapes that entangle, drown. Merge. I wish for the light to only be free, but I’m trapped in infinity and you’re gone and I’m left. All alone. Not even myself anymore.

Magical liquid light. Red serpent, It’s always you. Sight unseen. I take it over and over again. Never knowing. Becoming. Who this is. Who came. Between us. Flowing through us. As a mystical new blood made of God’s name.

Mudra is the embodied. Making light by killing space. Dying to death herself.

Sharada Devi


Dream, orgasm. Sex magic. Is there really life on earth?


Deep wet
It’s not a dream
It’s only a dream
Bright eyes
It’s not love
it’s only a rock
on fire
take a breath
lonely sinner
It’s not worth the shine
the fall into nowhere but here.

I’m alone. Tonight. I loved you.
Dream. Death. A summer window.
Open upward. I’m lost inside.
Of you. Dream. You left me.
Without going anywhere.
At all. It’s all my fault.
Deep wet eyes.
Dream I flew on fire.
To you. It doesn’t matter.
If I’m not real. Star. It’s enough.
To be seen as anything at all. By you.
Dream. It’s not a dream.
It’s only a dream. No one loves me.
I do. Bright eyes. It’s not love.
It’s just wet and deep.
Take a breath. Fall. I’m sorry.
Love isn’t real. Stars bang.
They weren’t stars. They were rocks.
On fire. Falling to death, into no one.
But me. I’m here. All alone.
Looking up. While he points.
At his heart. “The Big Bang.”
He said. They called it. The God particle.

Black expanding things.

Death eyes. Hum.

The spreading of germs. Sperms.
Making babies. A blue pearl.
Just like God. Suffering incomplete.
That’s why.

You’re not here. You are here.

I’m a rock. Sadly aging. Flung.
From a center I can’t see. Nobody
can ever love me. I’m dead by then.
By the time you ever see me.

A hidden egg split and then departed.

I’ll be here. Dreaming. Of you. Dream. Deep wet space. I’m only human. I’m made of moving skies. He knew. She did not. Ever dream again. Without him. I don’t want to die. But shine. Shine like a star. Silver and free. I let you. Go into IT. Like I knew who I was. Like demons weren’t getting in. Leaving cosmic snake skins inside me. Like the light didn’t shatter. Like I didn’t matter. Leaving dark matter inside me. Like I wasn’t a religion or a theory. Like my skin was still soft. Four letter words like heartbreak, move stars to their final recluse of death. Up above. Alive and still smoky from a fire yet unseen. Shining. Beneath you. Under the sky made of mind. Breath. Clear. Light. Sex. Magic. Dark red hunter. Tongue of lost words. My empty abode made of flesh. Stone feels nothing. Hide heart. Flame body. Flash of ribbon. You didn’t love me. A dream in your bed. Is as big as a dream of the world. Outside. It’s obvious. World escape me. It’s all crucifixion. Hot love. Alone made of nothing but thought and tears. He said we could call it resurrection. At the time I agreed. But now I say no. We could call it an orgasm. God isn’t anything but a groan inside the deep wet dream, not a dream. Dream, orgasm. Us. And we could call an orgasm a shooting star. Not really God either. Get IT. But you don’t. I don’t. Dream. But remember slowly. As we fall…and the world watches. And we all go home crying. Why me? I love you. Love. Spark. Rain. Finally. Love. Never landing. I’m sorry. You went down and found nothing. Inside her but dreams. Dreams with eyes and faces. Searching.For the light of clear sorrow. We knew better. The suffering was incomplete and we came anyway. That’s why I wrote lonely sinner. Earlier. So many sighs. Unforeseen. Harmony that cannot be avoided. Discordant harmony even. Still God’s hand. No God. It’s ideas. Stemming and ancient. Breeding like germs. Love rocket. I remember everything. Every single dream. Beloved bright eyes. Silver dusk. Trace me. Shake the sky loose of lights. Dark and deep. Listen to me. Listen to me. Listen to me. Closer. Do you see what I see. Do you feel what I feel. Alone. Cold. Sleeping. Goodbye. Dream. Dreamer. It’s not you. It’s only you. Me. Red hunter. It’s me. Moonsky. There’s no moon. There’s only a big silver dream spinning the dreamer. Asleep. Wet and deep. Love. Steep. Down bright. Steps below, underneath. Show me your shadow. Dark lover. In the dark.

Sex magic.
Is there really life on earth?

Think of me. And I’ll be there. Casting spells and crying. Mourning. For us all. Lover of the deep. If only we could. Get IT in the hole. My atmosphere. I wish I felt something besides space, a hard knot, an impersonal flame formed into a deity. A deity who doesn’t care at all about this world. Why did you bring me here? Panting. Hot tongued tail. Headless, a loose sad form of burden. Bodiless, I think of only you. Just a thought of lust. Red power. Head body, dream pain grief rain loss shame hunger hell. Beside me laying in darkness. A kindhearted snake with a plan. Inconceivable. Unconscious. Axis. At last. Surreal I’m immortal. Dream deep wet eye socket. Look closer. Inside I left you alone. You didn’t notice the pain. Liar, it’s a dream. Dream get off of me. Love. Pull me deeper. Wet sky. Desperately falling light. Only lasted a moment. Orgasmic blasphemy. Turning on God.
Away from God, the buyer. Liar, God made the dream and sold it’s women to the sky behind the one we see. “Hide heart,” he said. God is a He.
Heart is a She. The sky further back is where pain starts and shoots it’s guts from. That’s what I was told. Explosion. Implosion especially. The sky we see was just made for the movie. Fake, clouded. Mind warp. You lost her. She was love. The hidden thing that tortures souls. Back. Deep wet beautiful death dream. Sexy mouth dreamer even. The whisper in your ear. I can say it because it’s me. You betray the secret tongue. I listened anyway. To you in morbid silence. You said nothing. And that’s how I feel too. Grave. Heavy bottom. Black and homeless. Searching mouths. Dreams open wide. “It’s not a holograph,” he said. “It is only a holograph in your mind. In your heart. It’s just one.” “Nice thought,” I said to myself. Keep trying, believing cold mind. My words are on deep fire. Always entering. My legion of exquisite dark. All consuming fusion. Subtle. Flesh. Quicksilver. Flash. My simple words. Gold hearted. Sounded. Intoned. Perfectly sonic. But broken badly. Incomplete suffering isn’t enough. Who became every secret embedded in her wet eyes. Me of the one. Is who. Secrets churn. Brightly hers. You didn’t see a thing. You saw everything. And did nothing but suck. Like a space tick still dreaming of blood. It’s sad. Beloved homebody. Lonely vampire, floating white. Inside such a darkness. We can’t know you’re white. Mysterious fringe. Enigma. All that wants me. Blood drinking God. Dipped in her gold. I am immortal. Untouchable. The womb-less wet slumber of enchantment and subjugation. The dream you enter is me. Once inside. Lonely bone body. You keep coming back. Still incomplete. For more. Give me more of me. Blank staring rock. Love less than deadly isn’t anything worth waking up for. Bright eyes. White light shock. It’s hard. It’s not soft. It’s faraway. It’s not mine.

Mother Lover where did you go?

Dream again. Sharada Devi