the ocean rising up to kill us
Sabino D'Antonio
you nailed the fire to a crucifix and the air is screaming for mercy
the scream has an echo even god can hear
a scorched season of fear and wrath
your mouth with the power of a scorpion ready to strike
myths to pass down to the children
frightening myths that can turn dreams into nightmares
or into an offensive word
your breasts covered with moss and tangled seaweed
picked at by monkeys with nothing else to do
the fruit that no one eats
your kiss of a steel tongue
polished hard and cold
something with the fur of an animal
an odor of sex
your nudity
covered only by rock and freedom
the crucifix is upright and burning
and yes the air screams for mercy
there is no goddamn mercy
james lee jobe
When we try to oppose and resist whirlpools of thought-fueled sadness, to swim away from them through thought, we become exhausted from the effort, while our misery only increases. But when we dive into the whirlpools, astonishing things happen.
David Edwards, “Meditation in an Age of Cataclysms”
Sabino D'Antonio
the spirit has the voice of a woman and urges me to speak the truth
beneath my hair the pacific ocean roars behind my ears
behind my eyes her voice is whispering and her voice is a fire
if i tell the truth really tell it all of it the ocean will rise up
and try to kill us starting with the weak and ending with me
i already walk with a limp that's my father's leg limping
my father's leg holds me back holds me down ties me
to this spot in hell or earth and i will never be healed again
my father's sins and mine wait in that leg for me to tell the truth
those sins crave the oceanic roar the flood and my death
and your death too everyone friend the sins that hold me back
will silence that spirit "speak the truth" she whispers again "be free"
no not yet i want to bear the silence and suffer for as long as I can
james lee jobe
Anyone can build a house of wood and bricks, but the Buddha taught that that is not our real home. Our real home is inner peace.
Ajahn Chah
bless the small things that have no words
james lee jobe
links:
Morning Hot and Windless, a poem by Phoebe Giannisi
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thanks, james