November’s full Moon was called the Beaver Moon by both the colonists and the Algonquin tribes because this was the time to set beaver traps before the swamps froze, to ensure a supply of warm winter furs.
Ok, here goes:
I let go of fatty waste.
I let go of stagnant voices.
I let go of emotional traps.
I cultivate smart hibernation.
I cultivate bone-broth-for-the-soul love.
I cultivate this moment, right now.
In honor of The National Day of Prison:
M. A. Jones
You ask what it’s like here
but there are no words for it.
I answer difficult, painful, that men
die hearing their own voices. That answer
isn’t right though and I tell you now
that prison is a room
where a man waits with his nerves
drawn tight as barbed wire, an afternoon
that continues for months, that rises
around his legs like water
until the man is insane
and thinks the afternoon is a lake:
blue water, whitecaps, an island
where he lies under pale sunlight, one
red gardenia growing from his hand —
But that’s not right either. There are no
flowers in these cells, no water
and I hold nothing in my hands
but fear, what lives
in the absence of light, emptying
from my body to fill the large darkness
rising like water up my legs:
It rises and there are no words for it
though I look for them, and turn
on light and watch it
fall like an open yellow shirt
over black water, the light holding
against the dark for just
an instant: against what trembles
in my throat, a particular fear
a word I have no words for.
1982, Arizona State Prison-Perryville
Comfy pants, oversized shirt, tea in hand, silence.
The place is deserted.
Besides the laundry spinning its final cycle.
Wow, what to do with this glorious day?
Excitement is enmeshed with overwhelm.
There’s a TON to do.
But what do I WANT to do?
“Take your Sunday off.”
Do active nothings.
Like, yoga, massage, vacuum.
Keep your mind restful, and don’t feel like you have to do anything.
Continue reading “in a million years”
He stays in his crate.
Hot water boils.
Sleep is in air.
It’s quiet, except for cars whizzing like the drone of a white noise machine.
I reuse old tea bags.
Tea warms my chin as I type.
I breathe in the earthy smell of turmeric and ginger.
I am thinking stillness.
I am watching the heart carefully open its windows.
I must remain still, allow Grace to unfold.
Or do I disturb it? Say, “This is me! Look at me!”
Continue reading “turmeric”
I am the co-creator of a film production company, Subway Token Films. We are always on the hunt for Street Level Miracles, the philosophy behind our films: these are moments in our lives when the story as we know it stops, the lens is pulled back and something expansive is revealed to us. Kinda like catching the glimpse of a whale out in the sea.
This here is a perfect example of one. Enjoy.
I want to
I want to be someone else or I’ll explode
Floatin’ upon this surface for the birds
You want me?
Fuckin’ well, come and find me
I’ll be waitin’
With a gun and a pack of sandwiches
Continue reading “i’m ready”
He’s a boy, about 12 years old. He’s a dreamer, a big fat dreamer. He spends his days looking up lost in the clouds thinking one day he’ll reach them, he’ll conquer them.
His parents never shun this idea, if anything they encourage it. They look up alongside him and whisper, “You’re going to make it. One day it’ll all be yours.” He inhales motivation, excitement, pride; he exhales a heavy sigh; thinks Olympic in scale, tsunami in strength. No one can stop me!
This energy like lightning spirals through his body and like a dog’s zoomie, it explodes in every direction of a small four-walled room with a window. He runs himself around this room building sweat, strength and some kind of stamina. In the process, releases some kind of anxiety, pressure, expectation. And then like a dog, he konks, falls flat and sleeps…dreams again.
“You’re going to make it. One day it’ll all be yours. Think big in this world. Stick to your goal, keep the goal in sight.”
Continue reading “zoomies”