Poetry in the pain

The tide is rising, taunting me. And here I sit,

wide-legged, a butterfly with wings outstretched for

the first time in a long time. Even a breath

without wings outstretched is a

breath too long away

from freedom.

The grounding of

multicolored rocks at the foot

of the shore, licked by the wicked winds

and even wickeder waves. These waves always give

me something to write about. Always something to look at.

To feel. These waves remind me what it means to feel.

To allow the coming and coming and coming

of emotional release. To be unafraid

of the soft power.

The ease

with which orgasm

flows. This life, a multiorgasmic

experience, devoid of trying.

Where does poetry flow into this?

It doesn’t.

Because poetry is it.

Poetry is the multiorgasmic

experience of life, devoid of trying.

It is to sense the rising tide, heart full

with anticipation and mirth and abandonment.

And wild abandon. For nothing can stop the flow. Just as

nothing can tame the fire of the heart. Who would we be without

our pain? Sometimes, the only thing keeping us alive.

It’s the moment before the wave crashes,

the pain. Builds up to a height of feeling then tumbles and pours out into the wide expanse of life, dissolving

into nothing.

Into everything.

Into the pain

we

all

carry.

The joy

of the journey

is to breathe freshly

and deeply where the pain exists.

Where the pain persists. Let the pain carry us

under the surface and into new life, where it is still and silent

and we cannot move without the grace of pain such that it becomes pleasure.

Thoughtless, formless wonder of ceaseless play. What if we played in the pain? Would that make us insane?

Might that move us from the brain… to the heart? Where it all began and where it will all end.

Poetry in the pain.

Forsake fuck the raindrops and welcome the deep and enthusiastic swell.

Let

it

flow.

Let it be well.