whoever saw You died...
who so ever, sheds this uniform, the chrysalis sheds, wings spread, seven heavens...
...bismillah...
full moon in queens, ny,
returned to a childhood and smoke...
...the songs of mary poppins and dick van dyke in the outdoor screening of summertime in the park...i tell my mom...she's excited for a moment, recalling us, recollecting the gold she stuffed under antennas on the roof, in proximity to the smog of heaven, to buy a stairway to suburbia, 30, 40 years ago...
...i played the lotto then...vicariously, watching the line of dreamers outside the optimo, the same one i'd get optimos in later, discarding tobacco, and rolling the overgrown weed of familial dreams, lit it in the car with ed and hap, and crept the city, laughing like exorcism, up in smoke, homeless in our tribe...
...youngblood, that's what my brother calls me, the One who Knows...that's his name, given before birth, upon the siting of the moon by my grandfather, his brother, and our chacha, men with humility longer than their beards and garments, as quiet as the beads they held behind their back like secrets as they counted the geometry of crescents and stars...
...this full moon perched in the sky like an owl, wise and elder, shining through the glitter of the ave i walked up and down for years calculating race, gender, ethnicity, brown face white mask, black mask, latin mask, until i was old enough to leave the mask with you, and become invisible, bullet-through...they shoot...
...i walked her home in silence...me lost in the moon and conundrum, the equations of pi, in the space of bullseye, continuing the paternal legacy of job-less-ness...but i'm working, i tell myself...and she is quiet, perhaps in felicity...peace...
stop running, rumi recommends, and lose your self...what is your old life anyway, nothing but a struggle to be someone, nothing but a running from your own silence...
july, mid-summer dreams flirt with possibility and fantasy, and have been overcrowded by doubt and second tenth 47 guesses...as i sit in coffee and screens...comfort...
...what would it mean to try, to really try - fall, used to fall, that's how i learned to walk, to run, jump, leap, steal bases...the longer road has been avoiding the fall, staying in the safety of illusion, of dishonesty, of avoiding truth by pretending, by being less than forthcoming...
...gurrukul tells me that to practice ayurveda, to truly practice, means to be honest, completely honest, with yourself, with yourself because if you can't be honest with yourself, you can't with anyone else, amd of course with everyone else as well...
...fall, this is who i am, this is who i am without these shirts and shorts and kicks i think are cool cause you may...this is who i am in this path in yogum and ayurveda and this is what i have to offer and this is what my lines are and this is why....
...to fall is sermon on the mount...is the ring...muhammad ali...is to swing...is to play...is to play beyond the game...is to split legs and stay in fold...iyengar...is to talk to you...little-danny... is to let go of the false idols...rumi...which holds me up, which i've come to hide behind...is to be so Real, is to skat, flirt, try, get rejected, laughed at, try again, go deeper...
...what are you missing in your practice? i'm still sliding off eagle and trepid in scorpion, and without a handstand...
...what would it mean to go deeper? to hurt, to fall, to let go of the destination and instead breathe the experience, appreciate the journey, like knowing that i will never be in this moment again, like making love for the first time, and the last...
this full moon i let go of destination by being destination in every step, in the moment, as it is happening, in this writing, in this skat, in the letting go of that which keeps me from falling - the fear of rejection - by going through the wall - the looking glass - and moving from compassion - as i let go and reach past the mirror to greet you, to try, and fall and try again, and laugh, and play...
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