Skating in the Morning

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Love.
Integrate the research.
Dream the bright shadow man who asks a question,
gets an answer
and continues on his way
not needing to be nice
and polite
and stalled
at the intersection.

The top of my coffee is a micro-climate,
a biome of steam trails on the brown sheen.
Hot skaters cut across the dark, circled in ceramic.
I blow them into swirls and then tip them into my mouth.
I can be a morning monster, too.
I can smile and chuckle and swallow.
No one, to my knowledge, is injured.
I walk away,
the powerful mouth of destiny.
I am a humble monster and say a prayer
of thanks and request:
May there always be more skaters and coffee and heat.

This is the other side of love,
the consuming, the ingesting, digesting,
letting fall away the unnecessary,
discerning what the hell that is.
So many looking for meaning
and I say from my detached brain:
We make our own meaning.
Then I’m stung,
the dream of the Buddhist yellow jacket wasp
teaching outside the church.
My dreammaker called that in,
a balance to this meaning making:
a lover’s opening to the facts
and a happy monster’s spitting out bones of the past.
All these monsters and lovers inside the source,
the Great Mystery.

I want to feel it in my skater body
and stop grieving for the bones.

When we channel the souls of the incoming
it is a sacred thing.
We need to be clean.
We need to let them choose the best landing pad.
We need to surrender
to our own strength,
commit to serve the path of possible.
The shadow of our human world is resisting the wise
monster mouth and eating all the wrong things,
never full.
Spit out the bones and let them return
to the constellations,
or mountains,
or reefs
of possibility.

Feel this heart yearning.

Preparing,
asking directions,
walking.

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