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

Dent, a poem by Gaia Rajan

please help to support this blog the small donation of a cup of coffee, below.

thanks, james