This rain is real,
it soaks all that we try to keep dry,
made of atoms and energy and illusion
and wetness.
This fear is real,
it soaks all that we try to keep dry,
but we build structures that barely breathe
to keep out the flood.
Consciousness breeds alert fear.
Light calls us into dark,
into deep surrender to real loves,
the kind that need us and fart in the night.
It calls us into deep surrender
to real beloveds,
the ones who walk our path for a while
and trample our gardens
and crayon on the walls
and use grafitti to speak their despair
and play soccer with a tin can because there is no ball
and present us with their muck to kiss better.
The light calls us into dark.
It will not push us over the abyss,
but lays out the vista of pain and sorrow,
the place where love is ripped away,
where the idea of loss
is ripped from the ecstatic crucible
and offered as a real cup of poison.
Love so deeply that it hurts,
love these freckled real beloveds
with abandon,
love this container of pleasure and disease
the Mother has birthed.
Love with the full view that all is lost,
in the full knowledge of black pain,
at the edge of a real cliff where the rocks
will not fly away as you fall.
Love into the smashing,
the place where you lie naked in a circle of men with stones,
or one man burning with the eyes of love,
and do not falter even though you shake.
Even though you melt and tremble
with the deep humiliation of festering wounds
or fresh ones
or the snot on your face that mingles with your tears,
do not falter.
Drag yourself to the edge,
without your dignity intact,
roll off.