joined on 08/11/06
last updated 06/01/09
|
KALI
They say you dance on the body of your dead lover. But I know better.
I’ve tasted nectar beyond the gates of inhibition,
where all recognition is lost.
As I contort and jerk in your intoxicating flames,
before a gazing that would call me fool,
I would not trade one breath of this body
to join that crowd of seers,
but would cast away every bone
to be here inside, with you.
They say you destroy the world with blind desire.
They call you greedy, full of war–a whore for disaster.
What else can be said, of this abyss in which you live?
I’ve seen our soldiers come home carrying the dead.
I hear their weeping. And I go forward into you.
It makes no sense to those not touched by music.
They have not danced their truth in your chaos.
All they can do is scorn, and warn, and look with dread.
Let us not blame them.
They see the broken bodies, screaming without eyes, overdoses, death, looming threats
of world destruction–a psychosis and ash left in your tracks.
They do not know your innocence,
or that here, in what they call your agony,
they will find perfection,
or that tasting this, is the love,
that brings us home.
Juju
April 1, 2008
I’M ATTRACTED TO BODIES THAT HAVE BEEN AROUND
I’m attracted to bodies that have been around–
bodies that have stretch marks, scars, cracking joints, parts missing, and pain.
I’m attracted to bodies that have knowledge,
bodies that can relate to my own abundance of experience.
Young, symmetrical bodies are beautiful in their innocence.
And I’m attracted to fearless bodies–
bodies that have been through battles,
bodies that have gone into the darker side of human existence–
that have faced addictions and afflictions of all kinds,
bodies that have been abandoned and returned to–
that have been reorganized in the underworld
to retain their wisdom.
I’m attracted to bodies that have lost the war and show their surrender,
bodies that have been broken and still fill with breath–saying to humanity,
“Yes. We were meant to embrace Everything!”
I’m attracted to bodies that have gone the distance–
that have faced their own extinction,
that have carried the weight of every emotion,
and the suffering of every thought.
I’m attracted to old, wise bodies,
scarred and wounded bodies,
bodies that show me the strength of spirit,
the sexy wisdom of flesh,
and the depth of my heart.
Juju
July 6, 2007
Androgynous Liberation
Ignorance
is the stance
time
tick-tock-takes.
Between male
and female,
blindness breaks
all
to few,
like Arabs
to Jews,
war torn
and screwed;
did it do you–2?
Androgynous one,
united in sum,
the world cums
and cums
in he/r grooves
and thumbs,
as s/he dances
the wild
song
within.
Not time,
nor space,
nor any dual face
can change
he/r race less,
brace less
grace,
or divide he/r.
But for us
without trust,
sex sick,
grasping
from pits
of passion,
it’s in fashion
to forget,
get sticky,
stay in the grit
of sexual division,
confession
and contraction.
This isn’t liberation,
this fornication
or starvation.
It’s a fraction
of time,
space,
empty of embrace.
It’s got a bad,
sad taste.
Feel it on your tongue,
how the morning
rung
your conquest out.
You shout,
your drought,
hunger out
loud and stormy.
We’ve got to change
the way
we relate
to horny.
Let it rise.
Rise it up;
pull your thorny dreams
from the divining cup.
Rise up inside,
not outside;
don’t push the rise
into anyone else.
Save yourself!
Androgynous liberation
is freedom inside.
Look in;
don’t hide,
or steal for that ride.
It’s already yours,
inside galore.
Come glide, slide, rise
through every inner door.
Unite your streaming;
wake up dreaming;
birth yourself
into being
You’re not man, woman,
Arab, Jew,
Black, Yellow,
Red, White or Blue.
You’re wholeness within,
full of grin,
lips
that can’t be
stolen.
Divide yourself no longer,
and the tick-tock-taking,
conflict making,
population popping
explosion,
giving the notion
of separation,
has no clock to begin,
has no cuckoo in the house.
You cum where sanity lives!
So bring it in.
Rise it up.
Open your head.
Begin
to love.
Juju
July 7, 2006
MY HEART AWAKENS
For the dancers of my tribe
Succulent, sweaty bodies of you,
tickling, teasing, tonguing the muse,
fingering waves lip to flute,
unfastening song from flesh,
we tumble to rest.
Feel me longing
for your deepest measure.
I’m falling in music,
swirling in polymorphous breath,
rising to the symphony of your face,
reaching beyond frequency
to the chaotic gallop
of bursting!
Oh, magnificent dance!
Chorus of eyes and touch.
Torch our stories to bliss.
Burn our names like scented sticks.
Lick shadows of soul
till there is no place left unlit.
In this rapture of fire
my heart awakens,
cradled in the gentle
rhythm of ribs
riding free.
Juju
May 9, 2006
THE DANCE IS SEXUAL
After the spine awakens, and the yawn stretches to cat,
feet and hands come alive. The crown of thorns, that is your life glued into your skull,
that has been playing you like a computer game your flesh has been tired of for years–
that game called eating your life, called brain, called the sacrifice of the heart–
that game which nailed you to the cross, gave you a living, taught you how to survive in a dying world–
that game comes apart in the dance. Beliefs fall from your head. Blood rushes like hungry children
from solar plexus and limbs, to claim the drum in the center of your chest.
The dance is sexual and rises up, through your fear, your disgust and lust, your need to dominate--into a landfill
of tenderness and tears, where you have buried lovers, and everything that has ever gone wrong in your life,
and everything you have no control over, and everything you witness with the softest touch of eyes and hands,
because you care about it so much, and can’t stop it from dying.
Yes, and the dance keeps rising. It rises into your throat–where it cries out songs of relief, groans of madness,
calls to love–where it keeps crying out, because that is all it can do, and must do.
And then into your eyes and beyond, the dance moves–opening and closing visions faster than they can be recognized. And here you begin new dreams of desire, with generous eyes, bounteous blood, and flying lungs.
All thorns have fallen from your skull. There are no nails in your hands, no holes in your feet.
The rhythm has liberated and completes you. The melody moves through you like a snake, free to go wherever it wants. Sensations of ecstacy roll on and off you like raindrops. Does it matter whether you are laughing, crying, fucking,
or just standing silent? All of it you see now is the same–
this moment that has been with you your whole life, and never ends–
is happening.
You put your palms together, feeling the one who made you.
And the freedom of her dance, fills your bones, saturates your heart.
And all of you comes to drink, at the cunt of her music,
this cuming of love.
Juju
November 5, 2005
ECSTATIC DANCE
I fall sensuously through the sweat of bodies and movement. My head spins and thoughts come loose. They sprawl beside me on the floor. I step on them, pick them up, put them on, take them off–like a wardrobe of old worn out identities. And then I go looking in the closets of others.
You with your arms around your head, peering and peeping, what are you hiding? A tragedy in the forehead? A humor in the ribs?
And you with the purple hat and robe, royal and fantastic–is it true? Do you really have the world beneath you?
The buzzing youth, belly dancing, nipple ringed, tattoo flashing power, power pressing glows.
While a wrinkled face turns down the intensity, caressing a sexiness only experience knows.
Old, young, man, woman dancing, holding leaping standing, in our blue moon theater I find gestures, music, masks, creating galaxies of trance.
And then it stops, something shifts. I lose myself. I lose the “I” I came in with. The rhythm takes off. Feet wander and stomp. Someone’s hips move revealingly slow. Others take to a shaking that unearths all that can be harbored. And the boats undock. We are headed for open ocean, a raw eternal wave of motion, a galaxy of unidentifiable rotation.
Colors swirl. A fierce growling calls to the dancing that has gone on forever, and like a primal beast it mounts the skull, floods forth through the dams of all dreaming, inhabits every particle of being, and dances, dances us slow, fast, full, wild, till our minds crack, and our souls fly, and the whole universe rises. . .
And then the “I” wanders back, desperate to reclaim control. Someone is talking. Slippery places must be cleaned up, insects escorted out. Exhaustion sets in. Thirst takes over. Clothes complain about lost buttons.
But the music has not stopped!
Our jockey of the dance rides a furious track. He pulls on insanity, plugs in communion, and packs the space with sound. The “I” loses ground, loses body, loses beat. It’s grasping for faces, a movement, a blink. There’s nowhere to hold on. All people of have turned into one. And again, even the glimmer of identity is lost.
The spinning comes on relentlessly, the kicking of legs and waving of arms. Rivers of sweat rage toward the floor. Sound bounces off of bodies and pillars, catching in rafters and raining in cosmic bubbles that break over the ecstatic crowd in screams and laughter and serious gyrating banter.
And again it comes–the dancing, the dancing that growls and aches, and carries us beyond recognition, to the place of shamans and angels and ghosts–the dancing that crashes us on the shores of flesh, drenched, open, and ready to sing–this animal that is our dancing, that turns us out of ourselves in harmony and rises us like suns, moving us higher, into the hum, of celestial ringing, of singing desire. . . on this glorious whirling rock of fire.
* * *
Ecstatic dance on Sundays is the place I come to lose myself, to enjoy myself, to remember that I’m not who I think I am. It is the place I come to awaken from the dreaming, the tireless river of me to which I so often belong. It is the place I come to gather my streaming in the ocean, of the One, I love.
Juju
September 3, 2005
|
