This is the year I turn 27.
Young enough to be dead,
and inducted into rock & roll heaven.
Much like the biggest few idols
from before, 60s and beyond era lore.
We’ve all sought their infamy,
but some just can’t try anymore.
Some of us have shaken off
the last shimmers of drug dust,
and feeling a little less blinded by the glamour
of bass-lined club lights, or heavy-metalled mosh fights,
wonder now: what was all the fuss?
Each year grows us a little bit, older
as we yearn still for youthful dreams that still smolder—
though we may snuff them again and again.
We want so badly to be like someone else,
like someone we used to know, who knew
we’d be different—though we were indifferent then.
Yet, in order to see some difference,
we must be different. Always becoming, as and when.
Here’s to breaking the habit cycle.
In this year, I thought for certain that my curtain call would come,
and from deep resounding melancholy soundings would unearth a treasured ‘stardom.’
Since all the paths I’ve trod in days,
and lives before,
have lead me to this very moment;
I’ll strike an opportune door.
I say again to my mystified childhood,
that symbolism is now and evermore.
It speaks to us, and keeps us close
to the essence we’ve been, and’ve known deeply before.
Therefore, keep the keen mind’s eye,
and recall numerical significance:
At 10 years old, I lost my mother, lost my mind,
and left the sights of a child’s eyes behind.
Sinking inside soothed the depths of my soul;
I was comforted there by the voice of a dead 27 year old.
Time and influence moved on, always
striking the chord of resounding hunger; curiously, urgent.
Learning with practice (and patience)
through an age of experience,
I draw upon now (and away from) the past,
and timeless haters of innocence
purity being a sight almost un-beheld!
(How we love to loathe those soiled by marks of corruption,
and pity those with no heeded seductions.)
With true emphasis, and deepest reverence,
I offer myself, my life, all that I am (and will be)
to the Spirit that shapes all winds,
moving sight shifting forms, and holds fast continuity;
so that we may behold magnificence.
To be open to receive the breath of the greatest wisdom
is choosing to live.
(Accept this breath. Take hold, for this moment won’t last.)
To turn this away now would surely be a death wish.
Sometimes appealing but,
“If you got the answer, if you know the truth,
if you have the power, and let it flow through—would you let it go?”
That really is How the Gods Kill.
Humans fleeing from free choice.
Take it anyway, and all the way home.
Here, I choose to be like an anti-superstar, (in a new kind of way).
Though I loved them madly,
and danced along with wild child joviality
under the alters of their stages
my brain ran aside my steps chasing and spinning mazes.
I’m no teenage dead girl, not eyeless, nor still picking at the scars;
no longer collapsed in a dying shell of dis-eased drug use.
And alcohol—it will not preserve this body;
it shutters the link that leads you through this life freely;
and likely hammers down the one that keeps you here infernally.
Here, I write my aim to release, renounce,
and rest my urge to make merry like a mad monk.
Though no longer a full-fledged habit, the yogic condemnation causes an oscillation.
Tugging at puppet strings of guilty disappointed consciousness
searching for reconciliation.
Opened eyed, let me drink down the pains and pleasures
of sobriety—letting only nature’s plants be my guides in times of need.
Can I do it? Are there ‘exceptions’? Is this a transition in me?
If only temporarily—maybe permanently.
We shall see…
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Assistant Ed: Judith Andersson / Ed: Sara Crolick