Sink into
your lowest
carnal chakra.
Your hips
are the points
of a great anchor.
Affixed is your chain-link spine
and your mind, a buoy
ever-rising.
Pull yourself up
onto a boat.
You are barefoot, leaning
into the wind.
As you breath in,
the lake
rises.
As you breath out,
the lake
drains.
Now let your breath go.
French kiss
the salt water air.
Wave goodbye
to yourself.
Let the waves
take that boat
(with you on it)
away.
The water
is your past,
the sky is your future,
and you
exist only
where they meet
on the present
line of the horizon.
But a storm
blows, blurs
the spectrum
of blues
into indistinguishable grays.
Time is gone: infinity
is no longer
a concept
that you play with
but the place
where you play.
Out of the bliss
of nothingness,
gluttony and greed
desire and ego
your sence of seperate self beams
(a spotlight of heat)
evaporates the lake
and banishes the water-laden clouds. You age,
become an ancient,
dried-up
lake bed,
an alkaline desert circled
by a perimeter
of mountains,
and you become presently
aware here and now
again that you are connected
that the mountains
are watching you.
I scream at them,
ask them: Why?
Why are you staring at us?
I hear
a reply, but not
with my ears.
In the silence of my mind
the peaks speak:
“We are a wheel and you
are the fulcrum-strength
of our empty center;
we cannot move
unless you do. Listen
to the color of your voice.
"GREEN - I have been so green".
My voice—like a child
neglected, hand raised—
has been
waiting.
I finally call
on my green,
growing voice and it says:
“Rest, you are too
conscious of your death,
trying to spend everything before
you pass, use everything before
it’s over.
Slow down.
You are exhausted, useless.
Use less. Rest.”
So I lie down on the earth
as though I am lying
on my mother’s lap
and then I realize I am
lying on my mother’s lap
and I can feel
the mountains
start to move.
Photos by Lina Nunez & Marc Evan binarystarsystem.com
Copy Editor Kate Fallon
Thanks To NYC Container Camp for Shipping the Installation
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