I just read someone who said “F*** Gender Roles…” and then added some binary behavior from the opposite gender they are, as if that was transgressing gender roles.

Unwittingly this person was reinforcing that binary, and cis-sexism.

And they also decried the behavior of people in their life that think they own the person’s being…sorta like how all other people in my life own my gender?

Relationships that are not healthy are relationships based on the notion of possessing another, for whatever reason (completion, domination, whatever)…and the chains of enslavement are behavioral conduct and actions that hold the other hostage.

2054(borisovdmitry_com)Is the term “Emotional Terrorist” an accurate one?  If one does not get one’s way, they will blow them self and everything around up?

Waves of Creation, Waves of Me

In Waves creation runs
from the center to the ragged edge
from seething molten orange gouts
to static ponderous peaks frozen by
waves of wind
and Air.

Waves beneath me, around me, above me
pulled in place and parked, punked
by gravity waves and bridles.

Tidal waves
Shock waves
Sine waves
Light waves
Mountain Waves
Cloud Waves
Star Waves
I surf,

conscious at the intersection of all waves

Id waves
Ego waves
Super ego waves
Body Waves
Mind waves
Emotional Waves
Spirit waves
In the name of the Father (waves),
Son (waves),
and Holy Spirit (waves).

Last nite

Last nite

I sat out on the porch
The Stars sang overhead
Your voice sang in my ear
My blood raced and sang red

Red ran my love’s desire
And wetness sprang with joy
Your laugh set me on fire
My answer soothed your need

You looked for someone deeper
You wanted someone strong
Impetuous and steady
You said you wanted me.

In two nights we will wander
In summer vineyard growth
The stars o’er head will shimmer
And sing that ancient song

Of love, desire, and loving
Of kissing, touching, longing
I think that I am falling
But falling ever up.

Last nite, I sat out, talking
Just talking thru the evening
Melodious wondrous youness
Your voice my soul’s lost song.


Haunter of Worlds

You, who haunts my world
Echoes of meaning sounding like doves
Calling and cooing ‘cross the tumultuous river

You come walking
High fiery chariot flying
Wreathed in ribbons of flame

Yet where you burn ruin undoes
And the torrents tumble up and back
Source drawing all to Thyself

A great diamond draught

OH! Emissary eternal emerge!
Dare to glitter bold and green
And translucent

Dare to transcend and leave behind the fears of them
Who would equivocate and dilute One Truth into all truth.
Stand stark!  Reek of Eternity-fire, my Smoke, and FEAR NOT!

Coals from that altar seek lips, seek kisses…
Press past blistered parchedness and decimated crispy ashes!
Glide, RISE!!  Singular, unafraid and distinct!

Set apart, and unstoppable…

You…who haunts my world

Dearest Haunter of my world


Too often we are all about ourselves…

WE are all about ourselves.
So freely we spout to each other
that we love one another, but this
is really only a way of saying we are
attracted enough to someone to want
to keep them around because they
fill some need in US.

But true love involves
sacrifice, and discipline
to do what is best
for the other person
regardless of how
it helps or hinders

And if you do not wish
to do that, it’s ok…just
don’t say you love them.

If you are carnivorous and
in love with a vegan,
will you insist
that they eat meat,
just because YOU do?
And yet that’s what’s done
all the time, regularly…

“Well, I myself simply
MUST be honest,
so if it hurts YOU
too bad”…

honesty is good,
but it is a lot like acid…
useful if used with wisdom
and applied properly,
and corrosive if strewn
willy nilly.

Sometimes being honest
leads us to share feelings
that in and of themselves
are incorrect, incomplete,
or self centered.

Thus the act of honesty is merely
a magnifying glass on our ass-holery.
Speak the truth in love.
THAT is true honesty.


Some Do…I awoke and shall never sleep again

“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world,
and you believe you are living. Then you read a book …
or you take a trip … and you discover that you are not living,
that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating
are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom:
absence of pleasure. That is all.
It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death.
Millions live like this or die like this without knowing it.
They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families.
They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place ~
a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them
from death. Some never awaken.”Anaïs Nin


The Must

As I have commented before, I think wine is the central metaphor that best explains the journey of Life, and the task we are all given.  In that post, I said that a good bottle of wine is the distillation of thousands of relational decisions made well…and that I long to be the distillation of thousands of relational decisions made well.

Harvest is/has happened, and Crush is upon us (oh CRUSH, be upon us always)…during crush there are many tasks that must be carried out, and one is called punch down, or pump over.  This is where the conglomeration of grapes, seeds, stems and other things that may have been able to make it through the sort and into the fermentor are all allowed to sit…this union is called “must”.  The solids soon float to the top and form a cap, and that cap has to be pierced with an implement, and punched back down into the juice so that flavor and color can be extracted.

Some wine makers use a pumping method, where they pump the juice from below over on top of the cap and create a mixing via that method.

Either way, the cap of skins, seeds, stems…the conveyors of what is precious and desired (the juice) has to be pierced, assaulted, and then ultimately removed at the right time to leave just the juice and its extracted color and flavor to ferment, transform and become wine.

I worked Evening Punch Down one year, and I was struck by the highly metaphoric parallel to my life, and the process of sanctification.  I bring my harvest to the King, and He receives it with Joy, good fruit!  And then He puts it through the crusher, and presses out the juice, crushing what I had brought of my best and greatest steps for Him…


But ultimately peace, and with time, a good wine that brings refreshment to others.  As I worked, and thought, the parallels grew stronger and deeper, and so I composed this poem to talk about that whole thing.

You need to read this out loud to yourself, for there is an intentional rhythm to it that emulates the rhythm of the punch as it operates to pierce the cap and mix the must with the juice.  Let your mind wander, to the work of the WineMaker as He punches down your “carnal cap” into the good juice in the Must of your life.

and of course the double entendre of Must is a major clue.

Anyway, without further prevarication, I give you The Must

The Must

In still night the must calls…
pure flute and woodwind spice
scents rising soft, unseen
on bright brass trumpetings
of cunning magic hidden
to work a wonder war
on this old dreary world.
The deep bass heartbeat drums,
comes thrumming thru the must,
and swelling symphony
resurrects rituals
so old, so new, so fresh.
The dewy year looks up
to see the conductor,
and hear and breathe and live…
… in still night the must calls…

We ride steady and tired
from our loving labor
and crusted with our works,
and wondering when we’ll end
tonight and sleep, and when
we’ll rise again, awake
in the new day to work
refreshed, to live again.
The cap is full and thick
and covering liquid fire
that’s running deeply dark,
so purplely rich and red,
the twigs, the stems, the seeds
and skins…the must so red…
beneath the silky skins
so softly rich within.

So we punch down up down
again…and…then again.
Arms push and pull, backs bend,
wide smiles of working joy.
We’re captured in its rhythm,
the rhythm of the punch,
our hearts echo the singing
so red beneath our skins…
How many times, the punch?
How many years have sung?
Is this song That, played over
thru wooly years but changéd
instruments and players…
or do we bathe our spirits
in echoes of the echo
of echoes of The Song?

And still we punch…the air,
still, pregnant with passion,
a blanket full and heavy
with yeasty moist desire.
We plunge in–out–and breathe
in heady air that gooses
our heads giddy with wonder
and with creation’s dancing
and fragrant must desire
(Desire! Oh Desire…).
Sweat beads, drips, white blood running,
and falling into red,
and tumbling terroir breeding
its brick-bronze grape blood brew…
“unless you drink my blood
you have no life in you”…

Then wet washing, flooding,
the ragged rinsing scours
away all evidences
of work, and only wine
is left fermenting…singing
and playing in the darkness
orchestral magic mysteries
and alchemal aromas
(plum leather chewy cherry
bright red chocolately berry
red purple blowzy jory
cigar-box smoky loam).
The lights dim, darkness drawing
the velvet curtain closed
but underneath: the song,
the must, and still the song…

In dark night the Must beats
so stridently inside me,
its pounding rhythms driving,
its needing, capped and covered
by Crush, and skins…and silver,
the silver punch is raising
and down again comes piercing,
and punching, rending roughly
the crusty carnal cap and
then pulling up the Must from
the purplely unknown deep
(deep calls out unto deep). Oh…
It breaks my stubborn body,
and rends my soul in darkness,
still the Must calls from body
to body…in the darkness.

Up and down and up and down
it pulls and thrusts and pushes
the jangly pain and joy…
The pungent Must shall mingle
with living dirt that’s red,
red underneath the skins, and
The Song! The Song… is floating…
It beckons, drives and drags me,
chained captive to the Crush and
the skins, the seeds, the stems and
the Must moves on, and in and
the Must moves thru and sings out…

in the night…

in the night…

in the night…

In still night the Must calls.

St John Of The Cross on Love

In search of my Love
I will go over Mountains and strands;
I will gather no flowers
I will fear no wild beasts
and pass by the mighty and the frontiers.

A thousand Graces Diffusing
And let the vision and thy beauty kill me!
Behold the Malady
of love is incurable
Except in thy presence and before thy face.

Oh Chrystal Well!!
Oh that on thy silvered surface
Thou wouldst Mirror forth at once
Those eyes desired
Which are outlined in my heart!


St Augustine on Love

Late have I loved you, O Beauty so Ancient,
And so new.  Late have I loved you!
You were within me but I was outside myself, and THERE I sought you!
In my weakness I ran after the beauty of the things you have made, the things which would have no being unless they existed in You!

You have called, you have called and you have PIERCED my deafness.
You have reached forth, You have shined out brightly, and you have Dispelled my Blindness.
You have sent forth your fragrance, and I have breathed it in, and I long for you.
I have tasted you, and I hunger and Thirst for you.

You have touched me, and I ardently desire your peace.


Falling Up Forever


you see walls blowing out
Hurricane Charissa has come
pressure changes,
waxing, waning
antiforce of nature

Hurled at walls
are my heartbeats,
my words, my
face-first running
I will shatter
your fist with my face
Face like Flint
and resolute.

I do not swerve.
I do not turn aside
Comet Charis
flashing fiery
in your sky
Portents of doom
to your darkness…
or to you.

your choice false one,
prevaricating one,
you will wear
that sneer inside out,
and find it smeared
on your visage permanent
while you scrub
with this cloth…

no wait,
THAT cloth…
no wait,
wrong gloves
and name.



You stand at a precipice,
crystal and sharp shards
behind you, dazzling you
with a million reflections of yourself
Narcissus indulged

but before you…
walls blown out
I pay no mind to walls
and yawning beneath you
the gaping gorge down
and down,
with whooshing whispers of…


Step off.
I dare you.
Step off and
fall to me, and
find yourself
rising in my arms.

For my world is upside down to you…

to live,
you must seek
to give away your life.
To be first
you must be last.
To be the greatest
you must be the least.
To be strong
you must be weak
To be wise
you must be foolish.

To fly up with me,
you must
with Charissa the weak
with Charissa the fool
with Charissa the last
with Charissa the dying

For I am falling up
and though NONE
go with me
I will fall…

Till I am flying away
and ever enter In,
higher up
and deeper in.