a Sunflower
never bows
nor concedes to
night’s oppressive

but with

all of her

her seeds
and petals
blinding yellow

she will revere
and drink
the bright
wisdom of

Closeup Photo of Sunflowers

Photo by Peter Fazekas from Pexels


the warm wings that once
offered protection exposed
familiar abuse


image of Fallen Angel Fantasy from Pinterest


To my Dharma and spiritual seeker family who are now questioning Gurus, what is real and how to move forward.

I love you all still
some teachers and their
minions hurt many,
if not all of us
men women and children
in very deep ways.
Spiritual criminality
is the gravest of crimes.

Our vows to our
unconditioned hearts
are not a curse.

Absolute power corrupts
they never really truly
cared about us,
never wanted or could hold
the burden
I’m sorry to say
it was a one way take.

We now have degraded
into battle
where does the Kingdom lie,
in a deified man or woman?

I say it’s within us.
Spiritual codependency
keeps us unwell.
Salvage what we can
evolve like a phoenix
into a better day forward.

We must look within
to the voice
of our ethical hearts
and trust ourselves.

That’s what the Buddha wanted
there we will,
for the first time see


the real hidden
magical kingdom
and know what to do.

All of these many words now
range from blistering rage to
longing and
waning devotion
all suggest the powerful
voice of an
overdue revolution,
an inner sun
where we all
are growing up

A life not owned by
any one or any culture,
it hurts I know
growing pains always do.

Sloughing off old
comfortable skins,
and I have still so
very much faith in us.

Photo by Thierry Ollivier/RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY
Kingdom of Shambhala and the Final Battle, Mongolia, nineteenth century

Her eyes lift to the still sky
blurred through vitreous fluid tears
eye floaters she was told once to revere
clear and refracted rainbow seeds

wondering if there was any
divinity left to hear her prayer
beckoning only
unresponsive silence

searing steam of words leak
through these electronic cracks
great passion suggesting
molten volcano eruption
creation and destruction
rumbles alive underneath

she could taste
with the tip of her heart tongue
as a fur mother washes her child behind it’s ear
a bearing of a forgiveness
par with no less than the deep
cavern womb of
matron earth itself

will she die with a censored love
more vast
than she
had ever-before known?

Could it really be that
life broke him
so far beyond love
that the callouses
have armored the self made
prison walls of his exiled


Living beings are seen
as only fodder, prey
to be captured, devoured and discarded?

A black hole of sordid insatiability
draws only in and offers nothing back
upholding the architecture
of his damaged esteem.

It was all true.

The reflecting mirror of her heart sky
saw it all, as it was
without alteration
and she loved him
as a friend
as a sibling
as a child
as a mother
as her Self

just as He was
a deep in-breath of mourning gray mist
unmoving quiet
before all
beyond sacred and profane.

banging behind a screen
they had heard all of this before
insipid psycho-theory

but now knew
in the most quiet
reticent alone
instinct of knowing

the only real way out
was a tiny tear in the fabric
the distant light of liberation
almost perceptible

she saw it all
and knew the path

exceedingly dangerous
tiny soft paper thin bodies
getting scraped by metal fragments
but wholly worthwhile

he could not hide from her
for she was the same breed
as him
he met his perfectly crafted
she match
correctly aged
trying to convince himself of
comfort behind the mesh

in the farthest polarity of
love and hate
desire and fear
pious and pathological
sordid and sublime

trauma and triumph
cruel, callous and yet,
sincerely kind

can deep disorientation
be wiped away
with one mere gesture?

however irrational
she loved him anyway


means just that
the type of love
only one other could ever offer
coming closer now
one chance

he could take her wing
two intermittent flames
bravely forging forward
or recede, dimming again

wait to see
they could indeed
never forget
she would find her way out
or without him

the colorful
forms of exile
the entrapment of
marriage vows
religion vows
that we used
to procure
anchored ground

the suppressive
cocoon like
elements of our
very lives
meaningless jobs
perfunctory rituals
even our children

owned by everyone
other than ourselves
felt all now
like an unwelcome dream
a prison constructed
by our consent
doing hard time
in a iron walled
vow bound trap

stagnation breeds
nothing more than death
but our love
our very life force
passion rooted firmly
in between the legs
and precious time
is short now

the hour is waning
to save our life
now we must bravely
breathe flames to
all that no longer
serves us

a public prison break
all boundaries reduced
to ashes

i look forward
to what
and radiant
blazing, melting
drips of bliss
after this
holy dated

of impenetrable dragon wings
fly and create at our will
no one else’s
and for the first time ever
real evolution and
nothing less than


liberation white hot

hermit hiding
She could feel
and knew intimately
his aloneness
a self banished hermit
seeking forest refuge and silence
from his own mind filled
with exceeding intellect,
genius even.

A virtuoso of doctrine but
his inner terrain devoid of what
his sanctified texts point to.
the cosplay of religious titled escapism
spiritual bypassing.

The hope of the promise of transcendent absolution
yet blind to the momentum of such
unresolved darkness underneath,
renders his quest impossible.
He hoped to spend this life sheltered
his rawness blanket wrapped under false colored cloth.

But she could see through it
tortured soul ever so edging
on dormant suicidalness
given up long ago.
He longed for non-existence
so clear the trauma
how many hurt him so deeply, and how
in how many ways~
what force drives men to retreat?

He dare never reveal
bitter narcissism posing
as healthy simplicity
and she knows
she could remedy it with her warmth

For she knows his pain, entrained,
a perfect synergistic resonance
a futile effort now for 10 years transferred
but she asked him,
pleading, repeatedly…

Do the electric screens of faux love
flickering light faces,
soundbites of ego’s confirmed fulfillment
and the endless concepts of tantric wordsmithing
suffice as a life partner
still never fulfilled
a joyless flat affect.

Her driven quest to love
whispers of masochism
met only with retaliatory disdain,
and with her last breath
she will still hope for his

All that she created
was a lavish
prison that

she could only
out into the
world from.

He reminded her
of the
that she once knew.


Title “No Exit” borrowed from screenplay
by Jean-Paul Sartre, retitled as “Sinners Go to Hell,” 1962

English adaptation of Jean Paul Sartre’s “Huis Clos” (No Exit / In Camera)


image of SARTRE and SIMONE DE BEAUVOIR is a painting by Fabrizio Cassetta which was uploaded on November 21st, 2014. https://fineartamerica.com/featured/sartre-and-simone-de-beauvoir-fabrizio-cassetta.html


Only seven years old
decrepit east coast schoolyard

Ebony eyed and haired girl-
A Scorpio, the most callous

Struck me with all force
against the cheek
with no provocation
other than my

I held my face
with vociferous tears sobbing,
did not speak,
did not fight back,
and kneeled
in shocked sorrow.

A crowd circled around
but none came to console.
Even the ebony eyes
with some trace
of conscience regret.

I have never understood
the breadth
of human apathy,
– cruelty –
and would rather die than become it.

May I always feel,
let all touch me
even if painful,
from there is my

She self destructed

and I can
and always will


Photo by Allan Mas from Pexels

Electric Heroin

Flickering face fixation,
our scrumptious
nouveau e-opiate.

This very act
of trying to remedy
our aloneness,
creates it.

Delirium tremor detox
shaking hand resisting
the apple’s siren call.

Unplug from the mainline,
long, deep breaths

No more.

Our etymological
forefathers were
very wise-

Settling, simple,
all is even now~