A Land Where All of Life is Welcome!

Let me say something strange to you: you are hidden to me just as we are hidden to ourselves, our breasts all bound up, offering no soft place for a ferret to nuzzle up to you, for a beaver to munch on willow branches,

Do you smell? 

Do you have a smell?  Do you have a sense of smell?  CAN you smell?  Still?

And what's with that smell, of chemically-burnt skin reeking of caustic soap covered over with industrial perfumes?  and no smell to the groins!  two or three showers a day!   Beautiful luscious, succulent women, and one unwraps them in the Feast of male and female only to discover someone who, like a ghost, has no smell! Crotches, armpits and asses that smell, as close as human flesh can get, like linoleum gone over with “Spring Fresh” bleach, or something.   Is this why some of you call yourselves "goddesses:"  free of smells, floating above earth, reading books to discover femininity, disembodied somehow - no smell, no taste, no sex, only gestures from aloft, no raucous forests pungent and thick with life, all theory, no praxis?   Is this what sends American men (and women) off to murder and to fund murder?  What happened?  I don't understand it!

And I moved from Boulder back to the barrio  where I can go out my door and have a taco and be in the presence of women:  skinny ones, fat ones, old ones, young ones, cunning and knowing middle-aged ones still riding their charms before the wrinkles engulf them into wizened and irrefutable knowingness.  ¡Mamasitas!  

And the Boulderites in their 4000 square foot multi-million zero-carbon-charade solar mega-palaces for two people reeking of Buddhism and Wilber, loving shit-hook socialist thug dictators like Chávez and Castro and such from afar, living their f*cking "revolution" in profligate imperial splendor while munching on cellophane organics, ask me why it is that I always go back to the hood.  but it ain't the hood for me:  it's the feminine!  In Boulder the women walk around like football players and tell guys how they're into "goddess" energy.  In the barrio the women walk and everybody knows who they are from 50 yards away!  And we keep our mouths shut until the tension of that inspiration births offerings of praise and wonder that our thoughts could never hatch.  Women who make every man a poet, or wish he were.  Women who birth art in our hearts, and song, and extravagant heroics, joy, laughter and tears.

Succubopalishnabukushukutonifying full-on femininity whose brows alert the sideways sashay of the subtle micro-BOOM! of hips to life in that Grand Curve that invites us all to lean and careen at full throttle and REJOICE in the FEMALE!  I simply love the grandeur and grace of a femininity that never has to tell anybody that she's a goddess because she's so much better!: 

She's FULL-ON FINE in a million shapes and sizes!

What about the SEX of you? of us?  of I?

That place between our legs that lets birds and wolves and each other know how vital we are, how akin, how free, how hungry or how ready for deliverance back to the Feast?

You know: Vaginas!  Penises!  Testicles!:  they're made to BREATHE!  These are our BODIES, for Christ's sake, and just like armpits and every other part of our anatomy, open, close, in, out, give, receive...

No breasts, no sex, no smell, all bound up, following rules, trying to be good girls and boys, thinking nice thoughts,  eager to save a world we have little real contact with, moving like antispeptic mummies.

Who are we to each other?  What is the smallness we would have each other squeeze into for that slight recompense of being called "lover, friend, brother, sister, father, mother, son, daughter, teacher, savior"?   Kind of like pushing Jesus through the bloody nail holes in his hands.  Did they ever just have him over for lunch, or soccer, or passionate love-making, a good ole horse-fucking while hubby was out in the bushes chasing sheep, or getting drunk on a riverside and talking about the girls, and God, and our favorite tools for carpentry?  Did they ever?  Will we ever.  And, hey, if you can't find Jesus, invite Jesús over from the barrio and you'll find him, and love, and friendship, and that even scrawny trees suffice to spend an afternoon together in the shade...  Summer's near.  Say "hi"  to someone who looks like he belongs on this continent.  Have Jesús over for a beer.

How can I invite all of you over, ALL of you, you know, the earthling, the one a Lion could know as friend, naturally, silently, intimately, knowing the smell of you, the vibration of you, the heart beat of you, the softnesses of you?


Nature moves....
                                I watch it....
                                                             so that I can recognize THIS self

She has a smell just like I do:

                    It is the smell of life...
                                           I smell it....
                                                             and I smell This self that nature knows and moves with...
                                          
                                                   without remedies....

                                                                                         without theories....

                                                                                                                         without postures....

Tasting life....

                                            taste....
                                                            taste....

                                                                          Life is for the Tasting...

Life is for the Feast!

And then I relax with all my frickin' salvation theories, daring to laugh, daring to see how as long as we continue in these cultures that prohibit the generative parts of our anatomy to have contact with the generative nourishment of the Sun, our bold theories, plans and programs are horseshit anyways.

It's time to Taste.  It's time to Smell.  It's time to Feast upon the invitation that we are, and learn to do less, to take multi-day naps in strange places, walk without clothes until we truly relish those clothes as well, sleep upon each other's bellies...

wake with the wind...

it's that time for me...

what time is it for you?

© Little Big O 2008