Tapas – it doesn’t matter if you’re cold already

It doesn’t matter if you’re cold already 

What matters is that you understand the urgency of the situation.

Every day we wake up, born again but alas, still blurry…still doing what we are programmed and commanded to do- by our families, jobs, conditionings, karma…endless ways we stay in the comfortable prison box.

But I say get up. In the dark early morning – and face the shock that ultimately is inescapable anyway- face it. Die by your own hand. And do it daily.

Face the ice water bath. Get fear out of the way. Command yourself. Reprogram your nervous system.

Personally, I sit submerged under the ice water and do tummo meditation- it’s how the (real) yogis – dissolve the ice around them in the Himalayas – by becoming the flame. I do it because I’m obsessed with death and I’ve been traumatized repeatedly in my life – nothing works like the nonverbal messages we send out subconscious mind- nothing works like getting down to the bare bones of the problem.

We all face the same problem. We forget our power to burn through the lie. The truth lives within us as a flame.

This flame burns in your cauldron. You have to give it a reason to burn more brightly.

It’s you. No one else can do it.

I’ll offer you simple things. Like courage and reminders – of who you really are. 

An an inextinguishable flame in a world of (false) warm and comfortable darkness. 

But it’s going to take some (real) tapas to shine like that. Sharada Devi

Pac-Man sucks

Do you understand how important it is to learn how to die? 

After you accomplish that, you enter the in-between where everything churns and if all goes well, you’re born again. 

In the big picture that’s the birth and death of the body.

In the immediate picture you need to learn how to do it in life.

This ranges from second to second – to year to year- to chapter after chapter.

Your life should become an interesting, poetic and beautiful book that would inspire anyone who read it to also transform themselves.

Use the past to make now work. Let go of the past that drains you and keeps you entrenched in its habits.

It’s an art to die. It’s the exact same as creating – but in reverse.

So everyone must be an artist in their life, sifting through the past for valuable remnants – and burning the useless for more fuel – for the fire of life-

death must come first in all its fiery anguish. Fear is the battle. The fear has deep and deceptive roots.

This is a game, just like Pac-Man. Don’t stay at the beginning only eating the apple and getting caught.

No, get to the banana and fuck all those little wicked monster ghosts who used to catch us in corners and suffocate us – for their demon food. 

No, empty that screen of its dots, it’s demons and it’s it’s fruits. 

Win this. Because Pac-Man sucks. 

Sharada Devi 

May my love be yours ❤️

This is a video of me and Bhagavan Das talking about the twilight…it’s on YouTube also. Putting all the videos we made out to the public again. It wasn’t all for nothing. It never is. Time will tell us where we are and only in facing that reality will time set us free from this illusion. The illusion and the clinging hurt us. To lose one’s identity is a huge calling but the time will come when the final crutch must be kicked away. Nothing is in our hands but faith. Faith in yourself and the one you lost who is also yourself. Love has a way of erasing and filling all at the same time. I hope I can fill my own empty shoes one day. Until then, may my ❤️ be yours.

☀️Sharada Devi

this is real

I stay inside because I don’t like to be reminded 

that everyone but me has somewhere to go. 

I listened to this audiobook about  “running with the wolves.”

What wolves? 

In a world that feels so far away from me I’m left like a word that didn’t belong in the sentence.

Recently I was betrayed. It felt like being in the electric chair for a crime I didn’t commit.

I know many feel they have answers and guidance to give. I only see boxes with people inside. 

And so I talk around the thing. The thing itself is a dragon with too many heads to defeat. 

I know this and yet I’ve been planning my ambush for years, like an indoor cat

who only has that little window to watch through. 

This is not funny. 

So l listened to another audiobook the “tao te ching.”

Nope. That didn’t work.

Then, “the body keeps the score.”

Oh, that hit home and made me start looking for the wolves. But alas,

It’s just me. Here. So little, so flammable.

I just need a spark. 

And so that’s what I do. I rub things together in my head hoping to start the big fire. 

But in this world of fumes and tight, fire proof clothing. It doesn’t matter,

how many times I’m lied to. 

Because one day I will have to ride the beast anyway. And open the curtain in yet another empty room. Where voices, once again – are heard and not seen. Where the distant howl pulls me and yet there’s no road. Where these “feelings” are splattered everywhere like roadkill I can no longer distinguish.

I will be blamed for these deaths – and it will probably be true. 

However, imo,

I was not given a choice. 

I’m not going to panic over blood.

Please don’t new age quote at me or send me a picture of a dead guy from India right now.

This is real.

Sharada Devi 

…really in my F’ing way.

I ask myself  

Do I really want to get this ball rolling?

Then I sit and stare at the wall. 

I’ve been known to stare at the wall for days. No joke. I won’t even change my clothes. There’s no mirror to show me who I am. There is nothing. There’s just me, the ball and these walls.

It’s just so much to ask. 

Maybe I should look in the mirror.

That fucking ball. Makes me tired just knowing it’s there.

How did I become this person. I suppose there’s no self, whatever they say – why not? I’m willing to give believing it a shot. It hasn’t worked yet.  I really believe that I’m nobody, which keeps the ball asking…”move me, won’t you move me?”

God, daily, it’s all just too much. Nothing doing something – SOMEHOW. ALL THE TIME.

I have two really stupid dogs I’m supposed to love. I can take cute pictures of them – I can edit. But it’s just me showing you what I want you to see. 

The truth is, they fight over the same worn out pink bunny all day, every day. They bark like idiots. And they beg for food that they know they’re not going to get. They both have their balls that they covet but are too dumb to play a game of fetch with. It’s painful. They clutch these little rubber balls in their mouths and sit there fixated- staring at each other’s ball for hours. They won’t exercise. One time I drug them around by their leashes with my electric bike. Omg. That was bad.

Then there’s Jingle Bells who sits in the tower watching it all – It’s rare that my cat gives a fuck – but when she does, those shadows better watch out. 

And this is it for me. And I shut them out. And when I’m supposed to be meditating, I start writing with no purpose in sight.

Does God really have a “plan” for me?

It’s hard to believe, but like I said, I’m willing to give it a shot.

But my mind. And the ball. And the walls that I watch like they’ll move if I’m still – are REALLY in my F’ing way.


Sharada Devi 


I’m writing a book about my 24/7 twelve year marriage to Bhagavan Das.  

The memories are contained in me like how the icloud holds my poetry. In a huge ball in the sky I am imagining.

I need to free up some psychic space and tell a story that nobody on earth can tell but me. There is nobody who knows BD like I do. I literally hold his memories in my own mind. I know all his stories. Even now, wherever he is, he is always with me. Not the personality that pretends I no longer exist but the bigger thing I feel between us that neither of us can destroy. 

There have been a lot of movies he’s been in. There have been interviews. But he gave them BD,  not himself. He put on the show, it was an act. Nobody cared about the person, he didn’t even have one at a certain point. Deep inside he always feared everyone would find out the real truth about how insecure he really was and “not come to see him anymore.”  

All I’m saying is when I left him- I told the truth about why – and a lot of people didn’t like it and didn’t understand my behavior. It did disturb me – all the attempts to censor me, seeing the true colors of people I had known for years – and so I went away for a few years. But I have changed since then – and I just don’t care anymore about people and their opinions- like AT ALL anymore. I have nothing to lose by being myself whether others agree or not – because they obviously don’t know me – and they therefore don’t matter. I did not “destroy” his career. I stopped him from doing more harm to himself and others, especially women. Is it my job, in a way yes it was. In a way, no it isn’t. 

Nobody knows what I know. I think it’s ridiculous that people act like some sort of connection to him immediately bestows powers upon them. I was given every transmission possible by BD. He gave me everything he had (both good and bad)  It was very real and it came with a price, which I paid. He always said he was so relieved that he met me before he died because he had felt everyone he had ever known in America was a groupie except for me. I’m just telling you what he said. He would cry like a little child and tell me I was his “only friend in the whole world.” 

More than once I said to him, “God, you guys are all stuck in 1967 talking about “Be Here Now.” Don’t you think we should instead call it “Be Here Then?”

He laughed every time. 

(He always said, “if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.”)

I really know now what he meant by that. 
Sharada Devi

Oh my God, it’s me

It’s your warped god, own it. 





at some point in your quest for spiritually and politically correct perfection you’re going to have to say FUCK IT.

Otherwise implosion is immenent, who were you fooling anyway? 

If you knew what was really going on (or went on) behind the scenes of all these holy people you’re pumping and striving to become your intact ideas about life and where you might be headed would become a virtual wasteland. 

Sometimes, the fucking truth is too fucking much, but too bad. Own it, pump your SELF. FIND IT. Learn how to be your own spiritual quote, not somebody else’s.

It’s not written in stone. It changes. There is NO MAP but for the fire inside you. 

If they can they’ll get you in a corner and they’ll poke you, they’ll dissect you, they’ll course correct you, they’ll “pray” for you because of how much not like them you are.

Will you falter? My mantra is FUCK IT. Because you aren’t me. You weren’t married to Bhagavan Das for 12 years. You weren’t with him 24/7 like I was and you didn’t have the REAL truth about the delusions you’re living smeared in your face – about “holier” people than you. People who know the way BETTER than you. And I don’t mean just him, I mean EVERY single one I met. It was shocking – and the exact opposite of the enlightenment I was seeking from them. But I did see and now I do know. 

Am I “angry” ?? Oh my, god forbid I be fucking OVER IT. Role playing, charades, parades, screen faces. Stop adjusting, it’s useless. 

(No, I’m not angry. That wore off a long time ago.)

I found out I am on my own. I found out what “ignorance is bliss” really means.  And I want to say, God made you NOT TO BE LED BY SOMEBODY YOU IMAGINE TO BE BETTER THAN YOU- so that you quote them, stare at their dead picture, act like you are SO POSITIVE any of those stories actually even happened.  I used to tell BD “all you guys do is talk about 1967-1971 while preaching “be here now, be here now” don’t you think “be here then” would be better? It’s a joke, a scam. A career angle. I WAS THERE AND I KNOW THINGS THAT I CANT DENY.

Look at the facts, find them out for yourself rather than being too afraid of how bright the light can actually be.

I’m so used to people saying “who do you think you are?” Well I would like to ask you,

“Who do you think you are?” Do you even know? Has push come to shove yet? Did you find out that God is not 100% bright namaste’s?”

God isn’t anything but a gradient of awareness and acceptance. It’s not a contest or an exam of who walks the straightest line with the biggest stick stuck up their ass.

You might not believe me now. But when you’re lucky you’ll find out and you’ll be let out and you’ll be overwhelmed by the possibility that everything you were so sure of might just be wrong. It was just thoughts, fantasies, rules and regulations. Then, you’ll begin to see 

“oh my God, it’s me. “

Sharada Devi 

yes I am writing that book, “Be Here Then.”
stay tuned…

Psychic purging.

(how did we land here? the stars broke I think…I to tiny pieces of people…)

Mind body are one. You’ve got to get the shit out. Out of your head and out of your body. Old decaying putrefied feces, old decaying putrefied thoughts that bury toxic feelings. Our unfed heart is the prisoner of this disease of mind that is effecting and is infected by the emotionally congested/black gunk infested body. Once the shit of it all is purged, the heart can finally breath. Suffocated by the numbing that turned rancid and began to leach into our pure blood – we cannot feel the clearness of anything real – we can only keep chasing away these mind demons that stuff cookies and chicken wings into our mouths. The foods that make us forget the feeling become the insulator of our internal devastation so that we no longer know who we’re reaching for in the midst of a touch upon the griefs we left buried – underneath new griefs that brought on more pain – and in our discomfort we ate things to numb us, to protect us from the dark that lie waiting like mold. We listened to people who were wrong and told us to cover our naked bodies in shame. We curdled and curled up into a little ball rotting inside the spaces we never left and we grew into new people who held the galaxy in their hearts. We were unseen, we were unheard and we were filled to the brim with things to keep us quiet. We used our bodies as the family sponge and soaked up all their dirty countertops. We washed their dirty dishes with our hearts. Now who’s eating what and where does the food go? The invisible food I was fed as a child, the insidious food that made me eat more food to protect the thing I could barely feel – myself, my feelings, my joyful heart – who knew what came first? …but since I didn’t matter anymore, I let them pollute me, prostitute me, inculcate me into their world of getting eaten alive- from the inside out I left myself, numbed stuffed and no longer naked.  From deep inside I abandoned my home and let your thoughts of me reign supreme. My new addictions led me to more, stuffing the shit with new poison. I feel sick inside and I don’t even know it anymore. Numbing my grief with the foods in the kitchen, my nervous pain of recovery is stilled into a stifling drone. I want to tell the truth, I want to hear the sky, I want them to let me go back into the pure place before them. Who I ever was, invincible and clean, innocent and searching for my wings. You held me down on the kitchen floor and made me eat the big dark man, the angry smiling woman, the little boy with the hurting hand. Yes, we’ve done exactly as they’ve written, we’ve taken every filthy crumb…mind body are one and we’ve been mistaken for someone else… regression hypnosis, the soothing voice from the dim corner, let me touch you and lead you back down the stairs where the door is opened just a peep and lets look inside at these place where we stuffed the world we thought was ours. Who we are / embedded with secrets, who we are / ingrained with the stars, who we are / coded in sequence, who we are / laden with tears. Tears that paint the Virgin Mary, tears that write Rumi, tears that will never be dried by any cruel man. The passage is through you into you. The rites of your riches are beyond – so far beyond the treason of your lonely mind. The body became a slave in a cell eating lie after incubus lie…my heart is as solid and loud as the storm that I shall lead. I shall break open the sky and let hell fall to earth. Raging waters, the raging inferno of me, I am the temple of everything holy…calling out to me, little shadows of days that I can never leave…days that I feel and nights that I fought from myself as only I could…get numb- let them help you, stop hurting in the way that they hurt you – by turning you into them…the numb faces in the picture who have nothing to say but “I’m hungry and don’t you ever say no…” Where is the gun that breaks silence and ends poison head syndrome? Where is the pill that stops a clogged up heart and drains away the pus of grandpa? ….who I loved – who left me swimming in the toilet of his shit. Yes he’s dead and I’m still digesting his pepperoni pizza and I’m still drunk on his cheap beer. Can you hear me? Can anybody hear me? God can’t be numb and lined with sticky black mucous. God can’t keep stuffing his face with old phantom friends. Feed me, feed me. Parasites that fill the fear of emptiness and slowly crowded out our diamond light are the parasites we go down on and enliven and make babies with. Monsters of heritage and sycophant training – are the richer than you know – spoonfuls of mommy’s cherry pie. “It’s your grandmother’s recipe” she said…do you hear what I’m saying? 

How this death walk goes…

down to the water I went in the middle of the night looking for you to tell you to stop eating in your sleep…he can’t hurt you anymore…face down in the water, unconsciously there is a lot going on- I knew there was nothing deadly under the water while in the black of night he spun with us on top of him. Get off and lie on your back on the still dark water my brother said. The stars were out shining through the black and we were not in the middle of nowhere the bridge was right beside us in the dark. I thought it could have been the end but I was wrong, my father had gone mad spinning on the dark water deep into the night…I heard that the second book I wrote is called om mani padme hum – the return from dark water. He couldn’t breath, he was wild and dreaming. The girls held their breath giving blow jobs under water and everyone sat beneath the shadow of an avalanche while the world spun our only father into a black darkness never seen. Who gets out to see tomorrow? Who looks up to see the stars, floating on dark water nobody gets out alive. But we floated anyway, me and my brother looking up and there was the bridge “om mani padme hum is the second book” a voice said, the return from dark water into the home of the blessed. “That home is me” she said and all her kinks fell out, she stopped blowing the boy underwater and took a stand to recover the heaven she held, stars fell that night straight from her hair into the wet sky below where we lay waiting for her to wake up. Stars that we caught and held until the morning of Venus came. He held his breath for as long as he could and we never saw him again, our father who spun deep and low with us on his back slowly dying. He’s gone mad as sure as the swamp that holds dark girls underwater captive to penises larger than snakes, big snakes that hiss and pull hair. Starlit hair, sky held mirror, sinking deeper into the ecstasy of Shyam. There is nothing deadly below us I said to him, we’ve purged our soul of men that weep in guilt and spew light into throats of girls who can’t breath. I think the message here is to stop, and blow the candle to hell. The path of stars that lead over the bridge into the home of the long haired girl who saved us all with her dreams of “this could be the light that see in me, that daddy was only a ghost under water, cold with fish for eyes.” 

I get this, I really do sunrise…this was a dream and I have a long way to go to find you…my father wasn’t the devil, he was just the one who believed in sin, if the other side could win the war then god might let us in. So the dark mighty force of waters that might drown you brought to life the nightmare we call this vision, this vision who sees girls as dolls that float face down for $5 at happy hour…sucking out the wind and remembering all the lies, “get out of her mouth and forget her” I said, it’s still nighttime but she’s bound to wake up and bite you in two…

the force of black without a shadow is no consciousness at all. No moon to shake us loose. It’s a long dark night of opulence blinking star wounds as bright as dusk. The dawn is who I saw and named her aurora who came with the star that pulls the sun into the sky. But until then I can only remember what he sounded like before he shook his head and went down deep into my fettered soul and drug me to the bottom spinning…

He drove a big black car we called daddy and we never saw his face because he was too big. We only saw impressions of death under shadowy eyes. We saw a loop for a thought of his smile. We heard what we wanted to hear as his pants came down. Jungle bunny, python madness, moons that burn…zippers as jagged as the Himalayan mountains and secrets as hidden as the caves that held gods…

I’ve got somewhere to go eight worlds below us, where she lie dreaming of everyone she left floating inside her…everything beside her, the bride sitting in the big black car next to him…

ropes with nooses dangle from the sky. Anchors fall into the heavy thick breath of himself. There is no light to see, only a flame as black as his shame. Me, make it me. I’m the one going down. 5 easy dollars of doom paralyzed. You’ll find out soon enough what I’m saying…easy does it big boy. As hard as a corpse under water with dead girls sucking on maggots, with me floating like a flower still calling your name…

can’t you see the star when she cries, she cries for the darkness who leaves her. We always think we love the one who hides us, reveals us and then goes as quickly as he came…look up at me from far below at the monsters you made in the bathtub…

I imply a lot with my words so that you can find the rest for yourself. If they find us here like this they will torture us for the rest of the story. Book number one, the book they came to find, the book I never named…is the book of her secrets.

The witch stands over the cauldron while we float on our backs looking up into her starry kitchen ceiling. She stirs and she stirs him all up in her brew…black cats with golden diamond shaped eyes stare over the edge of the cauldron watching us stew in the dark night of our souls…who could forget me while she lies dreaming? 

Psychic purging could be art. It’s not different than throwing up bad food, but we decide which words to use and we decide how to say our feelings held down until blackened, and we decide which lingerie to wear under water and we decide how to haunt him back…

beautifully said, I will always be the one who loved him no matter how many girls he bled and killed. I will be the bride of hades because I will be the queen of my own underworld. Under you, wherever I find myself I will be seeing only flames that don’t die. The truth is nirvana kills the flame. He always told the ugly truth. The truth is witches have to hunt. The truth is it’s all in the bathtub. The truth is boys don’t cry. The truth is I’m a sucker for words, words like you…

lost in the valley below are only dead bodies, not you, you aren’t the one that they left…you are the one that they buried under the covers in their bed…

wake up, the sun is shining and venus is making coffee for the ghosts…because her love never ends even after the stars have all left the sky and gone home…

making art is making love with the darkness…

in the darkness making art is the love…

making art is making the darkness love you 

more than the light…making love is the dark art of her sorcery…

psychic purging. two bodies merging. enlightened by the shadow of the killer flame…

remember that I was indeed born from the womb of a virgin, that I am an immaculate flower upon this dark water, that I am the one who brings and takes stars, that I will follow me wherever I go…

hypnosis regression. psychic purging. bonding to our bondage, drowning in the storm. telling everybody that death is only the dull byproduct of forgetting your roots. roots deeper than the tallest star, roots like tunnels that take you back into the crystal room where you lost your virginity and you promised never to tell, but god always knew you went there alone and your mother always said if you lie your face will melt off and the people always made you think that only dogs knew how to hug and so you abandoned the roots of your home in the stars and you went where everyone goes- to the dark world refrigerator of an imposter love and you ate yourself dead in more ways than one. Cold corpse walking backwards back to your bedroom, body mind are one species, heart is the way back to shyam…go deep home to before you moved out of yourself and find out what you left in the water that night…

alchemy magical heart healing soul power. in the darkness of your forgotten perfect face the muse makes heaven want her more than he wants the dead flame…can’t you see yourself in her wild open eyes anymore? her eyes that see the other brimming side of you…before they took you and filled you with their lesser world, you were made of her incantation, her spirit and her howling swirls of wind…

You have such a way with words” said the serpent who swallowed my father…

Sharada Devi 

You can have no comment, you can have it all.

There was a woman with long white hair and there was a man that followed her. She lived in a dense forest of thicket and tall spindly trees. He buried himself in dead leaves just to hear her breathing, to be near her. He was very tall and he was dark. The shadows met his face and his eyes always gazed downward, at her footprints, at the leaves, at what she left behind upon the decaying earth. She was complicated because she was so simply a widow. She was slender and her back arched like the cats she lived with. Her eyes were often yellow like that – and when she was weaving, the way she would, it seemed that silken thread came from the palms of her delicate veiny hands. She would leave white webs everywhere, in his eyes. Red diamonds shaped like the hourglass that sat behind it all, dripping it’s hearts out until the day nothing was left. The day or the hour nobody could know. But her, he was tempted by a death wish he could not resist.  She was quiet, it was the cats who purred loudly. These were forest cats, wild and sleek. She was very old, we cannot know her age. At night she would sit beside the moon glowing. No one could be sure where she came from or why. But this man, he understood and although she pretended not to know that he followed her, she knew. And she fed him just like he was a cat. A kitten really, not wild like the cats that circled her feet, but domestic. He needed something. Spider-less eyes. She was all he saw. The days went by. The seasons passed. Her hair grew so long it touched the ground. His eyes were so heavy they burned holes in the earth anywhere she had stood. He gazed wherever she walked as he followed and a black trail of darkened leaves was formed. It was a wet forest and the flame was contained by the earth who was fertile. It was the groove where streams are formed. Streams that lead to rivers and rivers that swim desperately back to the ocean. But this realm wasn’t like our ocean. It was clean and clear and the fish had minds like men. And so evil began to form in the big waters and the woman knew. She knew the earth must meet the sun, in the same way the ocean meets the moon. She knew that the cats were willing to die, die for light. Die for the light I told you. He wanted her, he followed her. The fish were filled with his water. His water was filled with her. The flame had a mind. A central stomach that ached for it’s food. The earth. I have never eaten the sun although I’ve tried. The cats had been with her since the beginning, there were eleven and four were male. There were seven females who she called seven names. She slept in a cave hidden by a giant tree. The cats were inside her.

He slept under a tree, beneath rotting leaves, buried in musk and deep longing. I suppose you don’t understand me. They both live inside is the main idea. Her hair is long and white, he wears a dark hood. She cannot exist without him, he does not exist without her. The world is ending. They will empty the blood of earth like a pool that gets drained. They will burn the last remaining path so that no trace remains. Either of possession or of regret. The trees form a spiraling circle in the dense wet forest made of webs that only the moon sees because the sun doesn’t care. The ocean isn’t far and another place will rise and it won’t be good it will be evil, worse than anything we’ve ever done. These fish breath light, not air. The ocean is black now because of it. Die for the light. Once it’s over, we won’t even notice. She lives here and works, weaving stories to hold creatures that need her and giving the cats a feline queen – herself – who carves minds into intricate webs decorated with spiders who store memories and stop the night from collapsing. This is how it’s always worked here. And the reason he follows her is because he is how you might imagine a shadow. A loyal shadow that became a man. A man who grew warm beneath her and eyes were formed. Then the river inside him became charged with electricity and magnetism and he began creating fires. She was. She is the central sun. He is the quickening glance of fervor. They are the creators and destroyers of imagination and limitation. The cats are large and shiny and walk upon this earth as gods. Gods who eat fish. Gods who see the ocean as a puddle. Maybe we are smaller and bigger than we realize. Maybe there is no middle to anything. Maybe he will never leave her because she is his body. Maybe she is his body because he is her movement. I have become confused and jealous when I think about the quiet, damp and misty forest with traipsing cats that shimmer and beasts that are given a mind by a white haired woman weaving webs from her palms as a tall dark hooded man watches, hooded eyes starting fires whenever she moves – and only the path turns to black – killing nothing – but footprints that got in the way.

I will leave nothing behind me but his devastation. The dream will eventually die. The dream will die for the light and when we wake up the sun will be gone and the moon will be a liar.

We will trust no one inside the great incubation tube. There will be purring, loud purring, hissing and deep growling. There will be claws leaving blood on skin walls and it will be too late. Because she will be gone. There is not two chances to die is why, there is one. And the ocean wasn’t real anyway but we still were afraid of the hooks that were dangling. The swiping claws, the compassionate beings. Whoever and whenever is beyond us now. This is the death of not I, but my dream. I spent a lot of time sleeping waiting for her, crying for him, stroking cats. Thinking I might not be enough. All of me, nowhere and nothing. Running out of time. Excuses of weariness and hunger. And now the sky has opened over the oval world of imagined forest and I’ve been lifted into another mouth. A mouth without a language. Which is scary. Scary because I’m me and I let it happen like this. Didn’t self destruct on my own before the hourglass was drained. And so I say, remember today is it. All of it. Living and dying, seeking mouth tell me what to do. The big thing, the high thing, the right thing. The low deep way to the left of this world. Die to the light who sees and hears, the seen and the listening. The truth really is, the movement and decay never left this bed, the bed of my dead body. And I never slept either. Who are you? I wasn’t here, my hair was long and white eternity. Growing eternity, he was my tongue. Red body, black dream, white strands that never stop moving. Goodbye empty vessel. Downward spiraling screwdriver. Flames that burst like eggs from inside my own fertile mind. I said die for the light like I already knew who I was. And this story has no beginning or end but is the number 8. Hourglass 8. 

I know you’d rather have recipes and meditation tips. And that is what this is. Throughout history people have eaten blood soup. They’ve beaten themselves with whips to destroy their lust and they’ve eaten blood soup to destroy the lust of others. Men and women as humans and other species have always eaten, abandoned and rejected their children depending on circumstance and then the one little one is left to fend for themselves and how lucky you are to be given the chance to see what a twisted ray of light you’ve been exhumed from. This is my advice to myself and all, figure this mess out. Get it straight, there are no victims only participants. Meditation isn’t an act, it’s an approach. One recipe is the only recipe. Rip out your own heart to see how late it’s gotten. Stop feeding on children both within and without. Be aware of the awareness that is so primal we’re ashamed. Fuck the shame. And I mean literally.

This is a joke, these planet reapers with their restaurants and outfits hung in windows on shapeless mannequins. Women with no hips and men with penises too big to fit in their pants. This is a joke- that edible food is to be bought and children are to be tamed. Turned into you and me, pale lumpy prisoners of war drinking coffee and watching phones as they talk to us. As we look for life on the screen and listen for which way to turn, hands trembling high on stimulants and sedatives. Minds confused by mainstream dictation. The way it is, is that there’s only the forest of webs and I am not the one who made this up. I can cook all day and still the blood gets shed and they’re dying from sexually transmitted disease and starvation for no reason but the evidence. For evidence. The clues we won’t see. Look from above down at this sinking world of electrical storms and poison waters. Do you really think you belong here looking through books on what to cook or how to meditate?

Drones fill the sky head and anchors fill the aching heart. Home isn’t across the ocean or even where you are now. You don’t know these people you look at- “family, friends,” television- whoever- they’re masks.

Masks meant to trap you in the web. The mythic creature is covered in a thousand legs. And although it seems invisible, this creature looms just outside your eyes, humming and hovering.

We have a maker, they said it was called “God,”

like we’re so stupid it needs a name so we can beg for forgiveness and help. Shame upon the human is the end of man. Our only home was never here anyway so they can have it- making us guilty for the dark waters and the diseases they’ve spread.

So I’ve narrowed it all down in my own way in the above parable and I hope you recognize our kinship enough to get up and out of bed, away from the dining table and back into the diamond that’s waiting once you flip the lid off this demented wormhole sin pit of trickery and deception. Just so you can’t be you, but a slave to shame. Reading about holy people like they’re somewhere else but inside you. Like you couldn’t be good enough, ever to do these miraculous things. Like you’re caught and hopeless and waiting for her to get hungry and devour your body all over again in the dream of wasted space and dripping moments.

It’s not real, any of it. Sing your way back to the song. Not any song you’ve ever heard here on this planet, but a deeper sound heard below the radar and the body grip, the low song that only heavy otherworldly animals know. And I mean 1,000 legged animal creatures that are made of light without fear noises. That spin over and under all concept and belief. That have no rules,

only one law. The law that is itself beyond all fiction of form attached to direction. You can have no comment, you can have it all. 

Sharada Devi 

Song, keep moving

When there is quiet inside,

there is a song 

that has always played.

For the little one,

for the one in between.

For you, right now.

Write the words,

hear the spaces.

Music is in your blood,

bones and shadow.

When there is quiet,

free from the fear

of what hides in you,

there is a song 

that you wrote,

long ago – and a song

you are writing now.

The bridge, that is this.

Song, keep moving.

Sharada Devi