Ora et labora Spoken Prayers

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From novice to winner and when we win the veil once thingrows again but thicker Now, now… I am now other Our inner light goes dimand as it is in darkness we stumble & with every misstep we remember We never wonWe were meant to be humblebeginners always, playful and curious setting sail at every day break expecting a middle, never an end but the middle is difficult, there is no shore in sight, no person, no bird, not even a tree but that is where we often are if we were brave enough for sea the sirens will sound, but on my boat there is only meno crew to call out, no one…no mast for them to tie meonly my anchor, my compass, and my sail. only us. only us 3 we headwe heedand sometimes hedonistically, we lead a sea of whims and notifications in frenzy

sometimes I think the sea is that cup we all like to be and when sailing is hard then it must be full and it is my cue to empty

Half full half empty, a destination too dull (if you ask me)If our body is water, and earth is too then why cant I liken to rivers, whirlpools, wells, lakes, snow storms, and the sea

Every time I arrive at my Murano cup destinationI submit to its fragility I suddenly lose suchness to my soul, it wains and its inner sound gets weak trapped in glass and architected miseriesMuch of my day is wasted fighting demons I never called my enemy and when not necessary, all this fighting leaves no room for my muchness, no room for me

Again I find myself alone in the middle but I have exchanged the three for glass and a whole lot of prestige?

The middle you see is when the sea looks like an endless blue sheet, the beginning is too far to remember, and the end is unseen. How do we get past the middle? A fish that jumps at me, slips from my hands, twists on my deck and ends up again at sea. I sleep and awaken fumbling in my trinkets forgetting my deeds. Allergic to fish, the scales like blades, the truth will make us all bleed.

Much of my muchness trapped in glassSong to my suchness too far to grasp Others and my otherness always at an impasse Until my heart mind reminds me cups break but the water, the water is free like Moses: we can part the sea

May your heart open and not break You get no guarantee May you live with hearts wide open open enough they choose to break free Let your heart break open A part in every sea

AmenAmma,

Fodder

Prestige (n.)1650s, "trick, illusion, imposture" (senses now obsolete), from French prestige (16c.) "deceit, imposture, illusion" (in Modern French, "illusion, magic, glamour"), from Latin praestigium "delusion, illusion" (see prestigious).

“prestige is like a powerful magnet that warps even your beliefs about what you enjoy. It causes you to work not on what you like, but what you’d like to like.” Paul Graham via Maria Popova

Suchness

“Tathātā (/ˌtætəˈtɑː/; Sanskrit: तथाता; Pali: tathatā) is a Buddhist term variously translated as "thusness" or "suchness," referring to the nature of reality free from conceptual elaborations and the subject–object distinction.” Wikipedia

Muchness

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“Why must we always see the dead body in a funeral?” I remember asking my mother She said: “You must say your goodbyes and swear to their virtues.”

Similarly The corpse of a dead relationship needs to be seen. Sweared at. and then buried.

We all have our graveyards. Some have epitaphs Others have a steady sweet flow of fresh flowers and some sit deep in unmarked soil, unworthy of memory or maybe violently disposed

May we be certain when we pick up that shovelMay we be willing to keep living armed with a heart that can extend grace, and acknowledge grief , Instead of a shield that seeks proof and holds onto punishment as creed.

May you discern between people challenged with life but certain of their love for you, from people who challenge your love by demanding proof and extending punishment onto you.

Amen Amma

Fodder

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My stomach brews with a thousand storms,it . is . still . August 3:00 a.m it wakes me upit is not hunger, I don’t want a snack I want the child in me to set aside the back packI want her to know that working hard is one way, but playing hard is an oxymoronwork hard, play hard. swipe left.

Why is is so difficult to engender ease and play in our day to day?I wonder, I look back: who took that away?

light hands unencumbered heartsbruised knees & leveled fieldsto. play

TO PLAY

play hard, I cannot but laughalbeit begrudgingly baby your play should be serious, but play can not be hard let her be easy let her be silly let her push out of your seams like the laughs too big for lungs that crack open laughter, that leaves you clues of your native tongue.

Sometimes, when we learn an instrument. like say a violin, like every path to mastery we taste, we desire we come back. we learn.learning notes, lines, sounds the way your hands hold your instrument and the way it holds youthe way you tug on its stringsthe smiles and sighs, the vibrations it brings

but, I read once that spiders become one with their webthe focus in their movement the flow of creation, the repetition in ritual the high pitch of intention: the intention to live all of it comes together to extend their being way beyond their eight corners and into the orbThe orb of their webThe spider is not just themselves anymore, but also that web cognitive extension No, cognitive embodiment

That is the path out of cognitive taxation Out of cognitive load

ultraviolet sensors for ultraviolet markersthey say “the sensory systems of many animals are tuned in to the parts of the world that are relevant to their lives. Bees… use ultraviolet vision to find flowers that have also evolved ultraviolet markings.”but not every one will hear your song sometimes we forget that my violin cannot read your piano bars I promise though, to never force my tunes on you, to cherish the notes that move the machine of your heart.

Sometimes you have to sing your song to yourself so loud, so longit becomes all you hearsoon enough you stop recognizing other melodies, tunes, or genres

Let your world be your orbLet your interiors be a no shoes householdno boots on your white rugs you are responsible for the energy you bring but do you bring yourself? or the bag in which you have been held? have you ever slapped someone’s wrist as it climbed up your thighs?or did they always make their way, is it that you are shy? or that your limits were trampled on and your threshold is just that high?

blunted vision,did he touch me inappropriately or am I too much? too much. go find less. ( CC Elyes Myres) cognitive erosion, when you have to crawl so far back into yourself, you find yourself at the dot, teetering on top of a colon looking down. Down at that cliff.

Baby girl, let your big hands weave your rug let her extend beyond your mom’s arm length let your knees extend past your father’s foot-steps Live within your meansbut extend the meaning in your lifecreate options architect choices Stretch that web, let your rug grow in proportion to your heart let her hold you and yours the ones you have chosen and let no boot, stiletto, or slider take comfort on your grounds Stop repeating her apologiesstop defending your stainsmaking excuses for the marks and dents left by contorted bodies refusing to stretch

We forget that the fringe of a rug isn’t just a boundary but also the extension of its skeleton. Let your borders protect you from unraveling, let every knot in your fringe hinder your enemies and never you dreams.

how much of you has been worn out by overstepping?Where does yours end? where does theirs begin?

Playing tennis with what you think you owe and what you think you deserve; is really just squash.

sweat it out retire the racket an let that wall be you have other places to go, to see.

every wall you walk away from is a door you are walking through “No” sits well with ease, joy, and abundance.don’t let them fool you. You don’t have to express it, you just have to say it.

NO Don’t dance baby girl. Just say it: NO

Amen

Fodder

Spiders, orbs and cognitive extension

“If spider and web are working together as a larger cognitive system, the two should be able to affect each other. Changes in the spider’s cognitive state will alter the web, and changes in the web will likewise ripple into the spider’s cognitive state.” David Kaplan

The navel of the world: Omphalion

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Alabaster,

Alabaster skin on houses of worship the world over, from the walls of relic rooms in Teotihuacan to the Bahai dome of Santiago.

Alabaster like her skin and mine, freckled with the salt and spice of a life well lived, of lives we have loved.

Similarly, the walls of our sites of worship, hardened paint on walls and flakes of stucco on the floor, freckles of others, their stories of worship, love, and lending. Lending your eyes, Lending your optics, We were only supposed to lend our stained glass that leaves us dancing in yellow, reds, blues, and greens. Somehow. somewhere. someone sold us on pink!We were sold on a pair of rose colored glasses. A life has become unattainable, non-sustainable, and with more pink came tides of violent blue. So we created the world, a world of binaries and now. Now, we are stuck in its undercurrents. Rose colored glasses. More fragile than any Alabster slab, only worn to be smashed.

Mine. Mine, were smashed by a mason, one who was adamant on building their road on top of my home.

And while my heart had to go into hiding to survive the massive highway, which he erected on top of my green shoulders,and from the smithereens of my spectacles.

In its hiding my heart grew. It grew into a mason itself, and it built me a natural crossing, green, lush, safe, and withstanding; Above his highway, for all my wilderness to cross, for my deer to run, for my ivy to grow:unhindered, unbothered, and unkempt.

You see, every act done with love is worship. We cannot control the love that guides another person’s heart, the mason had love, he had love for his puppeteering, for his performance, for his build. For him it was worship, and some worship centers have a void to fill. He taught me that a void of abandon can never be full. To quell a narcissistic fire you have to stop feeding it. No. not even water. صيام مقبول _ Alabaster! you know. It starts off like all of us, ready, available, welcoming to plans. What goes into it? Who carves it? Where does it end up?

The same questions that mold us, those are the answers that determine how fragile our Alabaster will be.But is fragile really always a bad thing? Are we all here summoned to fulfill some anti-fragility?

If it were not for the translucence of alabaster slabs, that also makes it fragile, day time in the dome would not be the same, it would not bring in light in so many shapes and sizes. That light that stirs up your heart and ignites your cells with love and dreams. If everything had steel like qualities, or concrete opacity, what kind of prayers would we sing? prière: to ask Ask what? To who?

Allahbaster.

The engineer. They are many. They were many. I think engineers have good will. They also may have good intent. The engineers I have met did not choose their tools, they just settled for excel.Excel sheets, optimization formulas, and derivative futures. He. They, They juggle batons of dependence and independence of variables in a constant race to square the world, while their legs run its circumference.

Beautiful. They were beautiful men, eager to fix the world, to fix my faults, un-break my heart.

"the derivative represents the variation of the dependent variable respect to the independent one.” ( just Quora )

Derivative Variation Tangents& FunctionsThat is all they could see. What if there is none. What if it is all our expression of light. The way we transform it. We feel it. We shine it onto the world. Bless their spirits and their excel sheets, engineers will keep on keepingthey will keep on walking. You must need an engineer, you cannot want one. A derivative of two independent variables? well, there is none. Derivative. Derivative.

_ Alabaster,

Her skin. Her Heart. Alabaster.

What do we discern?Pleasure.

We discern pleasure, as the ultimate life source running through us, while life can dictate that we run marathons away from pain. Our easiest route back to us. to life. Is always towards pleasure, we know it, they know it. That is why you are born with a number and a track suit ready.Pleasure: Attraction. Desire. Body Response. The trifecta.

Every mason can build scaffoldings for attraction. Every Engineer can optimise their moves to tigger a body response. It takes an an architect to draw out pleasure.

Architects of desire, Find them. Be them. Raise them.

Let us live in a world of pleasure and the joyful worship in finding it. in designing it. in architecting it. You cannot optimise pleasure. You cannot source it in bits. Yet, all are needed. The Mason, The Engineer, and the Architect. No better. No worse, Alabaster just calls for contours.Black onyx may call for light strobes.

All. All is worship. Some of it on war ships. Some of it through friendships. and for some it is fleeing hells of war and water on a smuggler’s battleship. Away from pain. No horizons for pleasure.

May we wet the Alabaster on the walls of our hearts, every season. So that we can keep our frescos fresh, so we remind ourselves that we can paint over them, so we can look at the beauty of our own architecture. of what makes us. of what could break us. with grace, gratefulness, and humility.

May we absorb the daytime lights.May we emit our light through midnights.

Amen A m e n

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I will love you.

I will love you, in the same light, with the same words, and the same tenderness I love myself, I can only emit what I mirror.

SoBEST BELIEVEI love me like a raging ocean in December swayBEST BELIEVE I love me like the heat of sun on the year’s longest August DayBEST BELIEVE Your mirror will shine my light in your reflections it will refract as tenderly as it does mine.

Guard rails until they are prison cells, those are the stalks Take stock, Rail ways until they are speeding - colliding rally carts Don’t stop,

Windows of insight until they become blinders restricting foresight 

I love soap bubbles, they add magic where there is noneI fear soap bubbles, they add magic where there is none 

They always escape though, and their escape lets me know, like soap bubbles, sunflowers, and the sand of my hour glass, no window rail is forever and no prison bar eternal. 

I sigh - with every bursting bubble, i forget and I remember, and I begin again. I smile - with every bursting bubble, i forget and I remember, and I begin again. 

The sun. She, will keep moving.Thank god for my sunflower neck and our sun soaked cells,May we always find guard rails, railways, and windows over, and over, and over again…

Amen

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Imagine how we have passed down recipes from generations long gone, how we infuse cuisine, how the culinary arts are laced with the science behind taste, the physics of textures and temperature, ingredients and their chemistry.Imagine the kitchens that come alive, the hands that knead and mix with pride, the tables of kin and tribe.Imagine now, that we had a culture for passing on recipes of respite, restoration, and recovery.

Fo(u)r seasons, for reasons, and for every occasion under the sun, something there for everyone.Imagine what a fusion kitchen of our collective recovery would smell like.Imagine the warm air of the table on which we dine, thanking the hands passing on salt, pepper, and bread. Thanking the hands, straining pickles from brine.Imagine a full heart and an easy rest into bed.If you may not enjoy cooking for yourself, you will enjoy cooking with and for your tribe.Take your healing into your kitchen, no apron, a good sharp knife, honest produce,season and spice.hit unsubscribeMise-en-scène!write invitesseal them with kisses send them with light Put some music on, a glass in hand, maybe even dance.Mis en place!Make book shelves and libraries brim with your cookbooks and let others join your counter tops so your recipes can mix and so you can plate dishes in playful dance from the salt, acid, fat, and heat of your lives.Bon appétitBon à vivreAmeen

RECIPES

You deserve your flowers, steep in them for hours.

Reliably communicate your love, stir the pot with dollops of generous attention.

Set up your table for the meal you wish to have and the feelings you wish to conjure.

There will be many meals, enjoy each with levity.

Let it sit, all of it.

Your intentions are the ingredients of your dish, process gets you flavor, and heart breathes taste. You control the three that go into your dishes, eat from the world but do not get hung on their intentions.

Leave to cool, by a window sill. Let the aromas flood your neighborhood, be it street or universe.

Seasoning makes or breaks your dish, keep your spices stocked, loved, and shaken.

Every product on your counter is going into the dish. no better, no less.

Breathe the world into your dishes and let her show up in your taste buds.

Always have Tupperware.

Mind the heat, do not wear gloves.

Always expand your table, and always store folding chairs. Let them climb your walls, let them invite street vendors and lords.

Sunlight is the best disinfectant, sun yourself, your fruits, your utensils.

Sit down, eat, taste and reckon. The many kisses of life that went into this bite. Oh Mother.

Let the warm feeling from one meal grow, let it grow till your heart stretches lands for all of us to sow.

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Sitting and soaking, the glee of feeling my family in my skin in my soul the blurred lines of friends and kin the broad strokes, the fine lines, the brush streaks.The shelter in their umbrellas, under their neon lights, tucked into their smiles and splayed over their flushed rosy cheeks! Surrounded in my surrenderMy mountains trail my mounting decades, gracefully lining the belt of this journeyOrion would be humbled by the grace in their glimmer, Light and luster. Kira Kira Kira. with every twist in my waist to the music of their chanting hearts An orchestra in harmony, attuned to our soul’s melodies. Find your role, the vibration of YOUR light, the mission of your soul.

The light bearersThe light seekersThe torch startersThe flame throwersThe fire findersThe sun soldiersThe light laborersThe radiant rebelsThe reflecting marvelsThe perusing projectorsThe chain stokers The light loading birdsThe sun sway rollers

Sun flowers here and there, sun flower souls all around planted,rooted,towering,PROUD.

You bring light, that is for certain and just like infra red or ultra violet, yours does not have to be seen,most certainly, it does not have to be “obvious” shut down the lies of innate and inbornshut off the tremors of the superior and a natural your light does not even have to be brilliant, it does not have to sparkle your light has only to climb out of your wounds it has only to dance out of your stitches it has only to whisper your story in its universal truths onto the skin of 7.753 billion No more no less. A humble task, and only you can do it. Now Now - Wabi Sabi Gold seams on every bruise and injury go on stoking Take the coal left in your stockings by Bezos, Musk, and Gates bring it to the pit where the union of light workers gathers unload the weight of those stones into the collective well let every stone drop. In time our unloaded baggage will also be the floor we stand on the levitating stage we rise from Let the well fill with coal, let the pit burn come in union communion.

A chain of beams beating in synchrony and oddity light up the world burn down the forts the dark will retreat not at will, but in wonderthe wonder of your smile onto my spirit of how it shines on mine and my own Break plates let nothing survive from this ancient inheritance let us melt it all and mold one new one that doesn’t fit me, doesn’t fit you Reflecting each others’ light, cultivating collective sight; furnishing hands of ease, of sleight;

Wear your hat strewn with the feathers of tyrant peacocks let their emerald, indigo, and gold glisten under the light of the fire from the pit.

Intention as mother to your actions - intentionality Metronymic Attention in the reading - optionality Algorithmic Deliberation in your motions - accountability Music

Projectors of every kind Sunflower souls in constant flight Migrant birds with roots in lands of constant plight “Enlightenment: complete collaboration with the inevitable” (Anthony de Mello) Etel & Mona left us this year, their ultimate artifact: leaving. A profound contour of absence. The final inevitable collaboration of all.

From Beirut to El Salvador From Sanaa to Artsakh

From Karnataka to Marseille From Cuba to HongKong

From Myanmar to Baghdad From Tigray to Honolulu

From Ferguson to El Lidd From Idlib to Kyiv Oppressors do not sit in hierarchy, they share one round table there is no order for who and what topples first

The light will climb out of every wounded victim, every abandoned corps, brown skin or blue eyed, every stunted child,revenge on the violent and on the civilized The union. Light communion. She will bring down every soldier and will cut down every king, their skeletons will fill our pit and create level ground for all of our kin.

A world where many worlds fit (Zapatista) _This is for the people of the sunEverything for everyone, and nothing for ourselves. - (Rage against the Machine)

As you review monogamy, review yours with authority, reflect on its conflation with legitimacy retrospect your moral statements, resubmit your applications to the office of compliance and ethical statements, pen it with “Thank you for attempting order, but I choose chaos, f**k you very much and merci!” We will mend time We will bend reality Shine your light Stoke through plight

Chain stokers,Love makers,Generational trauma breakers,Roller bladers. First generation women First generation men Come together, love and live with power of kin. Amen,

Fodder:

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Little chickens wearing dove tails, trying to fit inwhen they fly they will fallno amount of practice will get a sky seeing chickenyou may cluck close to ground yet your praxis lay eggs and wake souls out of bed work with your strengthwith your landwith your grain wear your feathers in might, with pride P R A C T I C E : pieces to life’s parcelrepetition reliability redemption recognition; of selfrecognition; of other

We are bred to see potential, baked to fall in love with itThe world around us keeps our tastebuds aroused we ride moving buses, windows cracked, tongue out tasting almost everything, but never having a meal never descending for foot to find soil Your days end in bed, in states of vertigo, often dreadstimulation of potential in sheets of statictastes and sights and even potential traffic,so much OUT THERE! You start planning, scheming, thinking Lists of projects underway a project: beginning, middle, and endhopefully, finally - a meal - comforthopefully, finally - ground - relief Projects are beautiful marks of human ambition,they punctuate our world, shed light on our purposevessel our potential, Yet, Praxis are the sum of our values in kinetic actionno beginning, no middle, no end

My potential will grow as I practice:my values / my philosophy / my actions / my presence/ my mind’s interiors/ my heart’s accents / my foot print on the ground / my thumb print on your heart / my breath in this world kind, relentless, consistent practice . praxis

Some days the bus ride is long and drearythe trail is monotonous, sameness takes hold, the journey gets wearyno new sights to seeno new thrills to seeknot even people to meet no taste. no potential!The grace you will find is in your consistent practice of packing your lunch meal,day in - day out - day before, the predictable grace of praxis.

Praxis is not finite, it does not endin its corners are the many and multiple ways of human kindcreativity / iteration / discovery / expression / (re)invention / action / imagination / craft … Projects articulate the breadth of your visitand; your visit has depth only in practice, Eyes can glaze over you as a “failed project” and; yet you will never fail in practiceyou do not practice to make perfect you practice to learn pitfalls the pitfalls that become the nodes of your compass, the syllabus of your classroom magnetically directed, intuitively wired; electric blueYOU:polish your methodprimp your techniqueprime your toolshone your skills soften the edges on your thumbs and feet

Praxis let you show up projects help you show out one makes you visible to yourself, one makes you visible in the world one holds your pen inone throws your net out options, choices, decisions, and action: the fish of this sea pen and net, hold them well, make sure your compass is near keep an ear out for your calling’s bell

Fall in love with callous skin on palms and finger tips Crush, crush on potential. The potential in ether, in scent, and know; Know that olfactory satiation can get you sprung but never fed 

Almost always any crush is cured with proper acquaintance ( Alain De Button)

Love the practice of lifting, of bending, folding, the mundane dish washing, the helpful palms on hard nights. The practice of showing up in reliable, consistent color. It is not the rainbow, but certainly you wont be soaked in rain. 

so many waves in the bathtubdrain that water, wear your suittake to sea, practice ’Spede

Fodder

Finding this video edit of one of my favorite songs that held me through the first lock down was both extremely funny and endearing.

.If you found solace, share with others.

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What a fork!

For every fork where they see black or white you will see a color wheel.My forks and yours sit in fields, no asphalt, no cementJust burgeoning crops, vin-yards, and fledgling seeds. There are as many forks as there is willingness to feast.

The grapes and the guard to kill or to eat?

Drink lots of water! Pray that you will be able to drink from your roots and that you know when you need to look up to the skies and call for rain. Regulate, rule your vessels, run your queendoms, your breath will sway your internal weather vane and if you are parched, its ok to ask to be wateredfind the right skies, pray. Channel your pain. regulate when you can, co-regulate where you trust When you realize that your roots are also feetD I S C E R N; your role, the cast, which act, the doorD I S C E R N; between fears, anxieties, and cosplay. our consent is necessary, our presence mandatory,

What a wonder life can be What wonder my eyes can breed. A healthy compass is not a high horse. and flexibility will not take you off course, all we can do is build on the intersections, hoping that enough space will show up between us,bridging our divide, helping us see through each others’ eyes,past echo chambers, click bait, and illusions of separation and its’ blunt force.

Polygons and constellation trump standards of operationI run on horse-back into mountain trails and when the time is up:I will leave, light and loaded with sweet memories, stories to foster imagination, to steward my seeds.

Neon Belly, Soft front Knee on Belly, Strong back

I am liberated, Having lived in an endless sea of currents I have found a frame, a boat in my name

My boat hoists its sailstows its anchor knows its capacity floats with candor My horse My boat The chariots of my sun Taking me where my soul can be known. Where my love is recognized, where we don’t compromise on funOut beyond our enabled dysfunction, there is a field. I will meet you there.I see the roles, the costumes, the fine leather, the distinct fineries, It is a ball! You know your script, your moves, your vogue. My hips run with my feelings, they enjoy their liberty, This often means, odd partners, poles, and lopsided dance floors. Knowing your lines is no obligation for me to recite.A scripted life? I am not inclined, ME. HER. THEM A program? A presence? An OS?I pray I keep agility in my scripture, I pray I never submit to static script, With absolute surrender I will refuse your fit I’ll kiss it away and you will like it. We are raised to seek the limitless possibility in the endless horizonWe claim all the fish in the sea, all the birds and the bees, “A free market: supply and demands”You are free, to the bounds of their security a “free” world, held up by slaves, women, and refugees. Enjoy! lock the doors. What a confused notion on liberty!I am liberated

the choices I make the judgement of my choices - liberated. the judgement in my choices - liberated. entitled to ask for time, abundant and in grace, salt on the rim, with a twist of lime, Choosing to finally fall into my center of gravity and let Newton take me down my rabbit hole of sobriety. I am lord and laurels, I am place and pace, my cells run the universe and I take up space. What no one ever tells you but seems to pin in your eargirls grow rich in the soil where they are reared, but their fate is always outside the yield their fruits always tarnished with imagined earrings from sin and fear planted to leave, fostering seeds, watered and sunned and expected to leave!This exile we celebrate with conveys, rice, and cheer The tears they cry as she ships off in fear

Find your Amma and let her tell you: “You belong here” 

Let her unpin the blades of their sin off your ears She will tell you: “you are not meant to pass hands and transit this world like property or inherited cashmere.”

Not until I saw the vigor in which my uncle threatened to step on me, did I understand how much he had to perform to convince her that. she. belongs. here! A mutated belonging to a space of tension where she owns the furniture but my mothers owns the air in our ears, the paranoia in our fear.

She owns our world homeless to any deed or claimLord how mighty we have to be to double down, to remainto let our leaves hang loose, our roots grow strong, to muster the courage to push out weeds. To transform into matriarchal rubber trees.

Mothers to ourselves, the pedestrians, even termites and fleas. Towering, mounting, giving - we do not budge, we dance with flux Instead of seeking to be plated, consumption tokens for the emaciated She plates a world onto her door step, She builds an ecosystem of eclectic neighbors, lovers…a world for the satiated. Birds, busy city dwellers, and hard working trash collectors, She stays put and lets the sun and the moon take turns at her crown

Every time she finds my way, I smile. “Amma; protect me todaylet your leaves clear my air let your shade send my heart into peace

Amma; You are beautiful today bless me bless you”

An ordinary exchangeA dimple pressed Entire airplanes can land in my chest The streets get clearedThe moon can hear the skip in my step.

Bless you Amma, Bless the thighs that held your trunk Bless the axis that spun you drunk The axes you survived from, The masses that make your sum, the ordinary people the hardworking migrants the slaving aliens the unhoused and unhinged no one is too small, no one is too big for the elastic arms of Amma’s rubber leaves.

Smith, poet, and healer : may your eternal fire burn free, and when you are too tired, eyes strained, heart heavy or mulled, May your sisters watch you fire, feed it and keep her clear. Till you stand up again, till you feel the neon in your belly again, Till you find the knees in your kick again.

Amen Amma

Fodder:

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