Yoga philosophy

When I first started yoga I could not give a shit about advanced postures. I still have little interest. Yoga gave me peace in the mind. You can’t beat that. Only thing putting advanced in your yoga vocabulary is going to do is potentially bring in ego. And that will kill peace every-time.

Poem #28

I sat in the car passing time one block south of Sunset Blvd.
The mechanic light was on and I was listening to some 1970s Latin music waiting for my next class and a little pain in my heart to pass.
A purple flower fell from the sky and dropped on my windshield. The sun shined down on my eyes.
It was  5:09pm on a Tuesday and for a moment I felt the presence of g-d.

Scream

It’s an argument that swings in the black hearts of chaos.
Warm, like rats leaving wooden ships that burn in the dark soul of human terror.
Like the first monkey to scream, stop! stop!
He’s eaten by the snake that crawled through the dark of night hunger to pluck him from the tree.
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Power

It was 7 AM and I was driving north on the 101 freeway. It had been raining for a couple weeks, maybe more. We were feeling isolated. The steam and the mist glazed the green mountains. It reminded me of the hobbit books I never actually read, but saw a couple of the movies. If you listen to enough Led Zeppelin you don’t really need to read the books since they stole from Tolkien about as much as they stole from the Blues masters. I exited the 170 at Burbank. I downshifted and realized that Mad Max and I are probably the last people that drive stick shift. I thought about that ring, the ring that hobbit had. Does power truly corrupt? I’d like to give it a test. Where is  my precious?

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The power of stillness

I was driving west on Sunset Boulevard.
The sun was warm on my left arm as I crossed into Echo Park.
I could smell the street vendors cooking and it set me at ease.
You’re not gonna smell that in West Hollywood.
The clouds in the sky looked like pillows offering me comfort I didn’t know was even available.
For a moment I was not lonely.
For a moment I was home.
For a moment I didn’t care. 
For the moment I was able to climb the overpriced skyscrapers that serve so few.
I touched the sun and it burned my soul  black like a bowling ball that had never been rolled.
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Rainy Day

It was the rainy season and we sat under the freeway overpass most of the day. Some smokes cigarettes and we talked about the good things in the past and  we talked a little about the future. But we never talked about the present. How could we? We passed a cheap bottle of wine that gave some of us a headache but, if nothing else the pain gave us something else to focus on.

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#333

The rain falls at a 45 degree angle as I think of dinosaurs and watch pelicans diving for fish.
The earth will wash itself of humanity with bright indifference.
The styrofoam cup will become oily sand on empty beaches with water so clear you can see the soul of the universe.

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Tibeau Cemetery: Falling into the Sea

The taxi driver repeated it back. “You want to go to the Tibeau Cemetery?” He seemed confused and probably suspicious.

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The previous day, I asked the innkeeper about the cemetery.

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Someone who grew up in these islands told us about it and I was very curious.

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Climate change. The innkeeper said, “You must have noticed since your last trip here, we are losing land.”

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The cook overheard me ask, “Are people going to be upset if we’re down there taking a bunch of pictures?”

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“We’ve had some trouble, you know.” She said, “They are stealing identities of the dead.”

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“Oh, really?” I said, “I think that’s how Trump won the election.” She doubled over laughing.

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Some of the dates on the graves were old.

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But some of the ones in the water were as recent as the 1980s.

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I saw a bone.

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It could have been from an animal.

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I thought I should take a picture of the bone because no one would believe me.

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But it felt disrespectful, so I didn’t do it.

(no photo)

Photos by: Daniel Overberger and Nancy Winebarger

Gingerbread Dead

If I lived in a gingerbread house, I would be overweight.

If I had a gingerbread girlfriend, I would need a new one every day. Great mobs would gather around my half-eaten gingerbread house and chase me through the streets, calling me Hannibal the Gingerbread Cannibal. But no one would understand: I just can’t help myself.

Is that icing on your face… ?

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believe it or not

I really couldn’t believe it. On a tour of Europe in 2007, there had been whispers that our opening band (from Texas) were Nazis. As I watched them, it became clear that it was possible. I was confused. The band I was playing guitar for had a Jewish drummer born in Iran, a Mexican-Irish bass player and an American Indian singer who occasionally wore a dress on stage. It made me uncomfortable: like we or I was saying it was okay.

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I talked to the leader of our band, who also seemed upset, but said and felt that there was nothing he could do since the promoter put the tour together without any consent from our camp.

There is a giant anti-Nazi thing in Germany. Especially in the punk rock scene. The second or third show into the gig, someone was selling these pins. I had never seen something like this before. I mean, I grew up in a very self-segregated community, but Nazis were something I just read about in school or saw on TV. I bought the pin and wore it on my jacket for the entire tour and the next two.

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Whenever I returned to America, I would take it off and put it in a drawer thinking it had no place here. But sadly, this month I have considered breaking it back out. I still can’t believe it.

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