chameleonian times

second hand

“Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily and I must return the gift.”

– Robin Wall Kimmerer (Braiding Sweetgrass)

People who kiss scars are my favourite,
may be a second hand fall but so are we
on a daily basis, going on. And out.
First choice goes to love dressed as pain
then it’s held and appreciated again. 
Like a child.
People who kiss birth marks are my favourite,
may be oddly placed but also a smooth basis 
of an own peculiar trace.

If it were scar owned, it would be
a celestial visit
a stardust experience
remembered as a rock
a river and a book
about the day we lost ourselves.
It's not.

“Learn from the mistakes of others. You can’t live long enough to make them all yourself.”
– (attributed to) Eleanor Roosevelt

whip

“Perhaps you’re a slave to your own idea of yourself.”

– D. H. Lawrence

Heard the white people steal
land, children, rights, nights
so I don’t steal.
Heard the white people grab
like forgiveness died,
so I don’t grab.
The scarecrow dressed in white
has so much revenge to do to do
in the lost races that dress
all colours to do to do
I can’t buy that story either.
It sounds like a whip changing hands
and petrifies my lungs again and again
with the sadness of cold people
gone lonely among the crowds.
I believe in that smile we hide in our eyes
with our pandemic covered mouths,
that smile
that smile.

étincelles

étincelles

acrasie*
je sais, saisie
sans mains à serrer de
plaisir neutre écœurement aux
doses de dopamine instables
dans la carcasse à désir écrasée
pas à pas impuissants distordus changeants
– challenge –
sensibilité à la discipline
quand la volonté s’épuise en
triste attention, impermanence et
configurations empoisonnées à changer
de méduses à hippocampes à paons par
efforts sans déclencheurs ruminants
émotionnels 100 % en projection
la forêt est en feu
à moins que le fruit brille
dans la lune d’ensemble

* acrasie

“Chaque affliction mentale est en fait le point de départ de la sagesse. Si l’on se laisse entraîner par les émotions ou si l’on tente de les réprimer, on ne fait que se créer davantage de problèmes. Si, au contraire, on les regarde en face, ce que l’on prenait pour destructeur devient le meilleur support de méditation qui se puisse imaginer.”

— Yongey Mingyour Rinpotché

catastrophe

catastrophe

si on avait peur d’en mourir
ou qu’ils fuient sans nous toucher longtemps
on cacherait les états poétiques dans le calme
d’un moment au cœur du nid
où l’on dépose et se pose
en tendresses protégées

avant de tout partager

Les intermédiaires entre les tous sont de ta bouche
Et les seuls êtres de mes oreilles
S’évanouissent comme un mauvais rêve
En regardant le ciel bleu
Le flou se dissipe et nous sommes,
sans mots

“Les objets physiques n’existent pas dans l’espace mais possèdent une étendue spatiale. Ainsi, le concept d’espace vide perd son sens.”

– Albert Einstein

Dans la ronde du temps

“Posez-vous sans vous fixer.”

– Götsangpa

des perles de pluies s’amassent
au bord des rivages cristallins
des yeux
Le nuage explose d’un lent
hurlement
Il pleut sur nos joues
d’apathiques empathiques
comme dans un film à l’eau
de rose

Les pétales s’envolent
d’hiver à venir
et dansent avec les feuilles
illusoirement à l’avance
Histoire de ne laisser tomber
personne
dans la ronde du temps

when I go

Many white horses
in ignorance
very tamed ones
while horizon went
blur
And I forgot my names

When I go knocking on heaven’s door
I don’t want my white and black pebbles
to be counted
I want to tell about all the times I was
in dung
and felt a hand lift me up
I want to tell about all the times I was hungry
and got a bellyful of food
I want to tell about all the times I was thirsty
and got soothed by nothing like tears

When I go knocking on heaven’s door
I don’t want my judgement bells
to go ringing from cloud to convincing one
I want the bells to call on the wild pains
and the lost times
to bring us back home
in our own light happy
steps

Pig’s dream

Rare footage of laughs. Rare footage of monologues and dialogues.

It’s nice and muddy.

“The rarer they get, the fewer meanings animals can have. Eventually rarity is all they are made of. The condor is an icon of extinction. There’s little else to it now but being the last of its kind. And in this lies the diminution of the world. How can you love something, how can you fight to protect it, if all it means is loss?” – Helen Macdonald (H is for Hawk)

Rare footage of plays. Rare footage of high mounds.

A dream Pig dreams, sometimes before humming.

stonewashed look

On my way to see the snail’s song
A summer storm broke out
Heavy drops over a protective branch
Soaked leaves falling
Thunder made a child cry
And another one cover ears

Wind gets stronger and I’m cold
As I remember and dream
Of our fearless uncovered smiles
Inflated deflated empty
Steps get back nearer home
Going crazy with that sight
Of you climbing a wall you feel I am
When you’re already a mountain

We will take on lives
With handfuls of hopes
Dreaded bells freezing
And nipples sneezing
All melting warmhearted
Into good light

“People would like to be able to take a pill that makes their fear and anxiety go away and makes them immediately feel peaceful. This is impossible. One must develop the mind over time and cultivate mental immunity. Often people ask me for the quickest and best solution to a problem. Again, this is impossible. You can have quickest or you can have best solution, but not both. The best solution to our suffering is mental immunity, but it takes time to develop.”

– Dalai Lama (The Book of Joy)

Robage – NO SMOKING

“Sadness rages like a great fire, though in mind, there is no wood.
A storm of tears pours down ceaselessly, though in the sky of my eyes there are no clouds.” *

– Shabkar

* In an eureka: https://www.lionsroar.com/when-sadness-rages-like-fire/#_ftn1

Two dancing light yellow butterflies
to welcome me home today
Fortunate stranger I have become
to meet you in the drain
Sun burning my skull
and fingers going numb
with stiff smiles are gone with
paralytic realms mirroring
a silent disgrace that doesn’t say
name or age or weight or shape
because it has to be forgotten
to fit.

Smiling big stranger I have become
by seeing your graceful swift dances
from grassy island on sea of concrete
to small flowery tower
about to poke the nearest cloud
for rain.

If I hadn’t fallen for a robber a while ago
and found rober* in the dictionary tonight
I might still be thinking of you.

Time says NO SMOKING in the rain
dripping leaves
as we sing under a sky of trees.

* Rober: v. t. entourer les cigares d’une feuille extérieure, dite robe (Larousse)

MC

MC Disappointment digs deep
down the forehead lines

“J’accuse” takes its toll
as a soft multilayered hoof
that springs to joy
when wisdom is greeted
with gentle tenderness
I love those moments
of more love found
deep down in the digs
Long gone dead I’d be
without them
Just like this illusory MC
growing donkey ears
and mercy, MC