Like rain on the ocean

my bungalow

This is for Monica

Thailand:

Amongst the colorful batiks and scampering ceiling geckos I lay sheathed in a paper thin white cotton sheet, lying on a small bed just inches above the mat floor of my open-air bungalow, hearing only the sounds of the ocean palms blowing, and the sway of my hammock while I was painfully dying. 

Through the sweat and tears of my fevered mirage, I can now see life in its truth and purity, falling like rain on the ocean. I have in my time, traveled the entire world in search of the unattainable. I wanted it all, wanted it to be  all, I wanted to let it all be in me. Now that I will never know, I still wondered, could I, and or, could there be no more Michelangelo’s or another Camille Claudel, Balzac, or Thomas within me?

 I see so clearly now how we suffocate in a cocoon of fear shadowed by metallic intelligence where no blood flows or tears fall - especially for pain, wonderful pain.

Pain that is now to us shame - our life source - our gift of creative fire we are burning for whom? Our pain has given us eyes that can pierce rocks to see what freaks

of nature breathe in such solid empty spaces. I have seen more than I understand. I have seen God when looking up from Hell.

 In desperation we pull out snails from their shells and then curl our pinky finger around in the empty coil only to feel the texture of its feces left in the bottom. We are not intense, nor loud - We are only alive and spread through the Universe like a fungus of fools.

We die a thousand deaths a lifetime and are yin and yang circling the planet without a trail. All of man I see now, And as we sit on our doorsteps in China and smoke harsh tobacco, we stare through the smoke into Africa, Nepal, India,.. And have seen lepers and the crippled and dying that crawl to us and we stare in silence because it is so overwhelmingly, wonderfully, real. And then it is lost in falling tears while it stares back.

Gary and Monica

We lay in sickness, smelling our own rotting flesh and hallucinate and dream and tonight we dream again. Tomorrow we cry, we love, we kill and we die again.

We drink the ocean to see where the sun has set and scream in the streets in the faces of dead souls - we are that grateful dead and capable of witnessing our own birth. I felt my first fever in Bangladesh, that beats and cries in starvation -So much beautiful humanity –

the desire to touch it, to rub its dirt on our naked bodies. It's there, as is Calcutta, as is Heaven, Eternity and here - right here in this very spot i lay dying.

Where you bleed and roll around on the floor - scream for our mothers, scream because we are lonely, scream like we did in the womb. Our hands devour all to feel its texture, to slice the veins of stone and cut the hearts of trees and my body still withering, screaming in feverish agony on the shores of Thailand where I finally at one point bled into the sand.

 God has ripped me from the womb of Hell, I had though, and it sent an earthquake through your soul and made you my soul-mate. And tomorrow again we will walk the endless wheel, we will walk for days, for months, maybe years and more, and then we will again simply burst into flames and burn the forests, turn the sky red

and beat drums made of our own hides. Beat like the rhythm of our Souls, beat like time...we are alive, we

are alive, we are alive!. But for now it is time to die.

All my love, my blood, I say goodbye, Jimmy