Deep In the Cut

Sadhguru, a paraphrase:

You smoke weed because you

don’t want to make a decision.

I do say,

you are right,

you are wrong.

The decision I am not making

still makes me do things,

lets the wild be its wild

without suffering the identity of wild.

There is a better way to say what

is knocking alive in the belly,

caught on the outskirts of tongue—

it all feels plexus before its word

I do feel you

Tinge of revolt between fright

and anterior teeth not venturing to spill

what eventually becomes of sound

kept too long without speak, without

communal spark and shaping, water

we forever covet. If I decide to give

it over to ritual or drink it—

                                                          weed bars me

                                                          from making an

                                                          ocean of myself

I do hold on to the rooms

of my ideals and I’m not sure

I’m ready to offer the corner

my floor lamp instead,

rearrange the steady emotion

gotten from having it placed just so.

It’s a matter of comparison:

which relationship offers an alchemy to pursue,

which new creature will break from my congress.

I do petty well, quite professionally, but there’s no yelp about it.

I do lazy for my ancestors, especially for all those enslaved, I rest

and repeat on their behalf, luxuriate like a savage who never

knew she was owned and owed.

The decision I’m not making

won’t come out clean or straight—

I’m not colony, I’m school.

I do admit, bluntly, I want nothing

more than to shut my ego up.

Never will I have the purity I seek,

some unadulterated feeling that merges

us in a holiday of one, we identical in source

and secure in our plenty—

What then is a “decision” but a cut

to indicate our privation, separation, and removal.