FOREVER “you”…
My childhood friend, and through the years, we've grown together, shared joy and tears, were bonded like the day and night, our hearts forever will unite, you've given me, a chance to be, a friend forever, most definitely, I am forever, there is no end, you'll always be, my most best friend, each day and night, I keep you near, always know, that I am here. Thank you for, the love you've shared, nothing else can compare, So much we've grown, and been all through, forever is forever you.
Poem by Lajuana Lampkins
©️copyright Lajuana Lampkins
September 2023
near invisible,
imagine silk organza, chameleoned
peach-pink colored, when i Am naked,
the color of water as i bathe.
sky blue, golden, sherbet, grayed or midnight black,
when i Am outside
ever-shifting with the time of day and weather,
once, even green,
as i knelt down in the cold grass
while diaphanous to all the unobservant
i Am dressed in this cloak of mourning
and the hem is lined with lead
Continue reading “the mourning cloak”autumn
was the last season of her life
the northwest wind carried her away
easier than gossamer
the golden light
stole her attention, as per
halted her forward motion, as per
the Sun’s set
would be the first
without Her, earthside
she took some photos, as per,
/but also, to remember that very first one/
she then acknowledged
that the Sun, Moon and Stars
herald no one’s birth, announce no one’s death
and perhaps that’s why
the Star of Bethlehem
and a midday eclipse
the first night, the long night
the first sleep
sobbing or wailing into oblivion
eyes forced shut by swollen lids
eventually the mammalian body
succumbs to the exhaustion
from the metabolic expenditure of emotional agony and adrenaline
the next morning
the first sweet seconds of confusion of time and place
as the tender light or familiar sounds of daybreak
breach the senses
a suspension of forgetting
the devastation of yesterday
those must be the most ephemeral moments
in human consciousness
then a stirring
a shifting in bed
an adjustment of position
breaks the magic of sleep
the anvil of non-specific grief returns to the chest
the coils of hopelessness entwine the limbs
the throat gasps
Continue reading “the first 24 hours of loss”the last meal that She cooked for herself
was in the late afternoon of the 18th of September the Year of Our Hearts, 2023
that same evening
She would spend the last night together alone with her only child, her son, in Their house on Adams Street
he had already stopped at Chik-fil-A
– or Quesabroso? for his dinner
he, sixteen forever, for Her, not even licensed for a year yet
She thought, then said aloud to him
“pasta. i want some pasta.”
and so She very slowly set about
choosing saucepans, boiling water,
sautéing a little ground beef with a bit of diced onion, and minced garlic from a giant container from Costco,
adding in a half jar of Rao’s Original, some dried herbs — nothing too spicy or fancy now,
cooking her favorite gluten-free rigatoni,
or was it penne, mostaccioli?
She ate, rinsed the pots, loaded and ran the dishwasher, put the combined leftovers in her fridge
and at dinner time the very next day,
She told her oldest and dearest friend about it
her friend listened, and watched Her plate, reheat, and sit down to eat those leftovers — She wanting to do all that for Herself, still
She taking the smallest and most intentional bites possible,
every delicate swallow and cough amplified in the too-big-for-two, unusually quiet house, the parade of Her friends and visitors gone until tomorrow
“i’m not supposed to drink with these meds, but lemme have just one lil’ sip of your wine”
Continue reading “the last meal of a woman”she lacks an authorial voice
her words written and spoken
a stream of
predictive text, parroted speech
her critical and narrative content indistinguishable from AI
except AI is more
nuanced, intuitive,
less clichéd, less shrill, wittier /
stuck in a closed circuit, which she proudly calls her “circle”
and what he euphemistically calls “the perimeter”
regurgitation is their dialect //
he parlayed
to be her favorite toy, tethered to her scratching post, center stage
and boy, does she scratch and meow, and meow and scratch, always coughin’ up a whollotta nuthin’
she’s amplified her own acoustics over his
and he doesn’t recognize his own voice or hear his own thoughts, anymore ///
alone only at church and in the shower
he confesses, prays aloud
for his own deafness
or for the return of her disinterest — an ironic twist ////
i missed the rise of the
Full Moon last night,
preoccupied in thought
hands busy in work
she missed the rise of the
Full Moon last night
preoccupied in pain
early to bed, early to bed-ridden
i say, i will witness Her tonight
waning only slightly, gibbous,
99, 98 percent
or next month,
with confidence, and guilt
i say, she won’t witness Her tonight,
or next month, or any phase
Zero percent
wondering if she ever considered the Moon,
with confidence, and guilt
the word “full” lingers on beyond the Moon’s illumination
— as relative,
in these lives of ours
I am not nesting
for the birth of a baby
I am harboring
for the death of a friend
the path of the hylic
she had always prized
quantity over quality
with both people and money
never interrogating
the integrity or provenance of either
never asking the hard questions of herself
nor pursuing the big ones,
now,
she’s left only with errant glitter,
an impotent wand,
a cortège of pink fools,
her plated crown of paste jewels, atop her head, askew
you see, i knew that was all distraction, decoy, masked unconfidence
home, is within your Self
so, i chose to be [come] “Wicked”,
i wear my gold
in my bones,
in my blood.
Continue reading “popular!”first in a series
The Entrance Gate on the far bank of The River Tuoni according to the Kalevala and as depicted by Finnish artist Hugo Simberg
In this piece, which is an interpretation of one of many universal myths which impart the water crossing and trek we all are to embark upon after death,
most of the departed climb up the steep, barren embankment and enter the tunnel individually, while a child and a dog are tenderly escorted — led by the hand or carried by chthonic monks into the tunnel leading to the
Underworld
the tunnel appears under geological strata — presumably the surface of Earth, with blue sky and forest in background above it
interestingly, the artist’s limited use of perspective also allows the sky and forest to be viewed potentially as the Great Beyond itself — as a Northern or Alpine “paradise,” a Valhalla, beyond the sojourn in and through the tunnel
a high, solid, wooden fence bisects the river, embankment and tunnel and prevents arrivals from observing the exiting monks — only one-way vision and traffic for the dead
and while the monks do not cast shadows, the human figures continue to be accompanied by their shadows; for those who subscribe to Jungian analytical psychology or gnostic texts, the physical shadow depicted may be interpreted symbolically as the anima/animus of the person — which would ultimately disappear during the tunnel upon the full reintegration of the Self/Soul/Spirit
through re-unification with one’s divine twin (which is sometimes also called the cosmic/celestial twin or daimon) after having been separated during human incarnation and birth.
author’s note:
i often and prefer to call the underworld aka afterlife “The Great Wide Open of the All” — which in my liminal gleanings is a supremely contented blackness of universal consciousness, devoid of thought or sensation — a perfected existence in the dark cosmic fabric of nothingness,
there may be levels in the afterlife which may manifest our own personal imaginal constructs of paradise — far beyond what our limited sensory perception and experiences of life on Earth are - such as, an Alpine Paradise upon emerging from the tunnel -
i know full well the breathtaking beauty and feeling upon exiting a scary and lengthy mountain tunnel where my heart and eyes are stunned by a grand vista of forest, peaks and sky — from my many road trips in the Western U.S.
yet, i truly prefer the former — when i die, i want to rest for all eternity — although with just one desire, one sensation: warmth.
she sips a glass
of wine
and admits, agrees
she too, doesn’t want to be
on this prison planet
under these archons,
guided and insulated by sadistic angels,
both, in servitude to the demiurge
no escaping it, Them
even in Bucolia
she’s still plagued by the 24-hour news cycle,
contemplation that often veers off into nihilism,
and, by bouts of suicidal ideation
— but to go back around, back to another false birth in this Samsara, to start over? — no thanks //
perhaps crying in the wilderness, then.
where is that, exactly?
the mountains, buttes and canyons also betray us — those ancient Watchers, the petroglyphs warned us of
— and of shapeshifters cloaked in feathers, fur and scales ///
she knows she can’t save her Self, preserve her Pneuma and reunite with her Daimon,
solely with an Earth-based practice of resistance
and, so begins the invocation, the genesis of her mission,
she supposes the element of surprise may be compromised by Their so-called omniscience
but who knows – what They actually know
even gods have blindspots
even gods sleep and fuck — or mindlessly scroll and binge
we, Their creation, create Their content, after all
yes.
she will go to Them
traversing the liminal terrain
to find and kill Them in their confident repose in the Kenoma
John Roderick wrote the above line and repeats it seven times(!) in his song, “The Commander Thinks Aloud”— about the Space Shuttle Columbia Disaster that happened February 1, 2003
and, if I’m not careful, I will start to cry during the first verse
The Commander Thinks Aloud
Boys and girls in cars
Dogs and birds on lawns
From here I can touch the sun
Put your jackets on
I feel we're being born
The Tropic of Capricorn is below
We stall above the pole
Still your face is young
As we feel our weight return
A trail of shooting stars
The horses call the storm
Because the air contains the Charge
The radio is on
And Houston knows the score
Can you feel it, we're almost home
The crew compartment's breaking up
The crew compartment's breaking up
The crew compartment's breaking up
The crew compartment's breaking up
(This is all I wanted to bring home)
The crew compartment's breaking up
(This is all I wanted to bring home)
The crew compartment's breaking up
(This is all I wanted to bring home)
The crew compartment's breaking up
This is all I wanted to bring home to you
Songwriter: John Roderick, The Long Winters
The Commander Thinks Aloud lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Rough Trade Publishing
this song — since the very first time i (belatedly) heard and learned about it on the Song Exploder podcast in 2016 — became an instant melancholic metaphor-lamentation for me, even while retaining it’s very visceral and intended meaning —
at first, for the climate chaos we face on our communal spaceship — Spaceship Earth,
as in, “hey, do you realize we’re floating in space?” — then, why are we [deliberately] destroying the crew compartment?
and
for our lives — for the simplicity that is both stolen and lost
in the daily struggle — of and against exploitation, repression and oppression; in the daily drama of our dis/mis/mal contentment; in the daily, unnecessary grasping, striving, amassing and hoarding — whether for – or of, wealth, land, power, influence, reputation, career, fame, control or privilege —
or, in orbiting the Earth in a shuttle or space station or landing on the Moon in a spacecraft — when we could’ve just been human beings caretaking of this Eden and of each other.
and personally,
Continue reading ““The crew compartment’s breaking up””The US accounts for more than a third of the expansion of global oil and gas production planned by mid-century, despite its claims of climate leadership, research has found.
Canada and Russia have the next biggest expansion plans, calculated based on how much carbon dioxide is likely to be produced from new developments, followed by Iran, China and Brazil. The United Arab Emirates, which is to host the annual UN climate summit this year, Cop28 in Dubai in November, is seventh on the list.
Fiona Harvey, Environment Editor, The Guardian, September 12, 2023
Damned² :
Damned if we do; damned even faster if we stop.
The thin wisps of condensation that trail jet airliners have a significant influence on the climate, according to scientists who studied U.S. skies during a rare interruption in national air traffic after the September 11 terrorist attacks.
Richard Stenger for CNN, August 8, 2002
only the immediate cessation of industrial
civilization could’ve saved us – 50, 80 or more years ago, that is /
but now, we are dependent on industrial civilization for everything including the Catch-22 conundrum of the Aerosol Masking Effect aka “global dimming” //
the “aerosol masking effect” where pollutant aerosols emitted into Earth’s atmosphere by human industrial activity reflect the Sun’s heat and mitigate the rise in global average temperature and artificially “cool” the planet —
but here’s the rub: as we draw down industrial activity – with falsely fantastical greener energy alternatives and “cleaner” industrial operations, we lose that artificial benefit and global temperatures will rise even more and faster because of the opposite effects of global brightening or demasking (colloquially known as: The McPherson Paradox for Prof. Guy McPherson, guymcpherson.com) ///
if the World’s population begins to understand that the aerosol and particulate pollution from some of the worst industries and practices — those that also emit the greenhouse gases that cause global heating, fuel climate chaos and drive ecological destruction and collapse — is also simultaneously and artificially cooling the planet — keeping global temperatures lower than what they actually would be
— and that the warming effects of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere last centuries or decades longer than the near instantaneous effects of aerosol demasking,
Changes to our atmosphere associated with reactive gases (gases that undergo chemical reactions) like ozone and ozone-forming chemicals like nitrous oxides, are relatively short-lived. Carbon dioxide is a different animal, however. Once it’s added to the atmosphere, it hangs around, for a long time: between 300 to 1,000 years. Thus, as humans change the atmosphere by emitting carbon dioxide, those changes will endure on the timescale of many human lives.
Alan Buis, “The Atmosphere: Getting a Handle on Carbon Dioxide”, NASA Jet Propulsion Lab
maybe then, they will realize — there is no time for hope — only hospice.
Continue reading “Earthling in Planetary Hospice: the 9/11 closure of North American airspace: climate scientists observe the great Catch-22 — the Aerosol [De]Masking Effect”
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 