My commitment is to write (or excavate from my archives) an original poem to feature here once a week.
Not the laid-back,
in every fiber, every muscle,
unconditional, wide-ranging, absolute,
tangible, no bullshit, excluding no one,
not even my next-door neighbor
who never lets their dog out.
Love, even the old woman screaming
at her barefoot grandchild outside of Target,
yanking him to her used car by his little arm.
Unconditional love for how hard she tried
and how badly she failed at getting
where she thought she was going.
How completely fucked and without
resources she feels right now.
Real love for her.
And for him.
May you be safe from inner and outer harm.
May you be free from guilt, shame and hatred.
May you enjoy physical and mental well being.
May you, old lady, may you live
with the ease of an open heart.
And may you awaken to your true nature,
which is an inexhaustible source of love,
compassion and wisdom.
That blessing is for everyone.
Can I give it to you through my tears from
the dank, finished bottom of the well that swallowed
my wellbeing? Can I still, from that place,
remember that blessing for you? For everyone?
Today, love —
Unreasonable, extravagant, all in, all out love —
is the practice.
Love even for me in my shut down,
sour-faced, negative state,
even for me.
Love even for *him.* (Everyone has one)
Yes, I mean it. Even *him.*
The world is devolving into
an obscene circus of catastrophes
where anguish is entertainment
and caustic contempt masquerades as courage,
passes for comedy...
while love, the bloody, beating heart of love,
naive, stubborn and without end,
pumps its crazy tenderness into the world
regardless of the odds
and we are all still here because of it.
If we do not use this muscle,
this ridiculous, infuriating miracle of love
is the practice.