20150829 Katrina 10

I went to the K10 on the levee this morning for yoga with New Orleans.  I was not sure how I would feel leading into today I repressed, not wanting to open my eyes.  In the moment of the morn I stared into the sun a bit.  Here are some words I wrote before and after a practice with some fellow humans. 

Pre yoga

All pushed too much into a capsule of time as if life was not an extrapolation of the antimonies of doing and being fluxing in dance.  I remember the heat drowning in the cacophonies heart bellowing the boundaries reestablishing the wan of chaotic disbursement assurances that entropy ruled the wager.  The still-grind technology of man’s grip of toes against the floor that Orleans was New Babylon falling.  The tide of slavery cresting in broken levees mold-spore diaspora speckling shock waterlines undulating tumult.  The bodies stare boldly shim-sham glue shingles swirling like eye brows shaven off bustling wildly as if to stare into that face one has double-take.  The prompt of this is human wanting to be seen, but struggling for the foundational construct of assumption.  The trades of tears and laughter piercing packets of eggshell licked to index fingers reassembling above the water.  The fragments inundated, fissured, and drunk, cackling to be fearless.  This city is not fearless.  We cry daringly like turtles bolting green necks to be in the moment of now seeing the sky ready to eat us alive singing to the clouds anyway.   

Post yoga

Some days are the waning, this is a day of wax, burgeoning palpable from the caked tone of ache faith in the acceptance that no one is ever ready.  The sunrise stalks in a blind battalion lemon drop tongue film roll flipping suggestions for grain or sugar at the wake to stow in catacomb ant hills.  Preparation absent readiness, some days cycle not in mastering distance between a then and in now, but acceptance that there has, is, and always only a now. 

I lay my body to the work of the mat, gray neon flower unfolded across fresh cut New Orleans levee grass.  Bodies in a gird perpendicular lines, this ego’s chance askew 42 degrees facing the CBD across the Mississippi.  Coast Guard and tugs moving the water. Sun glint side angle into triangle humming like bees in breath.  The poetry of witness, ants scour trails pitons into skin bites and tickles sparkle in the darkness.  Eye is closed tasting the darkness on tongue, savoring the decade in stitches of mulch, wandering in river breeze.  I am on their turf, the space of dreamed hills flushed and reborn, timeless carried stillness in absolute motion, boundless dirty on dry levee. 

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I wrote this in my notebook watching the water.  I read Marrero a collection of poems by Kataalyst Alcindor from beginning to end quietly soaking in the pace.  I met a woman named Sherry and a gentleman named Aziz.  Talked, real conversation, both about philosophy, being human, writing, art, a good start to a day of letting go, evolution.