A newly-arrived Los Angeles transplant takes part in a no-refunds-provided spiritual journey.
Quickly disposing of our corporate Starbucks coffee cups in fear of being judged by hemp-loving, incense-burning, damn-the-Man hippies, we walked into the Manhattan Beach Marriott. The room was markedly less Marriott than anticipated: an ambiance that consisted of a 30-chair circle and a maraca rattling, rain stick thrusting, and indigenous Amazonian drum pounding ditty awaited us…
Don’t shy me away
like a kiss kept
behind curious lips,
complete the distance
between our air, show me
what tunnel hurricanes taste like
in the winter, navy in the fire
of a match in the cold
struck by our touch, underground,
held together in a hug,
a furnace, faint
in the flicker of a shiver
when we part, warm
like a home for two.
It’s hard being present when the future seems to be right behind it. Like even this very moment is a lie. It takes a lot to make me forget that we can be true in an instant. That anything can. But I don’t remember to fear when I’m with you.
Tomorrow never comes.