On my way today to fly away
to a summit on a mountain of fire
a retired rabbi gave me my taxi ride
saying it was chosen destiny for us to speak...
I mentioned how we're all up shit creek
without our field commander
only a commander and thief
assaulting us with fear + hate
in the place of good grief.
He glanced in the rearview mirror
then looked forward, clearer than clergy,
and praised the power of crisis in emergency,
pushing progress through complacency,
birthing rosebush seeds of fecal flame.
He told me how the Cheyenne named
the two wolves that live inside us,
one good, one bad—the one we feed rides us.
How with deep-dark festering disease pests,
only when they leave their nests can we stomp,
clean, find blessed rest.
I said yes, let's ring these liberty bells like holy hell:
let the cracks swell, let light and thundering sound
quake and cleanse forgotten, rotten ground.
As he helped me unload my baggage
he reminded me to carry my ancestors
in my heart, not on my shoulders, in my fist or
projecting perfection's lists on their homes
built in the midst of howling history.
On parting we agreed to greet
the growing gifts of the Shekhinah,
the divine feminine on the rise.
We will gift her prized milk
to the good wolf in us and in our folk,
and in our enemies until they're filled.