0 Week in city
I’m called on a hotline,
as my timeline aligns.
A time to work,
as guest firekeeper,
between all my other jobs.
But a weeklong detour,
a pre-vacation,
drowns me in a fiendish sinkhole,
that had not been mapped out.
I am struck with an affliction,
chills without the fever,
that send me reeling in place,
around the world.

1 Travel
I take in that familiar unknown,
a private exposure I could get lost in,
that I prefer to get lost in,
so I am never the same,
as are the memories of myself.
There are lines to be tapped here,
leylines, bloodlines, timelines,
a linear convergence of infinite phenomena.

2 Preceremony/Temazcal
I set my intention loose,
letting it bounce through the stones,
until it has ripened and transformed,
becoming the purest version of itself,
a desire for meaning,
in all my being.
They trust my fire,
but want it brighter,
until it can speak to the stars,
a cosmic tether set free.

3 Changa
He starts a petition,
and we all sign on the dotted line,
eager for a familiar experience in a new home.
Stuck with urban impurity,
I prioritize exposure over healing,
and truth over learning.
I find a new rhythm in layered breathing,
as it straightens my warped vision,
of a professional deformation.

4 San Pedro
It takes time to adjust to the flames,
to learn this new dialect,
but soon we are speaking the same language,
as we always did.
I shuffle the stack,
the way it wants to be,
and we get to work.
Old lessons ring in my ears,
until I feel delusional,
but I know I’m not wrong,
I can feel their feelings.
She brings me my love,
and I love her the most,
regardless of the form she currently appears in.
We commune in our embrace,
making a home from our hug.
And then it is my turn.
My purpose rejects me,
misunderstanding my intention.
I recalibrate,
and choose my parts.
I rescue my Work from the edge of sleep,
and thank him,
but there is only one way this will ever play out.
I begin my process,
but I soon forget who I am,
and not in a good way.
I am so distracted that I must move,
giving away the reins,
blindly following what I have set in motion.
I finally come to a stillness,
cradling everything I have in my arms,
and then clap high and low.
Back to my service,
I purge her purging,
scrubbing it from existence,
without thought or disgust.
I am referred up the chain of command,
but my transparency grants me more access,
more connection,
more fire to dance with.
I tell her it felt fake.
I felt the emotions and their impact,
but not their full weight.
Skin pressed on glass,
the appearance, and even the warmth are the same,
all beyond real contact.

5 Yukutuchi
We take a poll.
Yes, of course I want six grams of this mossy medicine.
It started slowly, like last time.
A gentle soreness in my core,
like I worked out too much,
by the time we emerge from our shared womb.
Getting absolutely baked by the sun the day before was probably not a wise choice.
We are set free for the day,
grazing cattle with no activity,
wandering the pasture with nothing to focus on.
I practice making designs with the ash.
Then I start a small fire,
but I can’t even sit up,
to converse with it,
so I pass the firekeeping duty to my brother,
and retreat to my bed.
By now I can’t take a full breath,
breathless for what may be forever.
The soreness has spread deep through my networks,
seeping through my nerves, my veins, muscles and hairs.
I lie but cannot sleep,
though I do not grow restless.
I float thoughtlessly,
a blank state of vague pain until I try to roll over every fifteen minutes.
And then a battle begins,
I use every muscle I have to raise myself,
and flip my corpse.
I never knew how hard existence can be on the body.
I am checked on at night,
like a feverish child,
and told I need to come out and move.
I slowly make my way down the stairs,
reconnecting with my family.
It hurts to walk,
my calf muscle feels so tight in my skin I feel it may snap,
like the crispy skin of a Thanksgiving turkey.
When I breathe too deeply,
a band is cinched around my chest and I grimace.
My eyelids are sore,
my hair follicles are tender,
my balls hurt.
I do laps around the table,
but I know time will be my only cure.
I go back to bed.

6 Mushrooms
Mushrooms, mushrooms.
There are never any mushroom notes.
My brain cannot keep up with my thoughts,
as all that I see,
and all that I am,
blend,
in a breathing kaleidoscope,
seeing familiar songs,
hearing the dim and shifting colors,
smelling the energy.
But I hate to say,
visions can be false,
otherwise I would have three blonde children by now,
and have ascended to another dimension.
Why don’t people talk about this?
I have friends that have had the same experience.
Some teachers will say it didn’t actually come from your heart,
or it may still be in your future,
or it was some past life entanglement.
Maybe nobody really has the answers,
or even a clue,
and like I always say,
the only truth is “I don’t know”.

7 Soul recovery
I’m asked to go first,
in a new process,
dancing a waltz with the fire,
rolli