Bright Red Dress (a.k.a. Anima)


She wears the Bright Red Dress, dances on marble table-tops


Has that perfect laugh — Head tilted back


You know the kind.


Yes, she’s That Kind


The kind they like to put in slow-motion


On the movie-screens


The kind who gives the teens


Wet dreams


And makes men stiffen in their theater seats


As they squirm over to one side


So the wife won’t see


The hard evidence of their fantasies.


Yes, she’s That Kind –


Her smile blinds,


Those wide big eyes


Blink innocently


While what they think is underneath – unbridled sensuality


Simmers through transparently


Because it ain’t necessarily


Her own sensuality


But I won’t bore you with


Such Things.


They all imagine she’s Untouchable


While fiending oh-so-desperately —


To touch her ever-endlessly…


Projecting every wanted woman they have ever seen


Unconsciously on that Bright Red Dress


She happens to be wearing.


Betting to themselves deep down, “I know her and she knows me.


And if I could only win her over, she’d see we’re meant to be.”


Oh, how they think Know her!


And there is some magic quality.


I’m not sayin’ she don’t have it —


It just ain’t the Realest thing.


‘Cause they all think she’s the Virgin Mary


And Madonna —


Goddesses Sophia and Innana —


Some twisted kind of Freudian mama


That they secretly beg to Keep.


Sweet souls just projecting onto her


Their hopeful, true-love dreams.


Nothin’ wrong with this except


When the woman removes the dress


She hopes the men who said


She was the greatest thing since whole-grain bread


Will be able to, instead,


Love the regular, plain ol’ “me.”


You know — the very real wife beside them


In the theater seat.














The Path of Heart

It doesn’t have to be Some Big Thing

You do today.

The Inner Judge that Pushes you

Also Leads Astray.

The Thing inside that Punishes

The Thing that ever-states,

“It doesn’t matter what you want,

Just do exactly as I say.”

We all have that Thing inside us

We may call it by different names

But the Harsh Advice it gives us

Always sounds the same.

It Beats Us Up with Expert Reasons

Harvested in self-harm, for

When a child falls or stumbles —

Does it help to also break his arm?

So when this Thing attacks you

It helps to know He’s there

It helps to know His twisted Tricks

It helps to Stay Aware.

When the Punisher has got the whip

And He’s giving you your twenty licks

Look again and understand

The whip itself

Is in your hand.

You can choose to Notice that!

Call on a different inner part:

Let your Warrior take over

And choose the Path of Heart.

The Bullet Rose

Did you know…

There is a name for a rose that never blooms?

It closes so tightly in on itself that it cannot open.

They call it the Bullet Rose.

It never gets the glorious, torturous Break Down that screams, “Yes! Yes I am alive!”

Instead its petals are like arms crossed defiantly over a chest refusing to let any feeling in.

And isn’t that the Real Tragedy?

Because something happens in the breakdown:

It is the undefinable Mark of Chaos;

A mark that becomes clear-cut only by its utter Confusion where




Going into total Dissolution;

Caterpillar liquifies

Suffers to become butterfly

And so, too, do I.

I know by now It is coming.

Ah but I fight it, I fear the pain.

“Not again

Not again.”

But yes.


That is where Acceptance comes in

And having a memory that can hold onto knowing

That the Break is never The End.

We either evolve or regress or worse yet…

Stay fixed;

Hiding too long in one place

We erroneously believe is safe.

Like the poor Bullet Rose

That never gets the Beauty of the Break.

Nor the Resurrection that is only faithful moments