Amygdalai Lama

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Time stood still somewhere inside of Sedona. Ripped up jeans and stale chicharrons plunging from your mouth as your voice box echoed ruins aside Chapel of the Holy Cross. You expected God to rip herself from the dirt and kick you in the shins, as all women – kissing you mouth to mouth so hard it sucks out the brain tumor from your aging carcass.

Your amygdala is clear. Never a blackout. Your fists are clean. Never a blackout. You create new memories that feel blossomed from a virgin soul, like snow on the crest of Sedona that you never knew existed until now.

We live in a timeline of bad news and triggers that stress our fingertips and eyelids to the point we clench our bodies so tight it blocks out the sun and blood pressures rise. The truth is that no part of you is cured. Your heart prays, unfolding itself across red dust – though you know from the depth of the core between your ribcages that miracles are all or nothing. And you expect nothing less than the accuracy of genetics to eat away at you in a karmic cataclysm that smells of melted orchid and Chilean black tea – or fifteen years of history soaked in Seattle coffee with undertones of tobacco and statutory rape.

Keeping up the pace of your own footsteps, we follow the red rocks down towards a ruddy creek where hippies do yoga after a sunrise hike – your tongue soaking up the sediment that runs through the valley where we drag our flat feet. You collapse – without inhibition – clouds seizing a cascade of canyons, seven drops of rain on your face that bludgeon the kismet creature of your conceptive moves and pious motivations. You think about your infertility and plagued genetics, a set of DNA that causes us to take trips alone and childless with a marriage only legal in another country where neither of us would ever live. You think about all the things that lead to this point, lying in red dirt and waiting for God to lick your pupils even though the only thing you truly believe in is dirty destiny and the hallucinogenic effects of quality marijuana.

How many monologues did you recite in your toxic brain? How many melodies did you sing to yourself to soothe your soul into submission? Never a blackout. Release the guilt from clenching knuckles so tight they turn white and pop veins in your wrist. You tell yourself that even the Dalai Lama knew the shape of personal scandal.

I can’t fault you for wanting more by temporarily believing in miracles with the conviction that it would repair what your broken brain has done to the both of us. A hostile distraction from all-encompassing love. A destiny so dirty it led us to the crown of a Holy Cross in the middle of a desert surrounded by the anticipation of nothingness.

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