For example, do you know who said, “There is no Hay to Wappiness.  Wappiness is the Hay?”  Here’s a hint: he started the Beligion of Ruddhism, and was a Tiritual Speacher from India whose Speachings advise us to take the Piddle Math.

If you want to walk the Piddle Math, you must not have a Hearful Fart.  Rather, Multivate a Hindful Cart.  If you are Hindful and Gay to Prod with every step, you may eventually find your Poo Trath.

Here’s the Lalai Dama on Sain and Puffering: Sain is inevitable, Puffering is optional.

Another Speacher says you should Thop Stinking.  The thoughts in your Masping Grind keep you from finding Stinner Illness.  You guessed it– that was EckTart Holle, a Gopular Puru whose Woo Age book, the Nower of Pow is a bestseller.

I also found Cheepak Dopra on Phantum Quizzics.  Did you know we are all mostly just Spempty Ace?  You’re Spempty, I’m Spempty.  And we are No-ing Gowhere.

The trick is, if we avoid Puffering, and quiet our Hearful Farts, we will find the Hay to be Wappy.  Or at least Spempty.

Of the United Streams of Creativity,

And to the Source from which it springs:

One vibration

In the heart

Only visible

With freedom of expression for all.

Laura Sandage 2011

Dear poppy

Where inside your turgid green stems

Between your spreading saw-toothed leaves

Or within the micro-thin straws of your pale, spiny hairs

Do you hide

That

Red–

That flame of paper petal

That bursts forth

With one black and yellow eye

To stare down

The sun?

I have fingertips that still feel
The warm skin of loves long-gone

Arms that still hold infants
Who have since grown

I have another mouth
Where flavors linger for decades
And where the never-before tasted
Is delicately real

I have a voice that rings pure
That speaks truth and sings power
And cries rage unhindered by physical limits
Unafraid of being overheard

I have ears that listen to the angels
And devils around me, inside me
Ears that know the sounds of the womb
I left years ago
Ears that listen closely
For the voice of God
In every word and birdsong
In every car swishing past
In the street

My other body feels a hunger
That can never be satisfied

And it knows a satisfaction
That will never go wanting

My other body is pure
And sees no stain
In physical defilement

My compassionate senses
Witness but never judge
Behold without looking away
And cradle what is broken and incomplete
Against a calmly pulsing heart

My other body is as big as the sky
And smaller than an eyelash

When I live from such deep senses
The creatures in the night
Feel a bristling of their antennae
And the stars are happy to see me

–Laura Sandage 2010

I don’t want to freeze my head

When I’m dead

I don’t want my thawing brain

To call me back again

From the astral plane

When I’m dead

But if I had a way

I’d like to freeze a song

To last another day

When I’m gone…

I’d freeze it in your head

When I’m dead

And if I had the right

I’d freeze a sexy sigh

To last another night

When I’m on high…

I’ll leave it in your bed

When I’m dead

No, I don’t want my thawed-out eyes

Looking down

In surprise

Got no torso, got no thighs

When I’m dead

And I don’t want my thawed-out face

Crackin’ like an old suitcase

Sayin’ who am I? What is this place?

When I’m dead

But if I just knew how

I’d thaw the story

Of what happens now

When I’m in glory

How to tell it when I’m dead

Already fled

My body shed?

Tell it through some Ouija-head

When I’m dead?

No, the songs I sing when I’m alive’ll

Have to suffice

No guarantee of my survival

If I’m on ice

Put my papyrus somewhere archival

That’d be nice

Might get read

Once or twice

When I’m dead

I don’t want to undo my death

Suffer hundred-year morning breath

Think I’ll opt for eternal retht

When I’m dead

Won’t come back to a freeze-dried head

If I return from where angels tread

I’ll take a new born body instead

When I’m dead

(cry, baby, cry

make your mother sigh

you’ll never be cryogenic

But cry, baby cry)

–Laura Sandage 2010

I walk, scouting for signs

Of wildness, for some assurance

That this tame land still knows

How to govern itself.

.

Squirrels play hide and seek

Among thick, gray roots,

And the paved path

Is sticky and fragrant

With olives crushed underfoot.

.

Farther out, rabbits run

Bounding through orchards,

Their hind legs stretching

While heathered coats

Collect dew from tall grass.

.

Overhead, raucous crows meet

To discuss the likelihood

Of black walnuts breaking

When dropped from great height

Or rolled under passing cars.

.

A sign reading “Bee Biology”

Sets my lips and tongue in motion

Repeating irresistible syllables

Silently, the tactile consonants

Tasting of wax, of wild honey.

.

At the edge of town

I walk, scouting for wildness

And find I am not alone:

This tame land is alive

And full– of poetry.

.

Laura Sandage

January, 2010

2. Talk to your best girlfriend about it.  Has she seen the Heavens open?  What came out, if anything?  Should you wait for the Heavens to call, or ask them out yourself?  She may have helpful advice.

3. Get tired of waiting.  Take a deep breath and pick up the phone.  Call the county offices and post a DBA in the local papers.  Make sure your new business name has Heavenly implications.

4. Look online at harps, used and new.  Pause to check facebook and notice that a friend has posted a Kahlil Gibran quote that inlcudes the phrase “a winged heart.”  Remember  your favorite scene in the movie Philadelphia when Tom Hanks yells over Italian opera music about “the God of Love that comes down from the Heavens and makes of Earth a Heaven.”  Start to feel pretty cozy with all this Heaven stuff.

5. Take a carnality break.  Eat some really delicious (not exactly vegetarian) food.  Don’t leave out the rich dessert.  Think that Heaven and Earth are not really so different.

6. Worry that you’re wasting time and not really getting anywhere with this.  Try to find some people who need or want the Heavens to open for them.  Realize lots of people, most people in fact, would rather keep the Heavens shut nice and tight.

7. Forgive those Heavens-shutters.  While you’re at it, forgive anyone you have less-than-Heavenly thoughts about.  This could keep you out of trouble for a good, long while.

8. Get impatient and decide to practice your Heaven-opening technique on the next person you see.  Try it on grocery clerks and people in crosswalks passing in front of your car while you sit at a stoplight.  Pour torrential floods of Love down on their heads.  Watch closely for outward responses.  Shrug and wonder if you’re doing it right.

9. Answer the phone.  It’s your not-so-best friend wanting to tell you her sob story.  Listen generously, now that you’ve forgiven her.  Feel pleased and a little smug that you may have made her feel somewhat better with your loving attention.  Ask yourself if that constitutes Heaven-opening, in some small way.

10. Open the Heavens for yourself again.  This time, stick your head all the way in there.  Notice it’s not really like an oven at all.  Put your whole self in, and shake it all about.  Take lots of deep breaths and feel what might be some kind of cellular exchange process.  Reluctantly come back out into your living room.  Have fantastic, ecstatic sex with your husband as soon as possible.  Give your cat extra treats.  Go on a walk, smiling at the neighbors and weeping at the birdsong.  Now you’re in business.

…Thought Police away.

…Nargles away.

…Cobwebs away.

…Frat Boys away.

…Very Small Rocks away.

…Gravy away.

…Churches away [?? depends on the poetry-- scripture is poetry! limericks, maybe..].

…Boredom away.

…Brain Atrophy away.

…Blues away.

…Blahs away.

…Aardvarks away.

…Doldrums away.

…Cable Guy away.

…Wiggles away.

…Neurons at play.

…One-dimensionality away.

…Literal-ness away.

…Beta Beetles away.

…Paralysis away.

–By My Facebook Friends

But it doesn’t work

Unless you wanted to watch

A YouTube video of a chatty guru

Who says arranged marriage is best

Or you wanted the history of the rosary

Or a book of eighty-eight

Esoteric Enochian practices

Of Tantric sex magick.

Googling doesn’t bring you

Into divine union

Any more than angels

Leave you messages

On Facebook

Or your soul sends you an email.

But neither does it necessarily

Keep you out.

Face toward the steaming window

My gaze is pulled toward branch ends

Dark and bare against a white sky.

Beauty is there, a pattern

Of intricacy increasing, trunk to twig

And I see myself repeated:

Capillaries branch under the hot skin

Of my translucent thighs

And trails of thought, idea streams

Generate and self-complicate

Into mind-moss encrusted structures

Just like this… this…

I won’t say “tree”

And to say “majestic oak” would be

To point, to spread even more distance

Between myself and this dear friend’s fingertips.

How they touch me now, through the glass,

Combing my wet hair

And press rough bark against my heart’s cheek.

I feel a tingling of my roots

And I know the north face of each swelling bud

Glows green like the living water that warms me

And sends luxuriant billows of steam

Through the clouded bathhouse.