Yoga Defector

He is my strength. His words are our gifts. I bow for him. My eyes will thirst from any piece of advice he affords me. Waiting lost like the stray of all dogs, I need his attention, to tell me I have plans, what my future is. His kingdom is built on the grand ideology of all people rise. My face barely grazes the floor as I salute his sun. His fire is heating the solar panels of my back, as I promise, and I do not know why. My skins breaks out, my stress goes nowhere, It is his perfect ideology, his malleable crony that I have become, to have others tell me that I will never be one, but deep down, the more I adapt all of his opinions, soon I will be no one, I will be everything he needs.


I needed to be there earlier than usual. Fearing about my weight, I would peddle as fast as I could. Running through green, anxious for the end of red. Colliding with metal, silver and red with my blood. A wet puddle seeping into open wounds, a ramshackle helmet. Bruises and obscenities as I throw my bike to the local repair shop to board a train. I swallow five pills, five pounds off and five thousand more brain cells screaming, no vinyassa for a hollow mind. Blood on my hands and rushing to the room, stumbling in, with olives for pupils. Brick with wood as he comes in, adorned in the casual nature of a long haired middle aged guru. Thirsty for words and a living cause for frustration, I transform under the perform of how much I can do as long as it is good for the collective.


Running away from friends, dismissing those who wanted to share hearts, and falling to every person in a mess of sweat and sunken eyes. This is a famine of independence, empathy, and self reliance. It is not his words that are the issue that makes this equation of the utmost national security, it is the willingness to be fooled because you wanted to be created in something new. The only person who can eliminate foolish fears is me but I want it to be my leader. More pills. More words. More articles and criticism. A self criticism as my usual wardrobe has grown to large for my waist. Feeling my stomach, analyzing it for any fat. Even subcutaneous fat is unwelcome, but it will be there, that is the reality of someone needing to survive. Imagine the people who are deliberately not fed to be eliminated. As a Yoga Defector I am the height of arrogance, the paragon of insecurity, the perfect loser specimen to self help gurus. I am the wet dream of the Marriot Conference room head set $500 a day Mr. Fix it and nothing can stop me. 


The downward spiral is not something that can be foreseen. Your world understands that the oceans of your tears are about to set on fire like the Cuyahoga. The artificial Juche with which you live by and close to is singing in dialects that are tongues whom the Pentocostal is afraid to utter the phrases that I will sing on the muggy streets of a city that I have created with a fetid brain. Holes grow bigger, money is spent, and I drink. I drink till the bile in my stomach cries to my fingernails and spills onto the asphalt of the street, a warm body underneath me and I am unaware. More wretch and bile, dyed hair and kiehls in the shower. We will overcome, I will destroy and die alone on the hills of the layers of skin that I have shed to milk from the unfocused eyes of those who consort with me.


Recognition. I know what is happening, dragged away from the mat and the universe that seems more enjoyable when you are on your head has revealed as much as it has taken. I am lost, and turning my own converts. Mirror masking the man who was the ultimate Anti-Hero. Play the man at his own game, hiding from him, realizing that I am the fool, he refuses to accept my Autonomy and exile begins post haste. The rest of the diplomatic team is dismissive as well, for the fallen jester does not get the laughs when the blood is real and not false. He turns his false love to false hate. Eyes that burned with ardent fervor, now burn with destructive hate. Turning to all the wrong alter egos and wandering lost it is no wonder that anger is incited all over the valley. Chet Baker no longer wants to sing to him. Wine no longer has grapes, but instead the rubbing alcohol that is his blood stream. Anyway for me to not find fault, is the Cu chi tunnels that are growing longer, more narrow, the recessive traits eviscerating the competition to be a kind person.


World travel will not stop it. Conversion will not stop it. Meditation does not do any good. Legal and Illegal drugs secretly fuck behind close doors. No matter how hard he tries, his longs collapse but won't fill with air. It is always hot and stagnant and his belly erupts with non-growing pains. You can run anywhere you want to, but their is not a light in sight. A port has closed, rusty fences block everyone from the beach, and when he tries to find someone to blame. I find the he is me, the hammer and tools in my hands for the pillbox I have created. For so long I have wanted to say I hate you to my Grand Marshal. The cure I realized, although long and hard, requires me to look in the mirror, and to see that I have not defected from Yoga but from the milk of Human kindness.