Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 16

Call Me a Silly Little Frog…


A scorpion and a frog are sitting on the bank of a river, and both need to get to the other side. 

“Hello, Mr. Frog!” calls the scorpion through the reeds. “Would you be so kind as to give me a ride on your back across the water? I have important business to conduct on the other side. And I cannot swim in such strong current.”

The frog immediately becomes suspicious.

“Well, Mr Scorpion,”he replies, “I appreciate the fact that you have important business to conduct on the other side of the river. But just take a moment to consider your request. You are a scorpion. You have a large stinger at the end of your tail. As soon as I let you onto my back, it is entirely within your nature to sting me.”

The scorpion, who has anticipated the frog’s objections, counters thus:

“My dear Mr. Frog, your reservations are perfectly reasonable. But it is clearly not in my interest to sting you. I really do need to get to the other side of the river. And I give you my word that no harm will come to you.”

The frog agrees, reluctantly, that the scorpion has a point. So he allows the fast-talking arthropod to scramble atop his back and hops, without further ado, into the water.

At first all is well. Everything goes exactly according to plan. But halfway across, the frog suddenly feels a sharp pain in his back—and sees, out of the corner of his eye, the scorpion withdraw his stinger from his hide. A deadening numbness begins to creep into his limbs.

“You fool!” croaks the frog. “You said you needed to get to the other side to conduct your business. Now we are both going to die!”

The scorpion shrugs and does a little jig on the drowning frog’s back.

“Mr. Frog,” he replies casually, “you said it yourself. I am a scorpion. It is in my nature to sting you.”

With that, the scorpion and frog both disappear beneath the murky, muddy waters of the swiftly flowing current.

And neither of them is ever seen again.


Quoted in The Wisdom of Psychopaths – What Saints, Spies, and Serial Killers can teach us about success.       

Kevin Dutton          2012


Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 15

Standing at the edge of a winter field among rough men. The boy’s age. A little older. Watching while they opened up the rocky hillside ground with a pick and mattock and brought to light a great bolus of serpents perhaps a hundred in number. Collected there for a common warmth. The dull tubes of them beginning to move sluggishly in the cold hard light. Like the bowels of some great beast exposed to the day.

The men poured gasoline on them and burned them alive, having no remedy for evil but only for the image of it as they conceived it to be.

The burning snakes twisted horribly and some crawled burning across the floor of the grotto to illuminate its darker recesses. As they were mute there were no screams of pain and the men watched them burn and writhe and blacken in just such silence themselves and they disbanded in silence in the winter dusk each with his own thoughts to go home to their suppers. 


The Road

Cormac McCarthy          2006


Today I went to the doctor for a kidney infection. Needed antibiotics.

The nurse comes into the room, gently, light-footed. Her presence, calm. I pick up on her energy right away; I always do. It’s sweet, kind, willing. There’s an openness about her, a readiness to hear from me. She’s there for Me. 

She breathes slowly, setting the tone of our meeting. My breathing follows in rhythm. I love that she knows how to do this…it is, by comparison, so rare.

She asks her questions, stopping to look me in the eye as I answer. Listening, actually listening; presently present and listening.

It makes real conversation happen — back and forth, listening and processing and responding in turn; breathing, relating, giving, taking.

So we talked for a while, small talk about, of course, my kidney infection and the antibiotics. We moved past that and conversation flowed to other things, like driving and the commute we both make, how we like to spend our time. “Audiobooks!” we agree. Make the most of our time. Be efficient, be productive. We laugh at our similarity. How similar that we both love the drive over Blood Mountain. Beautiful, calming, tranquil, time to think and decompress.

“I love to hike Blood Mountain,” she inserts, “but we haven’t been since before my baby was born. We love to hike but we haven’t taken the baby out much. She was a preemie and I still worry about her.”

“How old is she?”

“18 months.” And then she told me everything. Everything. The reasons for the early delivery, the complications. Everything.

“What’s her name?”


“Ohhhh. Kyleeeee. That’s a beautiful name,” I said with a smile. “You are so blessed.” I meant it.

“Do you have children?”

“I do. Emma Rose. She’s going to be 12 this weekend. She’s at a beautiful age.”

“Do you want to see her picture?” She asked, already leading me down the hall to show me! I said, “Of course I do!” She walked me to the next exam room, turned on the light, and there on the wall of this doctor’s office was a large, framed black and white photograph of this chubby baby girl with a daisy flower bow snugly wrapped around her fat little adorable head. And inside this frame, there was also a second smaller photo, and the smaller photo was of this same little baby, at birth, all two pounds of her with tubes all around her little face, eyes shut. She had on the blue and pink bonnets they give to babies in the NICU. I know. I’ve seen them before.

I was happy for this young mother. Hers was a good story of survival and growth and joy.

We stood talking about the wonders of medicine, how far we’ve come, how advanced we are compared to 40 years ago when doctors couldn’t save the two pound babies. Or if they did, there were many problems, so most doctors didn’t try (she said that’s what her doctor told her). “So wonderful. It’s amazing. It’s beautiful. You are fortunate. I am happy for you.” These were my words. I meant them all.

She said she knew she was blessed, that not all mothers were as lucky.

“It was prayer, you know. I owe it all to prayer. We had so many people praying for her.”

I said, “I know not all mothers are as lucky, not all babies are as fortunate. I had twins. They didn’t make it. Jordyn Alexandria and Ana Kylee. Kyleeee. See, I told you I loved the name Kylee.” I said, smiling and reassuring her. “I don’t hear her name very often.” Her posture changed.

I didn’t have to say the next part. This young nurse and I were alike in many ways…we knew we were…we mirrored one another’s likes and dislikes. But the next part, it was better left unsaid. The reality was there: I’d prayed for my children, too. We had so many people praying for them.

Time passed. She tried to comfort me, in the way that she thought I needed comforting. But I don’t. I think the words she spoke were comforting to her. I have dealt with this long ago.

She said they celebrated each milestone, each rolling over, each new step of her baby’s growth. She said it’s because the doctors told her these things would never happen.

I gently corrected her. Gently. Kindly. Maternally. She was a sweet young nurse, so open and willing and … young. I told her that each day, all our lives should be celebrated as a miracle. It’s a miracle that so many things go just exactly right for there to be life, and then continued life, and then laughter and love and joy. Let us not take it for granted. It could be gone in a moment. We are all as fortunate as that little cherub Kylee. We are all a miracle.

I hope she understood. I think she did. I believe she has a new thought forming in her mind, a new way of looking at God (not as the eternal wish-granter).

God was present with the nurse and I that day. He was the peace, the connection, the energy, the compassion, the life. 

But did God cure my kidney infection? No, that was the antibiotics.


Angela Matthews          2014 

Love vs Sex 72

It is a Do


I feel the need to say something to you and again, I promise this is sincere…it is for your benefit and not my gain.

If you knew you were going to die tomorrow…knew it was an irreversible fact…a done deal…and you could fuck only one person between now and then, who would it be?

Find him and fuck him for the rest of your actual existence with the same yielded vulnerability and savoring and penultimate desire that you would offer him on that dying day of yours.

Don’t suffer guilt about it in any way, or think your soul too sexual, or fool yourself into thinking that he is only with you to fulfill the dirtiest and most demeaning of lusty desires.

Let it the fuck go…..

Find the person that you most assuredly would want to talk to if you were limited to the last conversation of your life…find that person and talk to him…talk…..and forget the fucking games and mind tricks and insecurities.

Talk freely and openly and honestly.

Let the isolating and obstructive silence of abstinent conversation go…..

If you love someone, love that person with all of your heart; in every thought, in every word, and in every deed…love them despite whatever it may mean…..don’t hold back anything…don’t posture in any way…..don’t try to control him under any circumstances…don’t form regrets or any terms of endearment that must be continuously submitted to. Love the man that should be loved, unconditionally. 

Let the false parameters and pseudo-conditions that have supposedly and erroneously defined love for an eternity be fully realized, and then let them go…  

It doesn’t matter who him is.

It is who it must be for you. 

But do this, and do it now, because if you are not, you are not living as it is meant to be and your soul is already sleeping with the dead. 

It isn’t a dream or a process or a decision…it isn’t a future…it is a do…

It is a do.


Cribb          2014





The World

In the days when the skies were unrivaled and the Heavens tired of its companionless state, a consortium was created to evolve space into land, and land into life. A one-sided consortium it was, based upon the understanding that faith would prevail and status would be not only developed but adhered to. Such agreements could be later attended to through the realization of miracles by way of scriptures of prodigal proportions.

In the beginning, all was well. Celestial orbs were aligned with a burning star – not coincidently, in order of necessity – and magnetic forces were created to keep the new curios in place. Soon these orbs began to take shape and in doing so sprouted growing things and breathing things and things that metamorphosed into other things that nourished all things that were to grow. As such curiosities came to be, nothing remained the same save the Heavens that bore the fruit of this fostering care.

And so it was, and so it had become, that one such orb set a precedent for life and the growing thereupon. ‘Twas the only life within a boundless universe, tiny as it may be. ‘Twas the scripture that made such proclamations and such proclamations became fact. Such fact became apparent when the power of one tiny fruit, untimely consumed, thrust its power upon an entire species, administering a vulnerability that maintained status quo for thousands of years.

Yet somewhere, once upon a timeline, facts came under questioning. Ideas were developed against the fairy tales that were told on Sunday mornings and to every child that lay thee down to sleep. Such ideas were accepted among a populating attendance, and names were given to binding categories of idealism and devotion, the likes of which could not be shared among individuals of any other category or viewed as equal in any form.

As time went on, these categories – or sects – bore leaders who would play the role of spokesperson, spawning pecking orders much the same as the Heavens and the orbs. More categories were created and more ideas were formed. More stances were taken, more disagreements embraced, more division felt as though it were necessary, more battles were fought, more wars were waged, more leaders were dethroned or murdered on grounds of disagreeing ideology, more tiny pieces of fruit were untimely consumed.


And the understanding of faith was never realized.

Then there was a silence so great that the Heavens realized their error. As they looked down upon the curios previously created, remembering the growing things and the nourishing things and the fruit that was meant as a gambol, the feeling commenced that they were not curios at all. Rather, they had become a sense of gratification, a feeling of accomplishment, and beings of equality that deserved not a pecking order but uniformity in unison with the boundless universe. But it was much too late for annulling, for the damage had been done. The Heavens knew they had been bested by the very best of their creations.

They could no longer look down upon structures that reached so far towards the sky that they appeared within their reach. The ones that arose as twins were the very ones to have succumbed to simultaneous devastation.

They could no longer look down upon bodies of water – frozen to the north and south and flowing in between – for the affliction had become so great that the orb had produced its own fever that was beyond reversal.

They could no longer look upon the shores that the edges of these bodies of water rested upon. They had held so much weight for such a long spell that they crumbled and fell into the warmness of the seas.


They could no longer look down upon a species that was of such brilliance as to form their own societies, their own currencies, their own remedies, but also their own eradication. All had perished, one by one, and fell victim to the Heavens’ revelation that was borne of a jealous fruit they, too, had untimely consumed.


Companionless again, and still void of faith. Intentions were lost where reality was found.

And so it was, and had once again become, that the Heavens stood at the alpha of a timeline, searching for a better route to omega, and hoping to realize their own miracles in between.

David Caudill

The Suicide Seat, a Jedi Master, Cruising with the Windows Down, and an Education Wished Upon (Part 2)

There is a particular waitress who is working while I sit there and this particular waitress has a tendency to be kinda bitchy, condescending, and bullyish to her customers and her coworkers. Her techniques are usually passive-aggressive in nature, but certainly prone to fits of loud “under the breath” complaints and declarations. Her friendly joshing with customers typically involves at least some backhanded or smart ass insinuation or innuendo, though she does always shroud everything in the cloak of a smile or the good intention of all. Occasionally, her fits become more like explosions…these being primarily reserved for the staff and less so for the customers. It is always someone else’s error or problem. I honestly don’t think her a bad person and she can be considerate and playful, but she is plagued with a large portion of the same interactive ignorance and delusion that most of us suffer from.

There also happens to be a young black man on the floor who I am not familiar with. It takes me a little while to figure out that he is the host for the shift. I notice him cleaning the windows, opening the door for customers who are entering or leaving, sweeping, wiping down tables, and assisting with the bussing of dirty dishes. His face is gentle and covered with a little scant facial hair. He wears on oversized, starched, button down, long-sleeve, white shirt, that billows out of his pants due to its excessive size and the activity inherent in his chores. A black tie, also perhaps a little larger and wider than the current fashion, loops around his neck and through that buttoned down collar tunnel. It might stop slightly short of its intended length, but it appears to be secured quite well in place by a proficiently tied knot. His pants are black and appear much more basic business like, and less casual, in style and fashion. His associated footwear remains a persistent mystery, for I never caught a glimpse of what kept his feet covered.

Our particular waitress has headed down to one end of the kitchen in some type of “I am talking under my breath to myself, but nonetheless, I can’t stop myself from also yelling my thoughts very loudly so everyone else must hear my complaints, drama, and excuse for being so frazzled” display about how the cooks are so egregiously offending and unfair to her. She is bouncing around in a minor tantrum with her arms waving about in limited mobility, facial expressions twisting, contorting, and exaggerating in haphazard direction and expression, when the young black gentleman looks up at her with a soft smile and says in a smooth even tone “Sometimes, you just gotta roll the windows down and cruise.” She walks off in the direction of the other end of the kitchen, more calm but still flustered, as I vehemently try to disallow the involuntary laughter which is exploding within my soul from erupting forthright in a noticeable giggling fit. Spontaneous coffee expulsion from my oral cavity is also successfully suppressed with only minor choking.

Our oversized shirt wearing proficiently knotted gentleman, then meanders toward the front door, and begins performing some cleaning activity or customer service function in that general area. While he is doing this, another waitress looks across the counter and says to him “You look so nice in your shirt and tie….very professional” and she honestly seems to mean her words and sentiment. A third female server, who is a little older and happens to be standing directly in front of me washing dishes, then looks up at him and chimes in “Very dapper…very dapper indeed…bless your heart!” The first commentator on his appearance then jumps back into the conversation and says “You look like…..you look…just like President Obama…that’s how good you look”…..and she is smiling genuinely and warmly at him as I hear the older waitress who is still standing directly in front of me curse under her breath. This older server almost whispers to me “My God, don’t say that…we don’t need any more Obama than we already got…nobody in here likes that nonsense.” And silently, without picking my head up from my book, my thoughts which unwind regarding her ignorance must surely rival her thoughts of his own. While this continues to cycle in my mind, the young black man of soft smile and scant facial hair, replies “Now…now that…..that….that is a compliment. I don’t think I really look like President Obama…..but, I sure do wish I had his education.”

And in my mind, I make a note that this young black gentleman did not over or under respond in any of the conversations or situations that I saw him involved with. His comments about cruising imply a persona of at least some balance, control, and stability. And his comment about the President…about our President….the President of the USA…..he didn’t say “I wish I had his money” or “I wish I had his power” or “I wish I had his ability to prove all of the honkies wrong.” He simply said “I wish I had his education.”

Well then, I remind myself pleasantly, I am not the only one sitting in a suicide seat…trying to spread the Force everywhere…continually seeking further education…..and attempting to pass out a few words of wisdom along the way to those who might listen.

Cribb          2014

The Suicide Seat, a Jedi Master, Cruising with the Windows Down, and an Education Wished Upon (Part 1)

I am sitting in the suicide seat at the Waffle House. That is the name of the single seater at the high bar which is immediately next to the cash register and almost directly in front of the dish washing station. People continuously approach, stand, and pay at the register. Some are friendly, some not so friendly, some are loud, some are nosy, some take up a lot of space wherever they may be…even if it isn’t their space to take up. On this particular occasion, one gentleman who paid at the register intensely reminded me of “The Bug” from Men in Black. His mannerisms, his unruly somewhat oily asymmetrical lumpy bed head, and his wife beater tee, kept prompting me to believe that sooner or later, he might contort his face with an odd snarl and ask for suuugggggarrrrrrrrrrrr. Alas, he did not, and neither did I see him leave the parking lot in some type of alien saucer rocket. During this time, I was also fortunate enough to only get hit once by the friendly fire of the dish washing spigot…..a few moderately sized drops that sprang over the defensive ramparts of a menu and several syrup bottles which were lined up in an atypical place on the counter for some reason that still remains unknown to me. Another primary aspect of the suicide seat is that you are fully immersed into the kitchen and its energy swirls, vortexes, and back drafts which remain constantly ever-changing…..and frequently violently so. I call it the suicide seat, because it is part of my spiritual training…..to withstand persistent distraction, assault with water torture, and unstable and negative energy forces that spontaneously overtake portions or all of the kitchen and the floor due to the stress level of all and the normal tendency of people toward downward transcendence in any situation,….. and to counter those forces with maintaining your own sanity and stability, and dare I even say happiness, is quite a spiritual exercise…and the advanced version of the exercise, which happens to be even more rewarding, is to inject yourself and your will into the chaotic environment and help transform any negative destabilizing energy that may erupt into its stabilizing “bizarro” twin, the light…..feel the damn Force Luke…and don’t just feel it….try to illuminate its overwhelming beauty until it is undeniable to all and then spread that shit everywhere. Be a Jedi Master in deed as well as word. It isn’t about your own pettiness. 

To be continued…
Cribb          2014