I don't think I could have gotten any bigger. My round glorious belly almost always in my hands. I loved being two people. I learned how to skateboard that summer. I wanted to show him I could be daring, exciting, fun. I would tether to his bike and hold the rope through the city on her section 8 long board, weaving in and out of traffic in my pink mini skirt. The orchids don't seem to mind the heat, neither do the bananas. The one day it rained in the past two months was on my son's birthday. We had an outdoor party in the rain and it was nice. it rained hard for a few minutes right before he started to crown. Tina said it was babies blessing. I believe it. He survived. He survived my body. He survived my mind. I hope he can survive my traumas. I hope I can. I fell down hard on my board. The day I decided to go down a grassy hill - I stopped to think half way down and that's when I ate shit. My mind is constant in its betrayal. I wanted him to stop me, to tell me it was a bad idea. He was on his phone, checking on the girl echo had just had his abortion. My knee still throbs from the incision, from the uncertainty, all the instability. I'm hard to deal with. He tries, but I think he'd rather not have to. He wants simple and easy. I am neither of those things. When I relax and trust, I end up in a bronco passed out while the driver and his friend smoke meth the whole way back to the city in the middle of the night. He doesn't do anything. He just lets it happen. We survived, I should be grateful. I knew he loved me when my belly was full of him. Note the love feels obligatory. Not simple. Not easy. That's not my lineage. My son changed me. Changed his own future. He was born with a mouth full of shit and still survived. He's forging his own path and I'm blessed as witness. I stayed naked in the summer heat with my baby on my deflated belly for our first 40 days. I sat by the fire and recounted the moments of his birth with him on my lap as he rounded his 7th cycle around the sun. I feel his spirit in the wind on my face through my hair and past my skirt. We all survive.
I sit on the old stained blue and white checkered couch in the Italian boys’s living room. Virginia sits next to me with her back against one of its arms smoking a cigarette, she extends her legs onto my lap. Her short dark hair frames her face and as she gestures and talks, ash from her cigarette lands into her lap and the seat of the couch. It's hot. Its always so hot here in August. And still. No wind at all. Like the entire city took a deep inhalation in July and never bothered to exhale. The house plants are crispy brown and the the dirt from the pots spill onto the carpet surrounding them...covering the walls with chunks of drying earth and dust where they were knocked over and righted but the contents were never replaced.
The entire room is dusty and in the rare corner where sun is permitted to shine you can see discarded paper clips, candy wrappers and clumps of white fur from Bobbys cat.
Outside its that twilight hour and we haven’t turned the lights on yet, so the overall effect of the room is more romantic than macabre in the dim light.
I'm perched on the very edge of the couch trying to touch as little of myself onto its surface in my backless yellow sun dress. Beads of sweat form at the nape of my platinum blonde ponytail and begin to drip drip drip down my naked spine one vertebra at a time. My black mary Janes are nestled on the purple shag carpet in front of me where the coffee table sits. The glass coffee table is covered in tiny particles of weed, strips of rolling paper and small rolled up pieces of cardboard filters. Bobby is across from me hunched over the table on the yellow and red plaid couch. He’s wearing his long sleeve flannel shirt and his long brown hair hangs limp and stringy around his face. Held tight in both hands and working fast is his red weed grinder with the sex wax sticker on it. On the glass table in front of him lie the perfect filter and rolling paper combo designed to create a blunt worthy of the gods. On either side of him sit his two nameless and comatose friends..casualties of the first round of Bobby’s craftsmanship. Im realizing that this “epic party” Virginia invited me to is just a way for her to not have to come here to get high alone. Just then the doorbell rings and team plaid couch perks up. The coke is here. We need to leave.
I landed in a perfect storm in the middle of a rainbow field when I was the color of static snow. Of course my color is static snow. I took the risk in order to gain the advantage. And sometimes that means showing up like that in a place like this. Where the building blocks are thoughts run a muck and there's nowhere to go but up, and then down, so much further down. All the way to and through the ground.
I swear I was up above it all. The depth surrounds and consumes the ones who got sucked in. In got sucked in. Fast. I liked it. Shaking, shivering as the land pulsed beneath my receiving body of water. Fingertips write fire songs on my soul, my soul quenches the thirst of the brush, strokes waiting to deliver craved balance. Catches light flowing down yellow rivers that carry energy back to the banks of rainbow fields, dissolves the static flow and fills in the spaces - pillars sprout up and grow out into magnificent reflections of their creator, rewriting old stories in orange paint like it was the first time.
The secret language of bubbles dances on the tongues entwined in that familiar celebration of color. Nothing makes sense taken out of context and the circles straighten me out, just like they always have. And maybe I'm all messed up. Went left instead of right. Then straight back to the center guided by the white arrows that know just how to bring me back- back to the front. Back to the moment. Back to the heartbeat beat beat. Shaken back to life. And then up up and away. The stories cross the help the suns set a hundred times in a hundred unknown ways. These bits of land catch my feet walking in the directions of the medicine that carries and holds me.
The end of Sumer brightens the canvas, making way for the fall of change to ignite the webs of creation... leaving behind the marks of renewal. The truth resides there, at the bottom of everything, above and below the layers upon layers of imagining, realizing and standing perfect and still in the middle of his rainbow field.
I run with the moon like a crazy bitch
Sweat fills the air. The moon is pulling and we all perspire. The ocean is inside of us, reminding us of the origins of man. Sea dragons and sharks chatter about the olden days and my uterus doesn’t know I live on Land now. Ask the starfish that wish they could twinkle about the exodus. Maybe the wise lobster remembers. Winged friends fly above trying to get a look into the complexity of this hell of a hootenanny. Who can understand? Who cares? Can’t people appreciate a little mystery anymore? Those were the best books. Where we played detective with orphans who lived in abandoned train cars. Questioning things is not so gangster anymore. Go with the trend and follow the marshmallow man into a store of unicorn floaties and grandma jeans on teens. Who cares what we look like as long as we look alike. Then take it to salvos to make room for the next season. Half the mounds in town are made of these fabrics, as the fabric of society flies away on smoke stack clouds to other planets. We are space trash. Trashing space. Taking up too much space. Spaced out, tuned to the frequency of 5G as it destroys humanity. When enough is not enough. I do backflips in my office chair trying to eat my disgust as it belches up into instagram feeds rather than going out with the birds to plant seeds of hope. Mosquito fish guard my door and I hide my face from the screens. Use my hands to pleasure myself and quarantine my creativity. It’s only a dollhouse sanctuary for a full size human, and this is enough. No mosquitos in my inbox. Nobody saying the sea isn’t inside of me. I’m 75% water. Salt is in my blood and I run with the Moon like a crazy bitch at times so don’t tell me I am not made of space and sea. The orchids wink at me and the palm trees bend to my knees. Esperanza is the only option left. Action ran off with conservation and we are all philosophizing about what to do with Mars. Did we even land on the moon? Ooo that is a trepidatious conversation starter! What do I know? I simply breathe salty air and keep my feet dirty in hopes that my finish line comes before the end of human time.
Whispering candy colored roses into the seashell of my lover.
He has my heart, and I hold the key to all of his stars.
We met years ago on the deck of his favorite moon landing.
And in that single instance, we knew that we would never be able to drown in whiskey fumes and Alaskan summers again without the others consent.
I manifested him.
Driving up the trail to his den, I shared with the gypsy his image in my mind.
How he would act, dress, dance, smile. How we both would.
A wooded vision destined to become a thin veiled reality.
Sharing all the most intimate details of his inner plain on that dive, and then in an instant, we were one on that single slice of moon.
Stars locked, hearts trembled, universes expanded and in that moment we knew.
We were unspoken air plants needing neither water nor daffodils to survive.
Only each others brass bands in beating rib cages and the comfort of sandpaper kisses.
We left behind our planets to become one alien being of merging plasma and purpose.
He worked in the painting the sky department and I was in charge of soul stretching. Noble occupations, but our pencils were destined to be fine tuned in some other cave. So we jumped off the diving board into outer space and said yes to the crystal cosmic journey of time travel.
It has been so worth it.
Ive never met a man who loves both the ancient art of buddha sleep and backbending brush strokes. Who’s Amazon grin and Tinkerbell laugh can bring me back to the very first time on that moon landing when we fell into space and never returned.
Sweet sweet space. Sure more popular songs have been sung about the secrets we share with moose ears, or the way a pufferfish plays the piano. But the ballads written about space are by far what rock my Beethoven and carry my Mozart down the Nile.
Where does he intro and I crescendo? Where do I nest and he burrows?
We were a part of a Rubik's cube for awhile and it was softer in the beginning before it got too difficult to stand. So we solved the riddle, grew kale in the garden and juiced raspberries on a Tuesday. A see you next Tuesday kind of Tuesday. And we never looked back.
As our lips chatter themselves into dripping tapered candles, I begin with patience, erecting statues and organizing music boxes, within the walls of my rib cage.
I keep cotton and lilacs and things that burn with a sweet scent underneath my souls laundry pile, so I don't forget to change it over.
Change it over, and the target shifts and comes to fall square onto me.
My scales fly up and my esophagus is dry and I, amongst the velvet walls am spinning.
My words turn to cords, which turn to notes and percussion and, glass shattering onto checkered linoleum, introducing the steps of a ginger headed and busty bosomed mistress with black lensed glasses and silver bangles clattering,
she’s running orange claws against the chalk wall and calls out to me, shrilly to “look in the mirror”.
I whip my eyes about, but the hallway keeps gyrating and heaving, syncopated to the heftiness of someone else's heartbeats and I can’t find it, the reflection.
Look in the mirror! Cawing and shrieking she cocks her head, delivering directions backed by the power of my shortcomings, which slam into my memory.
Look into the mirror! The scene changes and everyone I’ve ever cared for no longer needs my help, they are well and self sufficient.
Look into the mirror! And all my wants and dreams, the mountains, the babies, the climate are within my reach but vanish at the thought of touch.
Look into the mirror and I clasp my hands hard against my ears and scream
Go Fuck yourself!
Listening until my own mind is split open, because the problem really never ever falls to my ears, faultless deaf ears.
I think I'm not so sweet like cherries and marzipan anyways and I think I sneak treats to the selfish demons in my belly for justification or gratification or what have you.
I think nothing is important to me until my mind is.
And I think that i’m scared to learn.
Look into the mirror and see how my reactions control me!
Look into the mirror and see if I hold the candles I crafted to what I ask for.
look in the mirror and decide if I’ve left any room for myself.
Because there are planets shifting again and my tarot decks are putting on their evening wear to bounce out on me and my couch will eventually have to pull itself off of me. The trees outside cross their limbs and turn their backs at me because my chin is tilted down from the sky and there's a cracking heart full of tears, neglected on my back door step and it's all because I spoon out too much for too long for too deep.
It’s because the thoughts that escape my brain stumble along and visit everyone's center before my own.
Because I cry so those who are thirsty can drink
and bend so those who are rigid, can break
and dish and dish and dish out to prevent famine of the hungry hearted before I myself am full.
there is no energy available for me in this relationship. I can see it as clear as I need to. This is life times of trauma and all that ever needed to happen, was an agreed intention. Fuck, that could have changed everything. At any time. Except now. Now I can listen to my body. Now my body tells me the truth. Now my body shows me what's real beyond the pain. Now my body is awake, and now - Now it's too too late. The gold has slipped from between my fingers, wet and tired and broken. So tired, so broken, I could be wetter. Always wetter. What a shame. He knew what to do. He just had to put it down, and could not or would not. I know what I have to do and I can taste the clock ticking. Sweet and sour tick tock tick tock. This clock is too fucking loud! It hurts my eyes. It's too hard to tune it out and I can no longer wind it up.
I wonder if I'm bleeding on this chair. I'm in a short dress with no panties sitting on a chair at the bar - writing in blood. The bar keep thinks I'm classy. That's what he said. Then he thanked me for laughing at his joke. He's cute. My clock doesn't recognize him. He's not a danger. My danger is at home waiting for pizza with love and longing in his eyes for the first time in way too long. I'm at the bar trying to find the words that will unlock my heart and set me free. The words are stuck deep down in my throat and its not as sexy as it could be. There is nothing sexy about what I have to do. May there is. Honesty is sexy. I think it can be anyway. I need this to go well. it's going to feel like its coming out of left field. I think that's a baseball reference, that's not me. This is a fucked way to spend my last week in my 30's. A mother fuckin double-headed hate must while contemplating the breaking of my family! Happy birthday baby! Thanks Ivy! best day ever. Adulthood here I come. Fuck - it hurts and feels so fucking right. I hate this. I love this. This hates me. This loves me. It's all happening. It's all fucked up. It's almost over. I'm almost ready. It's coming. I'm coming. I pray and I pray and I pray.
Do you understand swiveling chairs
Or lipstick stained cigarettes?
Do you look in a mirror and can’t look away?
Does eating mangos include licking your wrists?
Then cross your legs
Tilt your head
And get fucked.
I’ve changed the words to fit my history.
I’ve picked up bad habits and dropped clues.
I’ve come full circle while driving in a straight line. And I got fucked.
Does waiting in lines include touching those around You?
Do you lean into the ticket taker?
Do you wink at the traffic cop?
Then smack your cheeks
Squint your eyes and get fucked.
I know this strategy isn’t for everyone.
I mean fuckability is fuckability.
I mean we all don’t have it.
But when you do you know it because
You get fucked.
I’ve put on perfume before my shower.
I’ve trimmed it to the stump.
I’ve combed hairs and split fleas
And I got fucked.
I know fucking isn’t for everyone.
I know some people that have never cum.
I know some people that hate giving head.
I know some people who gag just brushing their teeth. So if you’re one of those people
Then getting fucked may not be so easy for you.
So I’m here to give you a few simple tips.
First try masturbating.
Now this starts out as a solo sport
When you have that down
Invite a team member
Either from your team or a competitor.
Now that invite alone should get you fucked
I’ve played on the grass on the greener side of the Fence.
I’ve swung so hard I ended up in another state.
I’ve taken myself out of the game
Landing in the wrong bed.
And I got fucked.
It didn’t feel like when I touch myself.
It didn’t feel like being touched.
It didn’t feel like curling toes or muffled screams or Sweaty breasts or sticky bellies or messy hair.
It felt like smacked cheeks and squinted eyes and
Wet pillows and broken mirrors and thrown glass and Slammed doors and lost forever
And I got fucked.
He casted spells down my back, in the dark, with spindle fingers.
Careful and delicate
Sprawling words that inked and arched the whispers of long lost plant songs, breath of children, smiles of elders
Their desires pulled me deeper into the moss bed, cool and damp, layers of questions spun around my head into spider silk , I twirled them into my fingers and licked them off.
They taste best prepared this way and then forgotten in the thicket
Dew pools on his lower lip, plump and iridescent. Molten eyes fastened to it,
It Quivers and drops and I am quick as thunder to save it from falling.
I have been thirsty in this dream and he tastes like one thousand crystal springs after months careening through the desert.
Searching for the answers, for meaning, for a passion.
In her warm sun, my skin cell by cell turned again into sand so pachamama can use me up
send me far on her winds
piece by piece to where she needs me,
or to where i need her.
Where I ache for her,
I am fashioned back together under long limber tree ferns and a pin cushioned sky.
Stitches to my breast, my rib cage, my fingers with the antennas of monarchs and atlas moths and they laugh and flutter around my skull
And I try to laugh too
At the thought of it all but my lungs aren’t there yet
And I haven't breathed deeply enough yet
And I am just to sit here, to wonder here.
Inside my head, my chest, why the trees around me smell of cinnamon and cloves
And how the toadstools present themselves in a ring.
And why I can’t say hello to him?
Cloaked in the swirling fog, dark locks cascading over his shoulders with jewels and stars and amethyst hearts.
I see him. He’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
And I want to touch him,
him and the thoughts behind quick glances and daydreams
tumbling around the back of his mind like the way the ocean pulls his waves in and out upheaved to the sea shore,
professing his love for her over and over again.
Small kisses, sweet laps along her walls,
And i want to smile at him
So I do.
A long cheshire grin,
of knowing of yearning and waiting.
Sunflowers cascade around the edge of my lips and crawl to him,
onto his lap,
into his heart.
They’re all i can send from here
Wrapped in my silks
And I think i have known him for lifetimes.
I recognize this voice in the pine tops when they blow closer to one another.
Telling me the world is topsy turvy and that time isnt all its chalked up to be.
Its forwards and backwards and all sorts of up and down
and they reminded me that we have oh so much of it but never any at all
so i shouldn’t fret on what i can’t touch.
And thats true comfort,
i breathe in to newly sprouted ribs.
That in my head is this bounty, this wood and this human.
And perhaps it only exists to me, only for a moment a spell and a second.
Long enough to taste the feeling of want and desire and livliness.
Long enough to know this is home.
I Don’t know where it comes from. It could have been a gift, but I doubt that.
I hope it’s not a survival mechanism.
I think it’s always been there.
Both Mother and Child of the seven monsters.
Wherever they go, it festers in their wake.
An abuse of passion.
I keep mine in a bottle. I’m good at that, it’s my secret hobby, keeping dangerous things trapped in bottles.
This one is the most toxic. And somehow it always finds its way to my hand.
I have tried burying it. I have thrown it in the ocean, dropped it in the volcano, flung it high into the air. But the elements reject it, and it appears, unexpected in the palm of my hand at my moment of weakness.
It’s ugly face pressed against the smoky glass, mouthing the words,
Rub the bottle . RUB THE BOTTLE.
The slightest friction, and it’s out.
Some hapless security guard with a hard on for kids with skateboards is, without warning, confronted with the thousand foot shadow of my unrelenting dark passion.
It’s a military grade weapon, and it belongs on a battlefield, not in a shopping mall.
I should not have access to that kind of power.
And yet , we all do.
Mine appears as a self righteous demon of vengeance, an outward explosion scorching the earth for miles in every direction. Nobody ever sees it coming, but when it arrives, there is no denying that it’s there.
I see it in others manifesting in more subtle, insidious forms. An infestation of the soul, an un-contained internal bleeding that feeds the passive aggressive monsters.
Driving them to strange worm eaten logic that slowly sucks the life from the ground beneath their feet.
And me, even while I sometimes manage to contain my beast inside a bottle, it contaminates my motives.
And in the end, it’s the motive, not the action. I may be able to suppress the explosion, but the passion still lingers in my heart.