There is something about the English. The quick wit, the quirky men, the lousy weather, the rugged landscape, and, of course, the hourly, would you like a cup of tea? It's the closest thing I can say in an English accent. If I could have, I would have spoken with an English accent all the time I lived in England, but I am just not one of those people who can pick up accents, never mind melodies or words. The auditory thing is not where I excel. Visual is more my cup of tea, so to speak. Wink wink. How do I convey in words that wink or low chuckle when you say something you think is funny or want others to think is funny? Anyhow, the English. I was born in England, though didn't stay more than a year, and maybe that's where my affinity with the English come from. It's not just the gorgeous accent, though that in enough could do, it's the dry sense of humor that gets me every time. Especially with the men. I had 2 deep, long relationships with Brits. They were attentive, I mean really attentive with me. He would rub my sacrum in the morning when I was still in that semi-conscious state but enough so to sweetly ask, Please...my sacrum. My bedhead hair laying in tangles and sticking to my face as my cheeks rubbed against the soft cotton colored sheets, my body moving in rhythmic circles to his pressed hand. Oh how I love that. The sensation yes but that the fact that he does this. He loves me. He probably doesn't want to get off his computer to come over and rub me, or maybe he needed the excuse. Either way, he knows it's gonna make me feel good, so he does it. No reason to argue with that. But in the end, it just wasn't enough.
in an elevator with no buttons
a car with no wheels
a closet with no light.
The parts of me that shine
crawled under the bed.
The parts that are brave
jumped off the deck.
The parts that are confident
are hanging from the fan.
This will pass
shadows will subside
shoulders will relax.
in a cave with a couch
in a story on the screen
a character in a book.
The things I miss
are warming other beds.
The things I miss
are living far away.
The things I miss
are fogging my head.
They're only symbols
needing sound for company
needing noise for movement
needing whispers for comfort.
I play music that makes me want to cry.
I play music that makes me get up and dance.
I play music that chases me outside.
They're building a new house down the road.
I want to live there before things get stuck to the walls
before things get stuck to the floors
before things get stuck to the windows.
It's raining hard outside.
I want to stand in it without my clothes on
showering the stuck from my body
showering the stuck from between my toes
showering the stuck out of my hair.
Things get sticky
from eyes scanning my body
from hugs lasting too long
from kisses that move instead of staying still
from hands sticking to my ribs
from words sticking in my head
from my tongue between sticky teeth.
I want to unstick
choosing to believe my cousin
when they say I love you.
Choosing to believe that when I die
I will spend time with my brother
Choosing to believe I'll be forgiven.
Choosing to believe that I will forgive myself.
This always happens to me in Autumn. I want to move back to
Indiana and watch the leaves turn all hues of warm
and hear them crinkling under
my feet as I walk down the asphalt driveway my dad paved,
back to the A-frame my dad built, and watch the stream come alive
over the stones and fossils and water
I learned about the importance of good traction on the soles of
shoes when I was a young child. My older brother taught me. He told me one time
that my kangaroos shoes were good because they had good traction and I listened.
Because I looked up to him...
My mom taught me about unconditional Love. I
don't know of a higher teaching. I've struggled to find it outside my parents'
home. My dad taught me Love too and he showed me how to work hard for the ones
you Love. No matter what just keep working for the ones you Love...
discernment from my lovers - if you could call them that. I'm not sure I ever
called them that. I don't know why I am now. But anyway, discernment, it's a
good thing... Like traction.
This is really the perfect Autumn weather.
Sunny blue skies. Crisp mountain cool air. The kind of day to rollerskate
outside on the concrete... like I did today. Moving out. Moving in. And my last
day here, rollerskating on the concrete outside the garage in the home where I
lived with the pheasants and owls and goats and the black spiders that weren't
widows... You don't need traction with roller skates.
It's a good day. And
now I'm going to babysit two kids that live in a beautiful place further up the
mountain. We make jewelry together. And play on the tire swing. And look down
over the clouds over Maui.
And earlier today I passed a Buddhist monk in the
grocery store. Driving home I was craving simplicity, peace and clarity. I think
I could be a Buddhist monk and give up possessions and attachment to the world.
That is, if I didn't have children in this life. I'm not as good at thinking
about the future as I used to be. Or maybe as bad. But there is some future that
has to be thought of when you have children. Like wanting humanity to, well,
evolve. I'd say survive but what's the use in survival if we're not evolving
And I think of the past and the soles of my shoes. And running
fast. And now in this Autumn breeze I crave tranquility... and good traction...
Stay on the scene, like a loving machine. Looving machine... that is yummy. Taste, feel, delve deep into the senses. How sweet to forget the small talk, save time and energy, and get right into the heart of the matter, literally. The heart, a beating organ that sends life-force to the rest of the body is the focus in my second half of my life. I don't remember thinking much of it growing up and then I woke up to spirituality in Southeast Asia and I saw, felt that there was so much more than my eyes were willing to perceive. I am backpacking my way through Thailand, Malaysia, back to Thailand and I am feeling this pulling feeling, like something tugging on my hair strands, whispering too close to my ear, hey, listen, listen, there is more, you want to know more, probe, dig, see what you can realize. I gotta start somewhere so look in the books. Heck, I got myself all the way across the world, there's a reason I ended up here. And so I find my book. My messenger: a tall, skinny, freckly, pale Australian who was genuine and traveling my same path. We spent a few days seeing the sites near the River Kwai, you know from the famous classic war movie, Bridge over River Kwai with the actor that plays Star Wars' Oby1conobi.. anyways, we tried our luck at being lovers, it was well.. sweet but awkward...lots of banging elbows while kissing, stuff like that. Clear it would be short-lived, mutual understanding of this without having to verbalize it. He has a well-worn copy of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying and gives it to me. I am delighted, touched, grateful... maybe this is where I will find the answer to the secret of life. My eyes devour the words, and the story returns over and over again to meditation. What the fuck is meditation? Remember, this is 2001 and it isn't mainstream yet, at least not in my sphere in the midwest. Meditation appears to be the answer to what? What am I seeking? Truth. The big picture. And end to the nagging issues I bottle up inside, like feeling guilty about leaving my family and traveling. Being happy, whatever that is. Feeling at peace. Whatever this feeling that is seeping into my bones, into my nervous system since arriving in this part of the world, this wake up, I want more of it. I am going to get this mediation thing figured out, whatever it takes.
My sleep comes in drips and splashes
His arms around me while I drift between realms
His soft words when I scream in my dreams
He pats my head
soothing my toes
He rubs my back
calming my belly
He kisses my wrist
activating my groin
When I get up he's ready to talk
When I'm hungry he's ready to feed me
When I'm sad he's ready to hold me
The fire is smoldering
The ashes have turned to mud
The smell of smoke is everywhere
The red chairs have blown over
The chime is broken
The seats are wet
The roaches are scurrying
The confessions have been made
The laughter has been interrupted
The hanging window is broken
Pan stopped playing his flute and Buddha fell over
My sleep comes in cascades and streams
His legs holding me when I fall
His comforting words when I cry
His gentle answers when I call
He lets me go when I run
He sits close when i stop
shaking his head
bringing my tears
The floor is sticky
Someone pushed my dog
The blue glass got broken
The lamp won't light
The scents are sacred
The bank account is down
Her heart is broken with little hope
His crush is still as strong
The framed photo fell and came apart
My sleep comes in drizzles and plops
The way his shoulder shimmers in the moonlight
The way he breaths while I fidget
come with me
when he's ready to float into the deep
The candles flutter
The cake has been eaten
The black beans are all gone
The gifts have been opened
The cards all read
The dancing has stopped
My friends have gone home
The dogs are upstairs waiting and I don't want to go to bed
The breeze chills me as I sit here. The egg has cracked open and the new day has dawned. The sky is swirled with wispy clouds. The colors pastel. The day begins. I am authentic. I seek truth. I reveal in this moment. Uncertainty. Hidden lives. Hidden truths, inside the cave of my heart. I am not sure if they will ever come to the light. I wish to keep them in the darkness of where I last left them. Better that way. For me. For everyone. I trusted him and he betrayed my trust. I found him broken on the side of the road of life. I lifted him into me. He lifted me into his heart, There we discovered the shadows that we have inside. We had out moments, our fun times, our loving times. I didn’t know, he had a mistress. I soon found out. Her name was alcohol. She was his gay friend, and a corrupting mistress. She wore an ugly face in my reflection. I didn’t know how to be with her. Having not known her well. I didn’t wish to further our connection. I knew she had a strong hold on him. I didn’t know how to fight it. To my demise, I let her be. She took you down and me with you. There was so much struggle between the three of us. She bolstered him as he told lies and hid from me. I wallowed in the never knowing and his lack of dependability. I was alone. I am still alone, albeit happier than when I was with him. I am forever shy of this Mistress. I watch out for her when I meet someone new. I don’t want her in my realm. I don’t ever want to sleep with her again. She is hard and unforgiving.
I've taken chances
smiling through the rain
since I was a year
I grabbed this stranger's finger
called him Papi
sitting by his bed
I grabbed a man’s hand
asked him to walk me across the street
I grabbed this boy's face
I grabbed a football
made a touchdown
I grabbed a bottle of sangria
I grabbed this guy's dick
put it in me
I've grabbed things
I never should have touched
lessons from the snatched
like a pipe full of freebase
a boy that wasn't mine
they never showed up for me
I took stuff that wasn't mine
kleptomaniac needing nourishment
like slipping cocaine into a twenty dollar bill
stuffing salt and pepper shakers in my purse from overrated restaurants
I grabbed anything within my reach
sliding across satin sheets
skating off beds
I needed them
every one of them
the Cowboys from Kansas
the hookers on the street
the rock stars and limos
the bar fights and garbage cans
I'm from New York
my reason for cursing
the reason I don't give a shit
lessons I grabbed down alleys, in doorways,
through tunnels, on roofs
from guns and slappers to trains rides
and fake ponytails
from club brats and fist fuckers to deceivers
and street rats
I'm from New York
my excuse for running
from parents and bullies
my reason for hiding
from boyfriends and thieves
my reason for pushing
pushing everyone I know to take what they want;
that kiss, that job, that risk,
I'm not grabbing anymore
now I'm quiet
now I wait
Give me your bowl and I will ladle you a hearty stew of spiced vegetables and bone broth, oozing with nutrients to warm your belly.
Give me your eyes and I will melt into your pupils until my face turns blurry, camouflaging into the background.
Give me your trunk and I will wrap my arms around like a snug wooly cloak.
Bare your neck so I may press my face into your skin, inhaling your aroma, and kissing the ticklish spots.
Bare your teeth as your head goes back in laughter so I can match your joy and laugh with you.
Bare your tears so I can feel with you and hold you and swim in your river.
Swim we shall, down the crooked path of no return, where birds land on our shoulders and tweet in our ears, where skipping is the norm and walking the exception, where telling lies is as hard as the tough bamboo trunks and telling truths is the flapping of butterfly wings, where breathing long and deep is as simple as the abc's, and where dreams are our waking life, and sleep no different. Dreams become us and we become them. Over the tree tops we fly, looking down at all the directions we can go, knowing that any will do, but some will be more adventurous, or sad, or perhaps a tad boring, but no mind to that, keep cartwheeling along and see how dizzy we can get.
I feel my spots today, although I can’t see them… how they press into the memory of something else inside of me.
It’s fleeting, passing by silently, like an eagle soaring above a steep crevice that falls away into a gorge, emptying its breath onto a still lake, covered in frost.
Like my hidden dapples.
Only the sun brings out their brilliance in rays of gold - with whisks of ebony responding.
I like the silent beauty they offer for those who are willing to slow down and observe - with out judgment.
It’s the invisible me - just barely visible - in the right light.
I feel my own quiet contemplation, reflective in my green eyes, sleepy in the afternoon sun.
Half mast and sultry - while peering into other worlds that no one else sees. I like it that way…
My vision encompasses both the solitary and expansive.
My heart beat slows down as my breath deepens.
My ribs expand and contract as God breathes through me.
I can feel my flesh.
All of it - at one time.
What a gift - presence is.
Noises no longer distract me, for I can feel they are no threat.
And… I am not hungry.
I am satisfied.
Nothing beckons me.
Nothing calls my spirit.
No one knows my name, nor do I have one here.
And I like it like that.
When I am in this place of oneness with everything.
Shadows of leaves dance upon my brow and silk my across skin, rippling the light - waves of ebony and gold.
Ah… there I am.
I almost forgot for a second.
This is where the story ends.
I hate stories.
The way they command you to stay put.
To pay attention to details that don't matter.
To focus or miss
what day of the week
on what route.
I want to move around.
I want to get to the point.
I want a happy ending.
I know happy endings are bullshit.
Soak it up.
First time loses it charm
and somebody gets hurt.
By buying plane tickets
to rides I don't want to take.
By buying clothes
I don't look good in.
By eating foods
I don't feel good in.
By drinking myself into a hangover.
I’m hung over.
From Don Julio and tacos.
Zinfandel and cake.
Pot and Facebook.
I’m not grounded
with my feet in a bowl of lavender water.
The lavender makes me sick.
Because of me.
Because I say everything out loud.
I hate stories.
Mine’s as boring as the rest.
Filled with me
Turn me on.
Try me on.
Turn me off.
I’m not relaxed
Smooth as age.
Soft all around.
It's gonna end.
Like the end of the bread
nobody reaches for.
while mosquitoes are biting me.
My walls wet and damp.
My feet wrinkle before I'm finished.
Cooked before the turkey.
Before the visitors arrive.
Before the games begin.
I seem game.
Inside I want to be left alone.
To see what I have coming.
What I deserve.
We find out.
We find out before our last breath.
It shows up like a ghost knocking on our door.
Let me in.
Let me in.
I wanna come in now.
But don't open that door.
Or open it wide
Then lay in clovers
blowing wishes in the wind.