Wet
There are all kinds of in between’s
All kinds of half way there’s and not now’s, but soon’s
There’s all kinds of ticking meters
And the dash on the tomb stone, someday
Like the moment I snap open a glow stick.
While it’s cracking...while it’s rumbling the bones beneath my digits...
Satisfaction at last
Handing the agent my boarding pass
But I still gotta go through the metal tube
Still gotta find my seat
Still gotta pee all the way in the back of the plane
I watched a movie last night
A scientist in the white coat went on about how
Everything is perfect outside of life and death
And that life is the virus on the flesh of the Universe
It’s true
This place is amazing
No perfection anywhere
Except for that it’s all im-perfect
All of it
Nothing matches
Not clones, not leaves…snowflakes, soul mates, heartbeats, no thing
It’s all a mystic soup of beetle wings, metal and music
Infinite in every direction
I’m here
An aspect of the virus on the Universe's flesh
Privileged to have my wings plucked long enough to feel fear, pain, suffering, toothaches, heartbreaks, brain freezes and dizzy
Dizzy in love
From spinning
From moms death...her cross over into boring old perfection
Blessed to feel
Cope with
Interpret
Share
And heal darkness
Or not
Or let it fester
Let it boil in to rage
Into sleeping on wet pillows
Again
The trembleing walls of my belly when I feel shame
And wondering how many days it will last this time?
If I was infinite, and I am, I would separate myself too
I would welcome a mirror
I would want to see myself in perfect opposition
Crooked smile
From the outside
Not from the sacred space of the purple glittering nest of my heart
I would crave temperature
And wet
And chilly or spicy
And warm
I would wonder what crowning or croning feels like
Wind and blue from the coast of Maui’s north shore beaches
Fireflies and the taste of sunlight
And wrinkles
And dots
And pizza
And Prosecco
All kinds of half way there’s and not now’s, but soon’s
There’s all kinds of ticking meters
And the dash on the tomb stone, someday
Like the moment I snap open a glow stick.
While it’s cracking...while it’s rumbling the bones beneath my digits...
Satisfaction at last
Handing the agent my boarding pass
But I still gotta go through the metal tube
Still gotta find my seat
Still gotta pee all the way in the back of the plane
I watched a movie last night
A scientist in the white coat went on about how
Everything is perfect outside of life and death
And that life is the virus on the flesh of the Universe
It’s true
This place is amazing
No perfection anywhere
Except for that it’s all im-perfect
All of it
Nothing matches
Not clones, not leaves…snowflakes, soul mates, heartbeats, no thing
It’s all a mystic soup of beetle wings, metal and music
Infinite in every direction
I’m here
An aspect of the virus on the Universe's flesh
Privileged to have my wings plucked long enough to feel fear, pain, suffering, toothaches, heartbreaks, brain freezes and dizzy
Dizzy in love
From spinning
From moms death...her cross over into boring old perfection
Blessed to feel
Cope with
Interpret
Share
And heal darkness
Or not
Or let it fester
Let it boil in to rage
Into sleeping on wet pillows
Again
The trembleing walls of my belly when I feel shame
And wondering how many days it will last this time?
If I was infinite, and I am, I would separate myself too
I would welcome a mirror
I would want to see myself in perfect opposition
Crooked smile
From the outside
Not from the sacred space of the purple glittering nest of my heart
I would crave temperature
And wet
And chilly or spicy
And warm
I would wonder what crowning or croning feels like
Wind and blue from the coast of Maui’s north shore beaches
Fireflies and the taste of sunlight
And wrinkles
And dots
And pizza
And Prosecco
Comfortable
Follow the thing.
Period panties.
Striped warm fuzzy pants.
Home fries. Coffee. Coffee. Potato.
Lay down. Roll over.
Remote. Click, click, click, click.
Fuck Netflix. Repeat.
Neck hurts. Don’t wanna stretch.
Wanna be comfortable.
Wanna saunter into every room.
Want elation.
Constantly.
Yeah, like my wedding day.
Blissed out.
Happy as fuck.
All the fucking time.
So happy it doesn’t hurt.
Slide in sideways to my natural state.
Breathe.
Feel love.
Appreciate.
A moment of silence while I
take
this
in.
Flying high.
Feeling high.
In and out of paisley flavored cloud shaped congratulations.
Dew blasts of kisses on my face.
Elated! Elated!
My natural state.
I remember!
I remember being little and running and squeals.
I remember high.
Swings.
Toes touching cotton candy puppies in the sky.
Belly rush.
The hill.
And so fast it ached so good.
Collapsing.
Rolling around.
Head back.
Crown on floor.
Fucking high!
More. More.
More hugs and kisses and I wanna smash your face in because I love you so much!
Get some of your skin under my fingernails by accident.
Maybe. Maybe on purpose.
My head under her chin.
Her voice waking me from the nap on her chest.
Giggles with the girls. Her girls. Her heart.
High!
Blisters from a burn.
Soothed.
Wet tear face cheek face.
I’m fine. Can I go run now?
I want sugar. I have a stash.
It’s in a Ziploc bag behind the dishwasher.
I lick my finger and stick it in this private thing I’ve claimed.
It’s mine because it’s a secret.
All secrets are mine.
If I tell you then it’s ours and I don’t want to share.
I do.
…just not everything.
Stay out of my room. Don’t touch my things.
Here, take this.
Wear it.
Put it on.
It looks good on you.
Take it.
You’re welcome.
Get the fuck out.
Period panties.
Striped warm fuzzy pants.
Home fries. Coffee. Coffee. Potato.
Lay down. Roll over.
Remote. Click, click, click, click.
Fuck Netflix. Repeat.
Neck hurts. Don’t wanna stretch.
Wanna be comfortable.
Wanna saunter into every room.
Want elation.
Constantly.
Yeah, like my wedding day.
Blissed out.
Happy as fuck.
All the fucking time.
So happy it doesn’t hurt.
Slide in sideways to my natural state.
Breathe.
Feel love.
Appreciate.
A moment of silence while I
take
this
in.
Flying high.
Feeling high.
In and out of paisley flavored cloud shaped congratulations.
Dew blasts of kisses on my face.
Elated! Elated!
My natural state.
I remember!
I remember being little and running and squeals.
I remember high.
Swings.
Toes touching cotton candy puppies in the sky.
Belly rush.
The hill.
And so fast it ached so good.
Collapsing.
Rolling around.
Head back.
Crown on floor.
Fucking high!
More. More.
More hugs and kisses and I wanna smash your face in because I love you so much!
Get some of your skin under my fingernails by accident.
Maybe. Maybe on purpose.
My head under her chin.
Her voice waking me from the nap on her chest.
Giggles with the girls. Her girls. Her heart.
High!
Blisters from a burn.
Soothed.
Wet tear face cheek face.
I’m fine. Can I go run now?
I want sugar. I have a stash.
It’s in a Ziploc bag behind the dishwasher.
I lick my finger and stick it in this private thing I’ve claimed.
It’s mine because it’s a secret.
All secrets are mine.
If I tell you then it’s ours and I don’t want to share.
I do.
…just not everything.
Stay out of my room. Don’t touch my things.
Here, take this.
Wear it.
Put it on.
It looks good on you.
Take it.
You’re welcome.
Get the fuck out.
Fear Meets A Loving Heart
The door closes to the rest of the world and suddenly you are met with the choir of voices.
All of them hungry and demanding your attention.
I’m inside an oven at a carnival.
I am made of putty and I’m an aerialist.
My putty hands on my putty partners heads, two of them.
While in the yellow, well lit oven.
Outside, a crowd of faces.
Cheering, all of their eyes on us.
I breathe in pride and honor.
I will preform.
I take my place at the platform and plunge into the tiny pool.
My body is straight and angled and yellow, as I go down.
Rows and rows of levels down.
Until I I reach the tiny pool.
But there is no pool just the idea of one.
Just a point.
A reason.
But there is no pool.
And I’m glad I can type in the dark.
Because there is no point.
I am a god on a rock and my hair is feathers on end like a peacock but black like from a chicken.
My body is the rock.
And my belly is a red mouth with its tongue sticking out…several tongues layered, in one mouth all pointed and sticking out almost making a HAAAAAA sound.
OK, I Had to go inside and take it in the insights that were demanding me to attend.
I came back when it started to feel too much like a dream and less like she was telling me something.
First I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
That was ok.
It was when I looked back at myself that I needed to go lay down.
I found her housecoat and used it as a blanket.
I was scared because knew this house has so many of her experiences.
This is where she keeps her fear.
But I laid in her bed anyway because I trust her.
I know that inside of her is a beautiful warm, loving heart.
So I laid in her bed and I closed my eyes and I saw my life and made contracts or agreements.
Grandmother is very clever.
She shows me pictures while she does what is necessary.
I get a screen.
Visceral, fluid and often-beautiful images, but then there’s the body.
The body does it’s own thing.
It squirms and shivers or mine did while I was watching this beautiful fluid show, just for me.
Light blue tubes of living paste, undulating and sliding into itself, appearing as others.
Grandmother is very sexy and metaphorical.
She tells me that it’s just me.
That, that is who I am and that she just shows it to me.
I have a hard time believing it.
How could I be so clever?
Plus, she has such a palate.
She is the muse.
She has the ability to paint a reflection of me, in my mind in a way that I can have an experience of it.
This is where I need to take my insight and use discernment.
Grandmother is not a god.
She is a portal.
She is an artist.
She is a healer.
What she shows me in an artists’ interpretation…and a quite accurate one.
She shows me what is hidden.
What I’ve hidden.
And she exposes it.
She is relentless.
She cleans it out.
Jesus. How dirty am I?
Is it possible to have an experience where you show up and it’s all good? “Nothing to do here. You’re good. You haven’t accumulated any guilt or shame that needs to be processed. There are no secrets you are keeping from yourself.”
Seems impossible but then there’s Andrea.
She took the same amount and is feeling nothing but a glimmer.
So, there’s that.
All of them hungry and demanding your attention.
I’m inside an oven at a carnival.
I am made of putty and I’m an aerialist.
My putty hands on my putty partners heads, two of them.
While in the yellow, well lit oven.
Outside, a crowd of faces.
Cheering, all of their eyes on us.
I breathe in pride and honor.
I will preform.
I take my place at the platform and plunge into the tiny pool.
My body is straight and angled and yellow, as I go down.
Rows and rows of levels down.
Until I I reach the tiny pool.
But there is no pool just the idea of one.
Just a point.
A reason.
But there is no pool.
And I’m glad I can type in the dark.
Because there is no point.
I am a god on a rock and my hair is feathers on end like a peacock but black like from a chicken.
My body is the rock.
And my belly is a red mouth with its tongue sticking out…several tongues layered, in one mouth all pointed and sticking out almost making a HAAAAAA sound.
OK, I Had to go inside and take it in the insights that were demanding me to attend.
I came back when it started to feel too much like a dream and less like she was telling me something.
First I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
That was ok.
It was when I looked back at myself that I needed to go lay down.
I found her housecoat and used it as a blanket.
I was scared because knew this house has so many of her experiences.
This is where she keeps her fear.
But I laid in her bed anyway because I trust her.
I know that inside of her is a beautiful warm, loving heart.
So I laid in her bed and I closed my eyes and I saw my life and made contracts or agreements.
Grandmother is very clever.
She shows me pictures while she does what is necessary.
I get a screen.
Visceral, fluid and often-beautiful images, but then there’s the body.
The body does it’s own thing.
It squirms and shivers or mine did while I was watching this beautiful fluid show, just for me.
Light blue tubes of living paste, undulating and sliding into itself, appearing as others.
Grandmother is very sexy and metaphorical.
She tells me that it’s just me.
That, that is who I am and that she just shows it to me.
I have a hard time believing it.
How could I be so clever?
Plus, she has such a palate.
She is the muse.
She has the ability to paint a reflection of me, in my mind in a way that I can have an experience of it.
This is where I need to take my insight and use discernment.
Grandmother is not a god.
She is a portal.
She is an artist.
She is a healer.
What she shows me in an artists’ interpretation…and a quite accurate one.
She shows me what is hidden.
What I’ve hidden.
And she exposes it.
She is relentless.
She cleans it out.
Jesus. How dirty am I?
Is it possible to have an experience where you show up and it’s all good? “Nothing to do here. You’re good. You haven’t accumulated any guilt or shame that needs to be processed. There are no secrets you are keeping from yourself.”
Seems impossible but then there’s Andrea.
She took the same amount and is feeling nothing but a glimmer.
So, there’s that.
Blood & The Key
When I sit to write an invitation is made to my world, I invite the listener an opportunity to sit in my seat, feel my feelings.
I can tell you about my first kiss, or the blade that is my tongue and the faces I’ve seen crumble in the presence of my perceived truth.
And there is not a person on this planet who doesn’t understand what it means to
be hurt or
to love or to look behind them,
down the road where they have walked.
There was scarf on my neck.
The boy I was made to play with, pulled it.
Marcus.
He pulled it hard.
Blood was drawn across the flesh where I covered my fear to speak.
My father smacked my mouth once, because he did not what to hear what I wanted to say.
Whether it was truth or not, it was too close to where his discomfort lived.
His unresolved issues with his father lived across the palm of his hand
now it lives just under the surface of my cheek.
Today I wear lip-gloss to draw attention.
What I say has value.
There is a scar on my knuckle from when I had to ride my bike to work
because he just didn’t feel like driving me.
I’m blaming.
I blame him for my falling
for not loving me enough
to carry me.
Maybe his back was tired.
I go in and find the vine of inspiration.
She lives inside me.
It is a bright light that shines through the tangled webs of confusion.
Confusion of not knowing when it was appropriate to whisper
speak or keep quiet.
I know where the door is
because I meet it with my face
and sometimes my toe
or my heart.
Confusion.
I’m a blind person feeling her way through the dark forest.
It’s sweet and thick and intense.
It leaves me bleeding.
Through blood, I give life.
I bled when I saw him hold her hand
in my lap
in defiance of what we knew was wrong.
I bled on the inside.
When I breathe deeply enough to when I was eighteen
I can feel the bump
where the scab used to live.
I bled when the phone didn’t ring for days
and then months.
The corners of my mouth began to drop and plummet to the ground where the floor would catch me.
Sometimes standing is hard.
Sleeping, wine and chocolate or a warm bath held me like a newborn baby.
Floating in the juices of Gaia’s healing fluid with a hint of lavender and Sara McLaughlin playing in the living room.
She sang my feelings.
The words didn’t matter.
Her melodic wails spoke the recognition I needed.
I was not alone.
I want to share my life with the world I want to let the world know that they are not alone and in this life there is beauty and it comes wrapped in pain.
And that pain is not the enemy.
Death is not to be feared.
And confusion is a tool.
Go into the dark room and feel around with your body
your senses
your vessel.
This is what I want the world to know.
The darkness holds the key.
And you, the listener, create the door.
You create the corridors.
You create the speed bumps and the thorns and the blood.
I can tell you about my first kiss, or the blade that is my tongue and the faces I’ve seen crumble in the presence of my perceived truth.
And there is not a person on this planet who doesn’t understand what it means to
be hurt or
to love or to look behind them,
down the road where they have walked.
There was scarf on my neck.
The boy I was made to play with, pulled it.
Marcus.
He pulled it hard.
Blood was drawn across the flesh where I covered my fear to speak.
My father smacked my mouth once, because he did not what to hear what I wanted to say.
Whether it was truth or not, it was too close to where his discomfort lived.
His unresolved issues with his father lived across the palm of his hand
now it lives just under the surface of my cheek.
Today I wear lip-gloss to draw attention.
What I say has value.
There is a scar on my knuckle from when I had to ride my bike to work
because he just didn’t feel like driving me.
I’m blaming.
I blame him for my falling
for not loving me enough
to carry me.
Maybe his back was tired.
I go in and find the vine of inspiration.
She lives inside me.
It is a bright light that shines through the tangled webs of confusion.
Confusion of not knowing when it was appropriate to whisper
speak or keep quiet.
I know where the door is
because I meet it with my face
and sometimes my toe
or my heart.
Confusion.
I’m a blind person feeling her way through the dark forest.
It’s sweet and thick and intense.
It leaves me bleeding.
Through blood, I give life.
I bled when I saw him hold her hand
in my lap
in defiance of what we knew was wrong.
I bled on the inside.
When I breathe deeply enough to when I was eighteen
I can feel the bump
where the scab used to live.
I bled when the phone didn’t ring for days
and then months.
The corners of my mouth began to drop and plummet to the ground where the floor would catch me.
Sometimes standing is hard.
Sleeping, wine and chocolate or a warm bath held me like a newborn baby.
Floating in the juices of Gaia’s healing fluid with a hint of lavender and Sara McLaughlin playing in the living room.
She sang my feelings.
The words didn’t matter.
Her melodic wails spoke the recognition I needed.
I was not alone.
I want to share my life with the world I want to let the world know that they are not alone and in this life there is beauty and it comes wrapped in pain.
And that pain is not the enemy.
Death is not to be feared.
And confusion is a tool.
Go into the dark room and feel around with your body
your senses
your vessel.
This is what I want the world to know.
The darkness holds the key.
And you, the listener, create the door.
You create the corridors.
You create the speed bumps and the thorns and the blood.
Things In The Way
Thoughts. Concepts. Nothing to grab a hold of. Like that tree nymph. He’s there all the time, I’m sure. But I need this frame of mind for him to come into focus. He just peers and watches, motionless. I can’t squint him away. But once I sober, he’ll be leaves and shadows covering the magic. I’m in motion. I sway and swing. The insides twisting into faces of undigested emotions. My legs wiggle their restless deepest desire to wander, to explore to feed my hungry insatiable curiosity. I’m afraid that if I stop wandering I will die. Or worse, I’ll be a walking corpse full of unfulfilled ideas that never manifested because it was safe to stay inside.
Stay out of trouble.
Don’t cross the line.
No one asked you.
Stay in your place.
Know your place.
Respect them even if they don’t deserve it.
Disrespect yourself for them.
That’s it. That’s how you do it.
Sacrifice.
Cover your cuts.
Stretch your face and contort your corners for them.
For others.
That’s what’s best.
Yeah, now you’ve got it.
No, that’s ok, I’ll stand.
Now laugh. You’ve heard this joke before. This is the part where you laugh.
Now lay down.
Open yourself.
Be sexual.
You know how.
No one needs to teach you.
So what if it feels funny.
This is natural and if it’s uncomfortable it’s because you don’t get it.
Fix that.
Fit in.
Now.
You don’t know how?
Everyone else does.
Can’t you see that?
Don’t your see their teeth when they smile?
Their houses are clean.
Is yours?
Look how small her plate is.
Is that all she’s eating?
Isn’t she hungry? Doesn’t she have the insatiable craving for satisfaction like I do? Surely she’s better than I. I bet her car is newer and never a dust particle has landed on her floor. Her hands are smooth and she takes good care of them. All of them: the children, her lover, and her things. Things! Things! She has more and they are clean. That means something, right? She doesn’t toss and turn in bed. When she spends a dollar it doesn’t feel like selfishness. It doesn’t feel like hoarding or shame either. It probably feels like expansion. It probably feels like service to self. It probably feels like she deserves it because someone loves her enough. Who is that someone? Is it God? Or her lover or her recently departed father who left her the keys to the mansion on the hill and the gold, BMW SUV, the x5? Maybe it’s luck or hard work or focus or someone whispered in her ear, how to have everything you want. Things! That’s what makes me happy. My possessions. My dusty, beautiful and interesting things. Whisper the secret in my ear. If you don’t, I’m going to keep going to workshops and ceremonies and uncovering layers and layers of self hate so I can feel full and have room for more things.
Shiny, new, beautiful things!
I don’t need them for long. Just long enough for the excitement to fade. Just long enough to impress.
Impress on myself and others who I am.
Because people need to know who I am.
Because that will make me important and worthwhile.
So I plaster on that smile and someday I’ll own pearls.
More than just one.
And they will see me.
The little girl under the table.
They’ll see me.
Stay out of trouble.
Don’t cross the line.
No one asked you.
Stay in your place.
Know your place.
Respect them even if they don’t deserve it.
Disrespect yourself for them.
That’s it. That’s how you do it.
Sacrifice.
Cover your cuts.
Stretch your face and contort your corners for them.
For others.
That’s what’s best.
Yeah, now you’ve got it.
No, that’s ok, I’ll stand.
Now laugh. You’ve heard this joke before. This is the part where you laugh.
Now lay down.
Open yourself.
Be sexual.
You know how.
No one needs to teach you.
So what if it feels funny.
This is natural and if it’s uncomfortable it’s because you don’t get it.
Fix that.
Fit in.
Now.
You don’t know how?
Everyone else does.
Can’t you see that?
Don’t your see their teeth when they smile?
Their houses are clean.
Is yours?
Look how small her plate is.
Is that all she’s eating?
Isn’t she hungry? Doesn’t she have the insatiable craving for satisfaction like I do? Surely she’s better than I. I bet her car is newer and never a dust particle has landed on her floor. Her hands are smooth and she takes good care of them. All of them: the children, her lover, and her things. Things! Things! She has more and they are clean. That means something, right? She doesn’t toss and turn in bed. When she spends a dollar it doesn’t feel like selfishness. It doesn’t feel like hoarding or shame either. It probably feels like expansion. It probably feels like service to self. It probably feels like she deserves it because someone loves her enough. Who is that someone? Is it God? Or her lover or her recently departed father who left her the keys to the mansion on the hill and the gold, BMW SUV, the x5? Maybe it’s luck or hard work or focus or someone whispered in her ear, how to have everything you want. Things! That’s what makes me happy. My possessions. My dusty, beautiful and interesting things. Whisper the secret in my ear. If you don’t, I’m going to keep going to workshops and ceremonies and uncovering layers and layers of self hate so I can feel full and have room for more things.
Shiny, new, beautiful things!
I don’t need them for long. Just long enough for the excitement to fade. Just long enough to impress.
Impress on myself and others who I am.
Because people need to know who I am.
Because that will make me important and worthwhile.
So I plaster on that smile and someday I’ll own pearls.
More than just one.
And they will see me.
The little girl under the table.
They’ll see me.
We Got This
Go away fear. We don’t need you anymore.
How many of us have to remember to release your earlobes and inside corners of your eyes during meditation or shavasana? I do!
What is that? Fear, that’s what!
Maybe you were startled by that sound at the door and you forgot to drop your shoulders two nights ago!
Are they still up?
If you scan your body right now, where are you breathing from?
Your throat, chest, belly your diaphragm?
Does it hurt to turn your neck in any direction or if you sit straight, for too long, does it hurt between your shoulder blades or in your low back?
Yeah, why is that?
Fear! That’s why.
You got tense over some bullshit or some real shit and you forgot for a minute, that you have the manual.
You forgot that it’s as easy as deciding to let it go.
It’s as easy as saying:
“Go away fear. I don’t need you anymore.”
Like any unwanted guest, that at one point was invited in, catered to and doted on, now needs to take itself somewhere else, somewhere where is needed.
To this prevalent guest, I say:
Go away fear. I see you. And we don’t need you anymore.
Fear moved in, like a homeless hitchhiker but in the form of tension.
Go away fear.
We’re not living in caves and saber tooths have long since expired.
Loud noises don’t mean the Gods are angry and getting pulled over for a bad headlight does not mean you’re going to starve along with the rest of the village.
Go away fear. We don’t need you.
We don’t need you sticking your nose in our bedrooms, refrigerators, meetings or choice in décor or gas grade.
Just go away.
You’re not allowed to lie on the couch and hold the remote.
You’ve over stayed your welcome, knowing all along, how uncomfortable it has been to host you.
You were a guest and now it is time for you to pack your baggage and leave.
Go away fear.
We don’t need you here anymore.
We have this under control. We remembered that everything we need is inside of us. You see fear; we remembered that intuition is the first and most reliable form of thinking. We’ve forgiven ourselves and we don’t really believe that mistakes means we’re not good enough anymore.
We remembered how to love ourselves and we now call that
Growing,
Or learning.
So we don’t need you fear, you’re not welcome here.
I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to clean up your workstation.
Go away. Cause got we this.
How many of us have to remember to release your earlobes and inside corners of your eyes during meditation or shavasana? I do!
What is that? Fear, that’s what!
Maybe you were startled by that sound at the door and you forgot to drop your shoulders two nights ago!
Are they still up?
If you scan your body right now, where are you breathing from?
Your throat, chest, belly your diaphragm?
Does it hurt to turn your neck in any direction or if you sit straight, for too long, does it hurt between your shoulder blades or in your low back?
Yeah, why is that?
Fear! That’s why.
You got tense over some bullshit or some real shit and you forgot for a minute, that you have the manual.
You forgot that it’s as easy as deciding to let it go.
It’s as easy as saying:
“Go away fear. I don’t need you anymore.”
Like any unwanted guest, that at one point was invited in, catered to and doted on, now needs to take itself somewhere else, somewhere where is needed.
To this prevalent guest, I say:
Go away fear. I see you. And we don’t need you anymore.
Fear moved in, like a homeless hitchhiker but in the form of tension.
Go away fear.
We’re not living in caves and saber tooths have long since expired.
Loud noises don’t mean the Gods are angry and getting pulled over for a bad headlight does not mean you’re going to starve along with the rest of the village.
Go away fear. We don’t need you.
We don’t need you sticking your nose in our bedrooms, refrigerators, meetings or choice in décor or gas grade.
Just go away.
You’re not allowed to lie on the couch and hold the remote.
You’ve over stayed your welcome, knowing all along, how uncomfortable it has been to host you.
You were a guest and now it is time for you to pack your baggage and leave.
Go away fear.
We don’t need you here anymore.
We have this under control. We remembered that everything we need is inside of us. You see fear; we remembered that intuition is the first and most reliable form of thinking. We’ve forgiven ourselves and we don’t really believe that mistakes means we’re not good enough anymore.
We remembered how to love ourselves and we now call that
Growing,
Or learning.
So we don’t need you fear, you’re not welcome here.
I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to clean up your workstation.
Go away. Cause got we this.
Stay With Me
Pack the bag. Where’s the bag? Can you get it for me? Thank you baby. Which underwear? Will I wear all
these thing? It’s just two nights. Toothbrush. Makeup. Sweater. Dress. Maybe jeans in case it gets cold at night. Warm fuzzy pajamas? Why not?
Sleep.
Soon I’ll be hugging her.
That last time we hugged she was dropping me off at DFW.
It was a just flash. She wasn’t even there for most of the time.
It was me, her dogs and her house. I spent a lot of time looking at all her things. The amazing treasures she’d collected over the years. Some of which were mine, from when I left.
It was me, just there, painting, and drinking the numbness in.
A bottle in my right hand and finger tips gently touching the tops of figurines; jaguar masks, a flannel jackets that was once in style…and will be again…and maybe already is.
Hand carved bone in the shape of elephants on top of the mantle that leans against the wall.
And a leather-coated jug with gold inlay and matching leather coated cups.
Furry rugs and weird curtain rods made from rebar and hung by tasseled rope and spider webs.
The sunlight made me think it’s warm. Pinwheels in the flowerbed spin fast enough for me to swim through their blades. Swim? I meant see.
I’m drunk, I think. On wine and nostalgia.
I’m glad I took my fuzzy house boots that time. They’re a little piece of home that warms my insides.
She still had that old suede couch and I remembered sitting on the white suede couch all those years ago when I was too high to focus on, what she was going on and on about. I was watching her lips through blurry stoned eyes then.
When she said “Like that.”
“What? Like what?” I said.
“Like that. She just stares at me when I talk, like you’re doing now.”
I’d gotten busted for not paying attention and being stoned. And looking at how pretty her eyebrows were and wondering why she didn’t tweeze them like the rest of us did. What made her so independent in our time in space? How could she be so insecure yet put her foot down about those brows?
She didn’t succumb. And I’m glad she didn’t because they framed her beautiful eyes so perfectly. Still do. Long lashes almost touch her brow bone. Were her eyes green?
I must be drifting again because I was just poked my head through to 1996 and now I’m at the airport hugging her hello remembering our goodbye and still have a bottle of wine in my right hand. I don’t think that couch was really suede. It must have been rawhide or it wouldn’t have lasted this long.
I could go on and on and on.
these thing? It’s just two nights. Toothbrush. Makeup. Sweater. Dress. Maybe jeans in case it gets cold at night. Warm fuzzy pajamas? Why not?
Sleep.
Soon I’ll be hugging her.
That last time we hugged she was dropping me off at DFW.
It was a just flash. She wasn’t even there for most of the time.
It was me, her dogs and her house. I spent a lot of time looking at all her things. The amazing treasures she’d collected over the years. Some of which were mine, from when I left.
It was me, just there, painting, and drinking the numbness in.
A bottle in my right hand and finger tips gently touching the tops of figurines; jaguar masks, a flannel jackets that was once in style…and will be again…and maybe already is.
Hand carved bone in the shape of elephants on top of the mantle that leans against the wall.
And a leather-coated jug with gold inlay and matching leather coated cups.
Furry rugs and weird curtain rods made from rebar and hung by tasseled rope and spider webs.
The sunlight made me think it’s warm. Pinwheels in the flowerbed spin fast enough for me to swim through their blades. Swim? I meant see.
I’m drunk, I think. On wine and nostalgia.
I’m glad I took my fuzzy house boots that time. They’re a little piece of home that warms my insides.
She still had that old suede couch and I remembered sitting on the white suede couch all those years ago when I was too high to focus on, what she was going on and on about. I was watching her lips through blurry stoned eyes then.
When she said “Like that.”
“What? Like what?” I said.
“Like that. She just stares at me when I talk, like you’re doing now.”
I’d gotten busted for not paying attention and being stoned. And looking at how pretty her eyebrows were and wondering why she didn’t tweeze them like the rest of us did. What made her so independent in our time in space? How could she be so insecure yet put her foot down about those brows?
She didn’t succumb. And I’m glad she didn’t because they framed her beautiful eyes so perfectly. Still do. Long lashes almost touch her brow bone. Were her eyes green?
I must be drifting again because I was just poked my head through to 1996 and now I’m at the airport hugging her hello remembering our goodbye and still have a bottle of wine in my right hand. I don’t think that couch was really suede. It must have been rawhide or it wouldn’t have lasted this long.
I could go on and on and on.
Recycled
Moonlight pinned to my bed. Restless and reaching, I roll and I thunder.
I yearn for my youth as I live it. This is what it looks like now. No one could predict I would turn out this way. No hope or diary or school or plan or anything could define this reality. I haven’t even defined it yet. It just keeps staying uncomfortable. And just when it starts to look familiar, the scene changes to black and white static on an old TV.
Small breasts in a training bra.
My first moon on my sheets
And boys
And bars
And drinks
And jobs
And chocolate
And waistlines, that all of a sudden mattered.
People come and they go. Life begins and ends and first kisses happen everyday.
Like the first, first kiss. The one before any other first kiss.
The one that makes you slide your body slowly down your closet door until you are sitting Indian style in your hot pink bedroom.
Wondering why no one else is celebrating collectively, your joy of being kissed and the sensation of being wanted and wondering where that pleasure lives inside your body.
And then we held hands and I don’t think there is anything hotter than holding hands, for the first time in the back seat of your friends’ car. Sharing a feeling of knowing. There is no turning back, and for better or for worse, interesting things are going to come out of knowing each other and wondering is in the past. Because he likes me and I like him and we both feel like the luckiest, scared-est people on the planet.
And I wish there was a meter for that. So much of it happens on it’s own, un-algorythem-able, sacred, unique.
My life runs through this plane of existence
And it courses through this body. Like the full belly of an anaconda.
That is the line.
I am the belly.
I will squeeze through the length it takes to be released from life’s anus. No longer what I was when I arrived and then back to being compost.
And then I will be a tree. I will shine and reflect the moon every night she will allow.
And I will shade the fortunate enough to have found me.
And I will reach and reach until my DNA code defines my boundary.
And then I will rot.
And I will compost.
And I will be born again and again,
And I will not be stopped until the Earth herself decides she is finished with this form.
And then I will implode with my mother and exist only in the eyes of my father who is now vaporous lavender and green mist, just beyond the reaches of our observed universe and sometimes in Alaska.
But for now I am a woman. In a house, wondering if I am good enough and knowing that I am.
And that I am designed for more because in my programming they left traces of my eternity, weather they meant to or not, I know that I have been more and this skin feels like bars in a cell.
And I hope for books in the mail that will take me on the vacation I cannot yet afford.
I’ll wear the large dresses and will have red hair and freckles and murder my enemy and fly in my sleep, or just pick up the remote and hope there is something new on and I roll and I thunder.
I yearn for my youth as I live it. This is what it looks like now. No one could predict I would turn out this way. No hope or diary or school or plan or anything could define this reality. I haven’t even defined it yet. It just keeps staying uncomfortable. And just when it starts to look familiar, the scene changes to black and white static on an old TV.
Small breasts in a training bra.
My first moon on my sheets
And boys
And bars
And drinks
And jobs
And chocolate
And waistlines, that all of a sudden mattered.
People come and they go. Life begins and ends and first kisses happen everyday.
Like the first, first kiss. The one before any other first kiss.
The one that makes you slide your body slowly down your closet door until you are sitting Indian style in your hot pink bedroom.
Wondering why no one else is celebrating collectively, your joy of being kissed and the sensation of being wanted and wondering where that pleasure lives inside your body.
And then we held hands and I don’t think there is anything hotter than holding hands, for the first time in the back seat of your friends’ car. Sharing a feeling of knowing. There is no turning back, and for better or for worse, interesting things are going to come out of knowing each other and wondering is in the past. Because he likes me and I like him and we both feel like the luckiest, scared-est people on the planet.
And I wish there was a meter for that. So much of it happens on it’s own, un-algorythem-able, sacred, unique.
My life runs through this plane of existence
And it courses through this body. Like the full belly of an anaconda.
That is the line.
I am the belly.
I will squeeze through the length it takes to be released from life’s anus. No longer what I was when I arrived and then back to being compost.
And then I will be a tree. I will shine and reflect the moon every night she will allow.
And I will shade the fortunate enough to have found me.
And I will reach and reach until my DNA code defines my boundary.
And then I will rot.
And I will compost.
And I will be born again and again,
And I will not be stopped until the Earth herself decides she is finished with this form.
And then I will implode with my mother and exist only in the eyes of my father who is now vaporous lavender and green mist, just beyond the reaches of our observed universe and sometimes in Alaska.
But for now I am a woman. In a house, wondering if I am good enough and knowing that I am.
And that I am designed for more because in my programming they left traces of my eternity, weather they meant to or not, I know that I have been more and this skin feels like bars in a cell.
And I hope for books in the mail that will take me on the vacation I cannot yet afford.
I’ll wear the large dresses and will have red hair and freckles and murder my enemy and fly in my sleep, or just pick up the remote and hope there is something new on and I roll and I thunder.
Here's To You
I am another you.
I play in the crevices that are your face.
I dance in the small arch of your back in and out of the strokes of your tattoo.
I smile into the mirror when I see you.
I am the ache in your neck and shoulders and the hair that stands on end when the song came on. I’m that song too. The vibrations from the speaker, tin-ey or bass-ey, they’re me too.
I travel through the air and dance in Your ear drums and tickle Your memories and I release the endorphins in Your brain that make You smile or cry when You remember his golden curl, on that day when he walked away.
I am the red mud boots on your feet and that splash, and that sound that tickled your eardrum.
I am the little sailboat on the flannel blanket.
I cover your face in public when mother feeds you her breast.
Come dance with me. In the bedroom, or on the bed. Or lets go to a club and pound out some feelings through our heels. The high ones.
I am that piece of skin you bite when what he’s saying, or not saying is driving us mad.
I am the bead of sweat between your breasts when its too hot or just hot enough.
I am his kiss and his scent. I am the color in his eyes. The blue and the outlined darker shade of bluer you fall into, when you muster the courage to look.
I am the tear that is held back and blinked away because sometimes it’s inappropriate to feel publicly.
I am the jump in your heart when the phone rings because she’ll be gone soon but it’s time to sleep.
I am the water.
I kiss your flesh and roll off your nudity when no one is looking.
I revel in being you and adore your giggles and smile and even your hate.
Yes even your hurt too.
I am another you.
I am all of it.
And I am too much to bear so I come and go and wait for you to remember who we really are.
Eternally.
I wait for the beautiful tapestry of nerves to assimilate and handle more and more of what we are.
I am your patience that is met and challenged into more and more strength and effortless flow.
I am the murmur and prayer you moan when you aren’t paying attention and reach out to something you don’t quite yet remember.
I am all that is and everything in between and I see all of it through you.
I am another you. Her. Him.
That puppy and the baby and even the bum with the smell and filth coming from his jeans and and bloodshot eyes that stifle the pain he cannot forget.
The pearls around the trophy wife’s neck.
The gavel in the hand of the judge.
The desk, the paint, the wine opener and the wine.
Here’s to you. Drink me in. I am another you.
I play in the crevices that are your face.
I dance in the small arch of your back in and out of the strokes of your tattoo.
I smile into the mirror when I see you.
I am the ache in your neck and shoulders and the hair that stands on end when the song came on. I’m that song too. The vibrations from the speaker, tin-ey or bass-ey, they’re me too.
I travel through the air and dance in Your ear drums and tickle Your memories and I release the endorphins in Your brain that make You smile or cry when You remember his golden curl, on that day when he walked away.
I am the red mud boots on your feet and that splash, and that sound that tickled your eardrum.
I am the little sailboat on the flannel blanket.
I cover your face in public when mother feeds you her breast.
Come dance with me. In the bedroom, or on the bed. Or lets go to a club and pound out some feelings through our heels. The high ones.
I am that piece of skin you bite when what he’s saying, or not saying is driving us mad.
I am the bead of sweat between your breasts when its too hot or just hot enough.
I am his kiss and his scent. I am the color in his eyes. The blue and the outlined darker shade of bluer you fall into, when you muster the courage to look.
I am the tear that is held back and blinked away because sometimes it’s inappropriate to feel publicly.
I am the jump in your heart when the phone rings because she’ll be gone soon but it’s time to sleep.
I am the water.
I kiss your flesh and roll off your nudity when no one is looking.
I revel in being you and adore your giggles and smile and even your hate.
Yes even your hurt too.
I am another you.
I am all of it.
And I am too much to bear so I come and go and wait for you to remember who we really are.
Eternally.
I wait for the beautiful tapestry of nerves to assimilate and handle more and more of what we are.
I am your patience that is met and challenged into more and more strength and effortless flow.
I am the murmur and prayer you moan when you aren’t paying attention and reach out to something you don’t quite yet remember.
I am all that is and everything in between and I see all of it through you.
I am another you. Her. Him.
That puppy and the baby and even the bum with the smell and filth coming from his jeans and and bloodshot eyes that stifle the pain he cannot forget.
The pearls around the trophy wife’s neck.
The gavel in the hand of the judge.
The desk, the paint, the wine opener and the wine.
Here’s to you. Drink me in. I am another you.
Cinderella & Shit
Must and sweat lead me down a corridor of secrets, desire and delicious bitterness.
His face, I did not yet know but I saw him.
I saw him in the shadows on the walls of the full but empty room. Full of bodies, empty of soul. I stepped in puddles of bass beats that pounded in my chest. In my hair. Over my wet, parted lips.
I thought he was the man in the long overcoat. He dropped something. Instantly to my knees, I took my place as his servant. Take my offering of the possibility you hold, I pleaded with my eyes, but it wasn’t him. Because what he said was “Thank you.”
He didn’t whirl me around and bring me to his breath. I didn’t feel his warm whisper in my ear.“Go away with me” he did not say.
I thought he was the man in the uniform. I slithered for him as I stared lust droplets from my gaze while balancing my dry martini.
It wasn’t him because he didn’t take my hand and walk me to his car.
He didn’t take me to his room and ravage the fullness that was my swollen hope.
He didn’t caress the tracks of tears where he was missed.
He didn’t share the space between my flesh and my bones.
He didn’t inhale the smoke left from the fire that was my longing to be wanted that scarred my landscape, and denied my blueprint.
I thought he was the turtle. The one who burned my labia with his past mistakes.
I thought it was him because when no one was watching, I floated past the boundaries my body held.
When no one was looking I was smiling from the inside of my throat, my arms, my pits and even my bones glistened when he touched my craving skin.
He made me a frog so it could not have been him.
I remember now what I should have known then.
I remember that pain I confused for love.
I remember the frequency his ravaging left me with, cold and empty, hungry for satisfaction, depleted, withered, tired.
I was looking or him my whole life. Like Cinderella and shit.
The fairy tale. The bullshit. The anger.
The fury the pain the catastrophe that was my expectation, that kept me from being young and wild and free and open and curious and kind and soft and brave and tender.
Not only did I miss my beautiful thirty three year old body, I missed the boys I fucked.
Because while I was feeling the satisfaction of being wanted, I missed who they were, what they had to offer.
Who was inside the pretty car? The one who opened the door for me?
I didn’t see that that wasn’t a ploy.
I didn’t see that he or they were just good guys and not just a tool to satisfy my hunger with.
He was a person and shit.
He had feelings, they all did.
Now I feel like an asshole. All hungry and longing and yearning and blah, blah, fucking blah, and shit.
Ew. I wanna leave you with a happy ending but that’s it folks.
That’s it. That’s what happened.
His face, I did not yet know but I saw him.
I saw him in the shadows on the walls of the full but empty room. Full of bodies, empty of soul. I stepped in puddles of bass beats that pounded in my chest. In my hair. Over my wet, parted lips.
I thought he was the man in the long overcoat. He dropped something. Instantly to my knees, I took my place as his servant. Take my offering of the possibility you hold, I pleaded with my eyes, but it wasn’t him. Because what he said was “Thank you.”
He didn’t whirl me around and bring me to his breath. I didn’t feel his warm whisper in my ear.“Go away with me” he did not say.
I thought he was the man in the uniform. I slithered for him as I stared lust droplets from my gaze while balancing my dry martini.
It wasn’t him because he didn’t take my hand and walk me to his car.
He didn’t take me to his room and ravage the fullness that was my swollen hope.
He didn’t caress the tracks of tears where he was missed.
He didn’t share the space between my flesh and my bones.
He didn’t inhale the smoke left from the fire that was my longing to be wanted that scarred my landscape, and denied my blueprint.
I thought he was the turtle. The one who burned my labia with his past mistakes.
I thought it was him because when no one was watching, I floated past the boundaries my body held.
When no one was looking I was smiling from the inside of my throat, my arms, my pits and even my bones glistened when he touched my craving skin.
He made me a frog so it could not have been him.
I remember now what I should have known then.
I remember that pain I confused for love.
I remember the frequency his ravaging left me with, cold and empty, hungry for satisfaction, depleted, withered, tired.
I was looking or him my whole life. Like Cinderella and shit.
The fairy tale. The bullshit. The anger.
The fury the pain the catastrophe that was my expectation, that kept me from being young and wild and free and open and curious and kind and soft and brave and tender.
Not only did I miss my beautiful thirty three year old body, I missed the boys I fucked.
Because while I was feeling the satisfaction of being wanted, I missed who they were, what they had to offer.
Who was inside the pretty car? The one who opened the door for me?
I didn’t see that that wasn’t a ploy.
I didn’t see that he or they were just good guys and not just a tool to satisfy my hunger with.
He was a person and shit.
He had feelings, they all did.
Now I feel like an asshole. All hungry and longing and yearning and blah, blah, fucking blah, and shit.
Ew. I wanna leave you with a happy ending but that’s it folks.
That’s it. That’s what happened.
He's Upstairs
Sleeping.
We both have the day off. He wants to go get plant starts for the garden...mind you, on his day off. He made breakfast, washed the dishes then laid with me on the tuffet and laughed until we went through all the pictures from that funny Facebook album. Not once did he seem like he wanted to do something else or be somewhere else. He wants to be with me. I mean, I’m bossy, I’m fat...well, fat enough that I don’t feel like having sex with him all the time, like when we first met. And I’m so annoying. I even annoy myself. But still...he wants to be with me. He wants to cook for me, build, paint and laugh with me.
He snores.
So what do I do with this? Where do I put it? In my heart? Yeah, probably...that’s gonna be the safest place for it...but sometimes, it feels like the negative side of a magnet...you know like, the things you want to put in there slide off to the side a bit and don’t seem to find their way in. I know there’s room but it’s hard to fit all that love he gives me, into that enormous chasm with that teeeeeny, tiny entrance.
Sleeping breathing sounds different than awake breathing.
We’re kind of broke this month. I wonder what we’re going to have for dinner? I should have some kind of salad. Lentils and quinoa, probably. So I can get over the guilt of eating the frosting off the chocolate cake after that last thing I wrote. And again, Yuck! Maybe just a little cheese?
Hope it rains later. I love our house in the rain.
We put up curtains yesterday. He laughed when he saw the spray paint on my hands from retouching the Frisbee we use as a compost lid. Oddly, I’m excited about getting rid of all our matching mugs for a more interesting mismatched set.
I just heard him roll over.
How long this will last? Last night the other couples were talking about their problems and making cliché relationship jokes. My one friend openly tells us he’ll never marry his girlfriend of 2 years as she sits next to him smiling and maintaining eye contact with the group. They talked about how hard it is to stay friends with someone you married for a green card. And how a kid really steals the romance and common courtesy from being in love.
He’s up.
He tried to cuddle up to me again. I yell “NO!! You can’t read it!” He said he doesn’t want to. He says Fine! He teases and says that when he gets back from the liquor store with the 40’s, we’re going to watch football and then go for a run.
It’s probably not going to rain today.
We both have the day off. He wants to go get plant starts for the garden...mind you, on his day off. He made breakfast, washed the dishes then laid with me on the tuffet and laughed until we went through all the pictures from that funny Facebook album. Not once did he seem like he wanted to do something else or be somewhere else. He wants to be with me. I mean, I’m bossy, I’m fat...well, fat enough that I don’t feel like having sex with him all the time, like when we first met. And I’m so annoying. I even annoy myself. But still...he wants to be with me. He wants to cook for me, build, paint and laugh with me.
He snores.
So what do I do with this? Where do I put it? In my heart? Yeah, probably...that’s gonna be the safest place for it...but sometimes, it feels like the negative side of a magnet...you know like, the things you want to put in there slide off to the side a bit and don’t seem to find their way in. I know there’s room but it’s hard to fit all that love he gives me, into that enormous chasm with that teeeeeny, tiny entrance.
Sleeping breathing sounds different than awake breathing.
We’re kind of broke this month. I wonder what we’re going to have for dinner? I should have some kind of salad. Lentils and quinoa, probably. So I can get over the guilt of eating the frosting off the chocolate cake after that last thing I wrote. And again, Yuck! Maybe just a little cheese?
Hope it rains later. I love our house in the rain.
We put up curtains yesterday. He laughed when he saw the spray paint on my hands from retouching the Frisbee we use as a compost lid. Oddly, I’m excited about getting rid of all our matching mugs for a more interesting mismatched set.
I just heard him roll over.
How long this will last? Last night the other couples were talking about their problems and making cliché relationship jokes. My one friend openly tells us he’ll never marry his girlfriend of 2 years as she sits next to him smiling and maintaining eye contact with the group. They talked about how hard it is to stay friends with someone you married for a green card. And how a kid really steals the romance and common courtesy from being in love.
He’s up.
He tried to cuddle up to me again. I yell “NO!! You can’t read it!” He said he doesn’t want to. He says Fine! He teases and says that when he gets back from the liquor store with the 40’s, we’re going to watch football and then go for a run.
It’s probably not going to rain today.
