I Had Too Much To Dream
He casted spells down my back, in the dark, with spindle fingers.
Careful and delicate,
muttering, channeling,
cascading.
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.
Sweltering,
slipping.
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,
Cracks,
crevices.
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 isn't all its chalked up to be.
It's 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.
To know.
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 liveliness.
Long enough to know this is home.
Careful and delicate,
muttering, channeling,
cascading.
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.
Sweltering,
slipping.
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,
Cracks,
crevices.
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 isn't all its chalked up to be.
It's 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.
To know.
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 liveliness.
Long enough to know this is home.
Waking Moths
Waking moths
I don’t want anyone to tell me how I should feel.
when I don’t even know how I feel, I can almost guarantee that whatever falls out your tears, is not how I am feeling right now and surely is not what I will be feeling in a spell.
I would think that I would know how to bite by now.
Thoughtfully, with time taken to assess the damages and call in my dogs.
But no. I don’t.
Perhaps I have unlearned that in a matter of waking moths and growing toads.
Growing toads. The very downfall of my own wildness.
If I raise my voice too much I’m eruptions. If I don’t say enough I’m just desert.
So fucking what? If I can’t be eruptions and I can’t be deserts why would I ever want to be their mountains or skyscrapers or valleys. What scenery are we even building? Because I don’t fit into it. Perhaps that’s the dice.
Why we fold people into origami cranes and set them to the sides of our desks. We won’t ever fit right but we have a small place if we must exist.
Well.
I’ll set your cranes to craters.
I will pull myself out of my jowls, straight from my toes, where i’m curled into blankets.
I will pull myself out of my mouth until he doesn’t think he knows me anymore. Questions if he ever knew me at all,
if I was ever rosemary,
if i was ever sunrises,
if i was ever cotton.
And I will keep coming, and coming, and coming.
lengths and cords of this sage, this seer.
Until im standing cauldrons high
and taking hash in powerful laughter of witches.
Until I am so certain of myself and my tears I won’t ever choke on my ropes again.
But humanity might.
I will carve them into my snakes. And take my seat up in storms.
I’ll sit in the clouds and watch as my guts spill out, everything that I have ever swallowed, ever hesitated to say, or carried in my clutch.
I will watch it play across the sky in dark clouds and harrowing twisters. Lightning to the pastures. My weather will eat the things i love like games. It will do to the outside what it has done to the drawers.
And it won’t cease fire until the cupboards are scrubbed clean and the wounds are licked and the gardening gloves go back on.
And when it calms I will round up my cherries and tell them of what I’ve seen. About how ladies take up swallowing snakes and let them live in their bellies. How if they sit, they fester and bubble and stink.
How the bile is like the backwash of the ocean when I vomited back onto grass.
I will let them know that there will always be growing toads.
But they are theirs alone to tame and harvest.
For there are gnomes in the woods and they are petty thieves, and they will always try and get to talking.
They want to change the way your kitchen door slams and how you peel your oranges.
And if the bones inside are tired, and if the physical body needs love.
My dear, as I, you just might let them.
But when the graveyard overflows and arm hairs stand on end, the time has come to disrobe. Know your own snakes and call in your dogs . Head alone to barren eruption road.
I don’t want anyone to tell me how I should feel.
when I don’t even know how I feel, I can almost guarantee that whatever falls out your tears, is not how I am feeling right now and surely is not what I will be feeling in a spell.
I would think that I would know how to bite by now.
Thoughtfully, with time taken to assess the damages and call in my dogs.
But no. I don’t.
Perhaps I have unlearned that in a matter of waking moths and growing toads.
Growing toads. The very downfall of my own wildness.
If I raise my voice too much I’m eruptions. If I don’t say enough I’m just desert.
So fucking what? If I can’t be eruptions and I can’t be deserts why would I ever want to be their mountains or skyscrapers or valleys. What scenery are we even building? Because I don’t fit into it. Perhaps that’s the dice.
Why we fold people into origami cranes and set them to the sides of our desks. We won’t ever fit right but we have a small place if we must exist.
Well.
I’ll set your cranes to craters.
I will pull myself out of my jowls, straight from my toes, where i’m curled into blankets.
I will pull myself out of my mouth until he doesn’t think he knows me anymore. Questions if he ever knew me at all,
if I was ever rosemary,
if i was ever sunrises,
if i was ever cotton.
And I will keep coming, and coming, and coming.
lengths and cords of this sage, this seer.
Until im standing cauldrons high
and taking hash in powerful laughter of witches.
Until I am so certain of myself and my tears I won’t ever choke on my ropes again.
But humanity might.
I will carve them into my snakes. And take my seat up in storms.
I’ll sit in the clouds and watch as my guts spill out, everything that I have ever swallowed, ever hesitated to say, or carried in my clutch.
I will watch it play across the sky in dark clouds and harrowing twisters. Lightning to the pastures. My weather will eat the things i love like games. It will do to the outside what it has done to the drawers.
And it won’t cease fire until the cupboards are scrubbed clean and the wounds are licked and the gardening gloves go back on.
And when it calms I will round up my cherries and tell them of what I’ve seen. About how ladies take up swallowing snakes and let them live in their bellies. How if they sit, they fester and bubble and stink.
How the bile is like the backwash of the ocean when I vomited back onto grass.
I will let them know that there will always be growing toads.
But they are theirs alone to tame and harvest.
For there are gnomes in the woods and they are petty thieves, and they will always try and get to talking.
They want to change the way your kitchen door slams and how you peel your oranges.
And if the bones inside are tired, and if the physical body needs love.
My dear, as I, you just might let them.
But when the graveyard overflows and arm hairs stand on end, the time has come to disrobe. Know your own snakes and call in your dogs . Head alone to barren eruption road.
Crescendo
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!
Don’t preach.
Don’t preach!
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.
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!
Don’t preach.
Don’t preach!
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.
