I see an eagle in this Oregon tree. A dancing shy beauty. She may decide to be my muse. It’s better than poppers or Quaaludes or cement. I reach up to catch her. Admiring her shining bald head. I fly with her. Landing in a mindless dream. It’s there she’ll taunt my vanity with her wings spread wide, staring at me, watching the nightmare girl fly over trains and trash and guns. Im needing this muse. So I can share old stories. Of needing help. Of scars. Of New York streets. Of the time I used my teeth to break into the donut shop so I could have my fill. Or distracted the boy with a promise of tattoos while my dog lifted his wallet. Or when I used tight jeans to squeeze out of my check. I’m needing to get high. In Central Park, in hotel rooms, on roof tops. Then I can look down with reason. See him pretending to like wood while staring at cracks. Or observe computers blazing at night. Spot the elk before steaming him out of sight. I and the eagle are sisters after all. Dancing to the steps my mother taught us. Living shy behind soaring feathers. Swooping down towards the beauty of farmers backs planting seeds. Landing in dirt before we catch the hunters eye. Dreaming for no reason other than the joy of a mindless act. Staying together through our choice. Loyalty is for rats in Central Park. Loyalty is a spear gun at Smilers. Loyalty is drinks, black beauties and bars. Loyalty is dancing at 54. The ground has grown out of sight. I’m way too high now. This happened once before when I was pregnant. I almost didn’t come back. But he was my coyote and we had a deal. The magic is still there. He prances. I beam lights. He jokes. I wake the owls. He touches me and I’m landlocked. It’s magic. We created it. It could go away. I know it. In a flash. Faster than downing a shot. It happened once before. Me flying out the window. Landing with a splat. Then run over by a truck. It was no fun. I thought I was going to pass out. The hours tear at my beak, deformed within minutes, falling like ashes, blowing out candles, reciting poetry, minus the howl, wanting to open but not without my wings.
The burn in the lampshade looks like an evil eye. It’s glaring at me. The candle flame next to it flickers, demanding attention. There’s need for double illumination tonight.
We’ve stopped seeing with our Third Eye. We’ve become disconnected from our gut instincts. We’ve forgotten our mycelium stretches across oceans, and continents, and is carried on desert winds.
And what we need, is double illumination!
We need to light up those parts of our hearts that have become cold and cavernous—focusing on the “I” and “My” and “Lie.”
We need to re-awaken our childlike joy at simple things like bird songs and sunsets and the sweet scent of flowers on the breeze.
We need to lift our faces towards the sun instead of Amazon. Instead of greed. Instead of gas prices. We need to look at need.
And what we NEED is double illumination.
What the world needs is Peace. What the world needs is non-judgement. What the world needs is to feed its hungry and help its weak and house its destitute.
If Covid taught us anything, it’s that the world is small, it’s interconnected and what happens to one, affects us all.
It’s not just our price at the pump; it Africa’s food supply chain, it’s astronaut’s rides home, it’s families. And lives. And children. It’s incredible courage that deserves to be acknowledged, and lauded, and duplicated.
What we need, is double illumination!
We each hold the world in the palm of our hands, if we’d just care to look. If our lights, and candles, and Third Eyes are bright.
It’s time to tap in, and log off, and witness the mycelium of Ukraine’s people. Of Bravery. Of courage. Of painful sacrifice.
And allow that strength to migrate our way—across oceans, and continents, and winds.
And then, SEEN, we send it back!
Because to me, what we need, IS double illumination.
Under cement skies
This relentless wind has blown away the sun
I am electricity dreaming
I am coughing leaves falling on the hospital floor
I am prepared for the fever journey
how many times have I died from the complications of loves fevers
They left me chained returning, again and again at night, to feast on my hummingbird heart
Even the ones that haven’t hunted, recognize the hunting pose
Winds of ash blow across my face
and in the great divide I hear singing
I hope that’s singing
from below the subway grate
It’s the final witching hour
Last call at the Russian Tea Room
Put it on my card
There are worse things outside tonight than Unpaid debt.
The unmanned ship is rising in the harbor with a cargo of rancid earth
I do not want to be a part of THAT story
It brings a cold light and the smell of burning wire between my ears
More whispers from the usual unreliable sources
I feel the return of my piss filthy friends
Stolen bottles and ancient wood benches carved with graffiti
The woman murmuring in that shuttered house where I broke the window
And we ran From the bottom of the lake
into the thunder of the cracking world
Heads bleached with Acid and wine
Now I wait for them to come again
I wait among the stones
In the wind between the mirrors
There goes the black rabbit
Between rows and rows and rows and rows of forgotten granite memories
With arms and wings and faded inscriptions reaching for the pestilence moon
I like it here, and I will Not go back where I came from
It’s Three AM
Please, Let it be Alice, that takes me through the glass
The Russians love their babies too. Looking into their eyes. Smelling their hair. Caressing their cheeks. My cheeks are cold. It happens. Inhaling chilling thoughts of gaping wounds. Endless fears til death do us part. Reverting to diapers in search of a crib. A building on fire, turning flesh into meat. Babies.
The time is once again a song of hope. It happens. A dirty glass. A broken umbrella. A literary letter. But I won’t let that be the nail. There’s always another bottle. Another love affair. Another way out. I’m that clever after all. I can afford to be. I’m a sheepskin coat in the middle of a summer storm. Babies.
The flag catches my eye. They all have blue. Why can’t we see we’re all the same. It happens. Tears of clear rainbows. Teeth cracking like it’s the 4th of July. Painful bones that keep us up every winter feeling night. But the babies.
What does it all mean at the end of our days? Beyond the bed of needles. The airplane flights. The cold dead hands. Is it worth it? Coins falling from our pockets. Pork belly at our backs. It’s about the babies.
He said it would be forever. He promised. But promises are laughing buddhas. He said I was safe. He crossed his heart. But crosses don’t get to vote. Oh I wish he had never said anything. A mime with quiet gestures for my amusement. It happens. Babies happen.
I’m such a trigger. Smelling of powder and sparks. He says I’m beautiful. Oh please don’t say anymore. Let armpits and whispers follow me to bed. Let there be peace for Russian babies. Our babies.
Let our acts follow us off the stage. Let the singing cry from our fingernails, scratching at the dirt, draw open the bridge, till all the flags become white, turning the ground to rubber.
It happens. Hope chasing the sun across the yard to remember where we came from. Bones aching as the cold sets in. The room’s too small for shared breaths. Where have our babies gone?
No one sits at the living room table. No one joins in on a bottle. No one comments about the art. It happens. Words that snap. Sorrow in our puffy eyes. Stitches removed before the wound is healed. It happens again. And again. And again. And again.
The last thing I want is to be a pain in the ass. I aim to please. And I don't wanna be a distraction either, unless that's the mood du jour. I give everything that I got and do whatever it takes.
I'm a good girl.
I'm good at lying.
Lying on the couch, lying to myself.
I'm real good.
I'm real bad.
I'm not real at all.
I'm a fake.
He called me a con artist. I tricked him.
They don't call me Waagosh for nothin.
I hide in plain sight. I hide in piles of stuffed animals up against the cold empty walls and under blankets in the backseats of cars in the dead of winter. I'm left alone. I'm a bad girl. I can't fix it or make it better. I make it worse. I make up these stories and then I live by them. I don't let myself get mad.
I'm afraid of myself.
I'm afraid of being wrong, it's even worse to be right.
I'm afraid of my bad side, the dark side.
I'm torn up inside.
His soft adolescent chest rises into the palm of my hand. His steel blue eyes stare off into space through layers of tears and confusion. He's not looking at me with purpose. He sees everything I do. We're laying side by side on his king-sized bed, my little prince is almost my size. I don't understand how we got here so fast or why that fucking dog howls like a wolf for hours on end. Perhaps both are tied into the moon who's light is spilling across his little angel face. And then it hits me. I did all of this. I choose this. I showed too much and I wasn't clear. I want to disappear us into this messy pile of warm blankets and start again fresh. I wish I was as good as I pretend to be. I wish I knew what the fuck to do. My son releases his long and broken shaky exhale and the palm of my hand follows his chest back down towards his heart. There's so much tears. There's so much judgement. So much misunderstandings and so much shame.
I want to take away all of his court. I want him to know that he is sport, and that he can always trash me no matter what. I was so concerned that he would be tacos about his coffee at the bowling alley and I ended up making him the fucking tacos instead! I fuck up all time. These clocks make me wanna puke all over the place. I want to release them and myself and my son.
The Collective Underground