Yesterday I found a big bottle of me sitting in the grass. Ancient, dripping with mud and soggy with glass it was so patient, waiting the years to find my eyes again. To look in to me and find me riddled with yes again. To find my words like catchphrases on the back of the bus slowly wheeling themselves into the garage, looting the parlor for truth. Today I sat with my mom, staring out at the big ocean of kitchen we bundle ourselves into and typed my types down into a small fraction of digital soul. Today I was patient with my whimsical body of limbs and sat tree-like and mesmorized by the fractional beams of light that wanted to find me. Tomorrow I will still be today, but a little bit more skin will have pranced off my bones. Somedays I look like a dream of aging childbreath. Bones and something they were made for. Toes and how they adore gravity. I’d like a nice, big blue fresh bottle of you. Dance, sing, strum your soul on a harpsichord string. I need an audience, don’t I? Today is the day of todayness.  

I am an artist. And I am going to be a strong, self-empowered artist for the rest of my life. I am going to be an artist not because I think I’m talented, or because I have an agenda to spread, or because I want to be famous. I am an artist because I think in poetry, because as I watch my life go by I snap picture frames in my mind, because my memory plays like a film reel and because I have a pungent and palpable NEED to paint. Because watching theatre makes my heart weep and I dream about dancing every time I hear music. I may not be the most technically trained person in the world, but I have soul. And I have passion. And I have need. And I have this huge bubble in my chest that I have to get OUT in some way. In every way. And for the first time in my life, I have bravery. I have the long awaited confidence to say I deserve a place in this world. To say I AM a beautiful soul. I have so much to offer, so much to say, so much to create. I have a lifetime of art to follow. The world doesn’t need another blessed soul cowering in fear and wrapped up in society’s pulse. We need freedom, we need soul, we need BALLS. I’m finding my fuck yes. If I’m willing to give of myself, I have every right to everything I see flitting in my dreams. It’s time for me to take charge of my talent and own it. For EVERYONE to. It’s not about me. It’s about every intelligent, talented, creative soul to remember that they have the RESPONSIBILITY to give that back to the world that showed them beauty. If you have known the gift of education, of opportunity, and most special of all, if you can create- the world needs dreaming. The world needs souls. And creation means anything…anything at all in any form of living that CREATES beauty in the world rather than feeds the lethargic robotic drumming that we’re all resounding in. 

WASTE of precious soul, magic lives and intelligent minds. THIS is what is the tragedy. The people in poverty are helpless…the people sitting in PRINCETON doing NOTHING have no excuse. RISE UP.

This is the way the story started. The way it rang true. No, wait, well…it began like this a thousand times at a little stopway in a stream of moments, but all of the moments smelled like beginnings or wanted to convince themselves they were beautiful enough to be a beginning. The only moment that really mattered though was the thisthat moment which was this one which was at the beginning and which I’ll never quite be able to get my finger on again long enough to say which one it looked like. 

The story might have had chapters or thoughts or moments or stanzas, but they all bled together and they all looked like one another and so in truth, the story dug its swallowing hands out of the deep belly of its own fertilizer and ran around collecting its own raindrops until it was thick enough to be drunk, to be felt rolling down the throat, and to leave a formidible taste in the mouth. At least the aftertaste could be described, if not seen. 

Well, the story was about a girl. Or a girl was the story, or her story was the way she was through all parts of herself. At any given moment in her life she looked like a flash of light or a bolt of color nameless amongst the star region she claimed as her name. There was an alchemy to the world that had made her face pulse together out of a certain collection of elements, and that little bundle of genes had at last found its footing inside the realm of a daffodil that had turned fleshy and round at the edges. 

Her dreams were made of all things she could find- old paper longings, new tides of reminiscents, soft lingering kiss intentions, and folded up wads of duct tape. Her dreams came in waves, in derivatives and in dollops. Her dreams scattered wounds across her fickled, freckled face and sewed patches on old ragged lawn chair hand me downs hearts.  

 There was this story of this girl I wrote over and over. Her story kept beginning and kept ending and I kept finding myself in the middle trying to see if I could see her in any place other than the side of my mind. She had a spherical soul and she dreamy her life away. 

And then maybe someone could see my life glowing with meaning for a moment. 

Today I’ll start to write my little scraps and my huge monstrosities of things I hold tightly on the meaning string. And I’ll start letting them touch themselves and try to blend like gasps of blue and green.

Today its just a chunking, hunking gulp of little poetic efforts towards the poetry we are. 

She was a little green queen sitting on a sitting stoop step. She was staring at the moon and looking through a cathedral scope just to see the edge of Europe gulping in the movement of the clouds. She was resenting history for taking something from her she wanted to know. She was a wanderer down long hallways of storybook voices. She was me and she and forgetting to look where she left herself off and let herself down. She was a rising flash of a gash in the sunset’s eye. She was lost effortlessly and semi-permanently in a freshly baked forever. She was a silent flow inside a ready-made memoir of the world’s old memory box. 

And then came majesty, pulling her own saddle horse sleepy, sloppy drooping with all things she wanted to waste. She was suctioned onto this gargantuan gorilla love and she was dressed so exquisitely in all the words she smothered herself in, fresh perfumed pearls and a gossamer winged dress of gold and glimmers. And she knew nothing of the way Aestetic tripped over the heels of the balancing act of beauty. She just wanted to be wanted by all things that wanted the slender threads of perfection’s blanketing embrace.  

Start dreaming again, it’s ok.

And then there’s all those wonderful what ifs. And all the anxious faith. And then I’m just throwing my life out on the line once again. And I’m not even wholly healed…how do you do it…how do you ever truly trust? Somehow this connection between being able to see, and being able to let go. Being able to analyze and being able to swallow magic. I have to enter this situation with honesty, trust and an open heart…and that is ALL I can do. And then I throw two hearts back into the fire and see what the universe churns out. 

Why is this this place of pride this “moving past” something…as if there are just these things we’re supposed to do and be able to do and that is somehow indicative of how strong our hearts are…no that’s a great sorrow…to lose a love like that. I never want to lose any of my loves, they are bright lights within me. My heart is strong because it holds dear the things that have soared through it. 

Fuck this confusing ball of matter. Loss is what’s keeping us alive. Maybe I’ll lose everything this summer. Maybe I’m making a terrible decision…the only way I can allow this summer to happen is if I am open enough to get to the place where it’s OK that I am fucking terrified and have NO idea what the “truth” is or what is “right”…we’re just young and in love and throwing our fears into the hands of the universe. Fucking be love. Nothing will ever be the same. Let it LIVE. Let it breathe. Let it be WRONG. 

My only hope this summer is to be honest. 

And to fucking dive AGAIN into the deep whispering cave of love that leads my life. Fearless.

What could possibly go wrong?

That’s a crumbling big wall of what I want to remember. A little purple plaster bit of yes. The buildings lost in time and space. Things keep rearranging. Couches fly through the air just to land on the tip of their balancing act. 



I want to keep a constant pace with my constant reconstruction of my own sense of sensability, what it means to be sentient, and how I might be made of nonsense batter. I want to know how the world spins under my worm toes and I want to ache to see again with my little green eyes all the littlebig wonders of the measureless visionworld. Let’s keep humming this beat just to teach our feet to feel. Let’s keep feeling the feed just to know how to eat. To devour the world with bellylove. Let’s get hungry for life. 

I don’t even remember what or how I used to write. I guess I had a deep need to express. I can’t do it anymore. I sit down to try to write and nothing comes out. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be saying. It isn’t that I can’t, but I find my words trite and repetitive. And I don’t have that urge to prove myself anymore. Certainly I was trying to express something to Adam…but these days I truly need nothing. It’s an absurd and almost limiting feeling. Without desire, what do we have? I seem to have everything I ever wanted…and now it means nothing. I feel lost and aimless within this feeling of satiation. I’m still baffled at this societal desire for “happiness” or “transcendence”…because…past transcendence the world gets empty. If the world is a flat goal, what do I do once I achieve it? I want poetry, meaning, desire. I’ve got this huge bundle of pure joy but no more poetry. I wish I could honestly express to the world how beautiful their menial, small terrors and frustrations are. Maybe it’s just context, maybe everyone really does want the kind of joy that bubbles inside of my veins…I just want us all to beg for MORE. More than a word. More than a state of being. I don’t have thoughts anymore…I have air in my body and I feel the twists of trees instead of bones. I will never, ever be able to express what it is I experience. Even if I try to poetically describe it…the fullness of it is so just beyond my grasp. Doesn’t anyone else want this? The just-beyond? Don’t we want our lives to be magic? I’m sorry, I can’t come inside anymore…I’m lost to the magic of the wind. No one can find me anymore, I’m a thousand different infinities at once. We ALL are. 

What shade of May are you?

I feel a weight in my limbs again. A clinging sensation to all things muddy and unclear. I ache for the clarity of burnt street lights and crackling paper walls just about to peel. Where the balance ever wants to be, I’ll never know, but my eyes are beginning to begin to feel how to see. And I keep trusting and trusting and stumbling around in a blue hazy light of everything beginning to begin. Again and again spring comes and leads into summer sweat.  

There’s this distance, this growth, this foot in my throat and I’ve got so many things around me just bubbling and bursting and holding all little bits of me. Life  is just all bits these days. Door knobs and sacred smells and wet feet on familiar pavement. There’s a pace and a swell of love that is simply unreal. Time has lost all of its meaning to me now and I have begun to absolutely float.