a caterpillar

this is a candle i hold in my hand, and this is a dream in the other. this is a fire; this is a word. i am a hunter; i am a process. something is always unfolding; something is always grinning back. i am getting there, but i don’t know where that where is. i am growing here, but I don’t know what to grow into – a caterpillar? a butterfly – they only live for a few weeks, you know. i am a journey, and i am growing into a journey. i need more time.

how will i become that other in the corner?

how will i become the grin on his lips?

and surely, the windows and winds will keep billowing. muddy tracks, muddy hands, two year old fervor. fire in the blaze, fire in the hunger, fire in the river. fire, fire, little boys are full of fire. water, water, little boys are full of lakes. full of worms and sticks and stones. full of urge and surges of soul. full of hair, my little one is. full of wilderness and all things bold and fearless. full of fear and irrationality, this is the way the world unfolds. this is the way the world unfolds.

Cosmic wrench, I threw in the middle – in the side, the circumstantial tide; the window of evidence to be observed. seen, scene, what do you keep seeing? just photon-photographic finality. just neuron-ne’er-do-wells and all the numbers that keep numbing the notion that we are new. that we are present, that we, at present, presently understand only that which can be seen. observed, made manifest. made measure-able. made of minutiae and memory. the momentous motion of the earth merely rattles in its cage and mentions the meaning at the bottom of the memo. keep looking, keep digging – go further. go farther, go deeper. there is more to the mind-train that the material world will mirror. murky, misty mystery – unfold me, corral me, sink your coral teeth into my crusted conceptions. crack it open – crack it open – this cartwheel, curtain show of a circus tent we all collapse under. we collide, like particles, and universes collapse. we collide, like love-bones, and the universe responds. keep looking, keep quarking. draw the circle wider – these quantum questions will keep colliding, and your reality will keep collapsing, unless you draw the circle wider – wider still – past the shape – pass the salt – salt the sea – turn it over – start again. cosmic wrench, keep twisting. screwing, unscrewing? where’s the lightbulb? and how many lightbulbs does it take to screw in a wrench? and how many words does it take to bring the point home – language will only take you so far.
then comes music. then comes the dance. which came first?

the cosmic egg. and the chicken, of course.

oh come, oh come the world is made of glass and fire-rain. the tumbled pitcher of the sky keeps pouring, the rhythmless fancy of the tide keeps turning, the water turns black-ice and wildfire if given enough time and temperature. the temperature of the world is tilt-graced and tuning in.

the temperature of the world is sticky-goo and mild-mannered; fumble-high and tidal-sigh. the weight of the world of 3.14 tons of triple-twisted tones. the weight of the world, the weight of the world sits with me, has tea, has little crumpet pies. has little trumpet lies, trump-like ties, trumped-up trickle-down economics, Freakonomics, trickle-up the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again. down came the rain and washed the fighter out – wash the fight out of your ears – wash the light out of your eyes – the only thing it does it clog the listening. wash it out, wash it out, trickle it down (the money, the equality, the rhythm of the night still pounding – flesh tipped and turnip-ed, turned up nose and those that just turned up), pay it forward, pay it back. pay it back, you banking fool, pay it back, you tight rope Carnegie. Pay it back, the world still weighs it down. Pay it back, the world still weighs with waiting. The world still waits to be weighed. To be wooed. To be cooled. Down. Double down, on it, will you? You’ll get your investment back in Time.

little one, i am always using that word – little. little piles of tree branches, coddled and curdled in cracked open sunlight. winter, winter, keep tapdancing your wilderness. news, the news, isn’t it old by now? isn’t it getting old by now – the new news we knew we already knew?

little days…warm little seedlings, polish your skins and dust off your roots, let’s grow, let’s go, let’s know something more new than the news of the day. of the whistle wolf whimper of a world tuned in. to nonsense, to no-sense, to radioactive instants. i am tired, i say, of the news no longer being newsworthy, but rather, a nuclear fury.

again, again, again

wild-eyed ringlet girl spins in circumstance. hung boat linger-sails sing on the horizon. fiddle-fire jangle tunes keep plowing through this square. and here, the people gathered. and here, the people watched. waiting, waited, for the sun to set on the water. and here the golden light came triple washed and pouring – dousing speaker boxes in wildfire. and here, we’re all coupled in the gold. and here, the sunlight drenches all our delicate bones.

there it is, there it is, there it was. the day, the rhythm, the twilight, the courage of light to keep basking.

here it is, here it is, the day of love washing over me. the warmth of this winter glow – pink, elegant, loveboned.

here i am, riddled with flaws and edges, boundless with cracks and edges. hurricane fire with a temper turned on high. here i am, catching my own breath, remembering to re-evaluate, re-assessing my self-awareness. radiating with a bit of heart, a bit of bitterness, a bit of hope, a bit of pragmatism, a bit of wide-eyed optimism. here i am, ready again for another fall, ready again for another flight. here i am, little window-box of love. here i am, thrusting my heart into the sky, again, again, again.

i became an archetype once. saddled with skin and sunken with flesh – i became a river once. dreamweaver sickness and silence of sunrise webs, i became a summer. i became my own courage, hungering through the atmosphere.

rumbleheart, i heard a rumor. i heard what happened today, i head from a heard from a falling tree-bird that Trump trounced through the tumbled tundra today (it was important to hear and i heard it here first). i heard he’s bedazzled in glittering gold corpses and i heard today he said that he’d say what he said he’d say when he said nothing at all. i heard, i heard, she said, i heard. i hear the rumbling of something else, too – the hollowed shell of the sea, gurgling mermaid murmurs back through the mirror of the sun. i hear something else, too – the winged cry of my boy in the sand – singing carols to the crooning of the crabs. i hear another, and another. i hear things too. things more valuable than trumpeting tweets and teetering towers of tricks and treats. i hear things too – tiny and ringing – a frequency higher than the tongue of social media. i hear the breeze blowing chunks of cloud consciousness into my hair. i hear the silence of the stars still heaving. i hear the roots of the rooted-ones still resonant and resounding – reaching, reached; teaching, taught. i hear things too. things too tasteful for Trump to tout. i hear river songs. i hear hope. i hear bottomless beaches of people reaching our voices for melodies to sing. i hear people rattling the drums. i hear the drums rattling back against the horizon. i hear the Earth tucking in for the night. i hear women carrying cities on their backs. i hear minorities mounting high the momentous monuments of our own momentary history. i hear muslims praying perfectly; profoundly; presciently; perpetually. i hear gender-queer fluidity lapping like a shore, like a river, like an ocean. i hear the horizon widening. i hear people standing up, sitting down, taking no shit. i hear people speaking courage words. i hear a people rising. i hear a moonbeam cracking open its eyes. i hear a people awakening. i hear a surge of voices singing out in songs of sacred unity. i hear a chorus of creative hearts curling around the edges of a coronated, corrosive corruption. i hear disease being purged. i hear people rattling the drums. i hear the drums rattling back. i hear our bird-song-trills, rancidly beautiful and terrifyingly bright; resounding and rattling and resisting and raging higher than tiny tweets from the ground. tweets don’t fly, but birds do.

“Embrace the pain that growth requires. This endangered, fragile world of ours is in need of your sincere search for meaning, your ability to take and return the basilisk’s gaze; it needs your active love and your joyful offering of the full diversity of all of your gifts. May you find yourself by giving of yourself; may you become who you are by helping others become who they are; and may you start tomorrow, carried forward by the active love of everyone who is with you here tonight.”

Key West – Day 1

coffee bones that rattle my teeth and windward sea leaves that sink in the sighs. this is the grace of another day sunk in the arms of the horizon. this is the wilderness of a chunk of land darting into the ocean. keys – laying about in pitter patter horizons and snaggle-toothed wretchery. treachery and piracy and plundering the depths and lengths of the sea that still surrenders to the swell of the sun. light and light and light and the courage of your eyes to pierce through it – dart fanged and wingless. creature keepers and creature comforts and comfortable bits of sand splayed out in nameless hieroglyphics – the markers of children’s haphazard fingers and haywire footsteps. and sand, this song.

and sand, this song. this battering ram of time that riddled the shores with rock ash and cremated granite. the solid form of face-full stones shattered and scattered across the shore. piece by piece, we form something new. piece by piece, we lay on top of one another and press. Piece by piece, enough air gets through to keep gravity afloat. and our hands sift through the ashes. and our hands mold castles with clay. and our hands make sense of the sand by saying it means nothing at all. our eyes make sense of the sand by saying this is a place to lay. not a place to pray – to silent rubble gone satin-skinned and collective.

this is the sound the sand makes. this is the heart the sun takes. this is the way the waves wash. this is the way we transform.

the song of the sand sings with a singular voice. from a collecting collective of an infective directive: toss the rocks to the shore/
break the stone to a trillion pieces/
rattle, shatter, rumble and roll/
break it apart, break it apart –
make a trillion things born new and satin-skinned.


New Orleans draped me in its courage and I rose to meet it with my feet splayed hunger and wide-eyed rumble steps. I stepped, angling and circumscribed – turning sheets into towering stone- brick-layered love boxes, hurricane-proof iron work, tumble-rocked ornamentalism. New Orleans spilled onto the pavement and I paved my tongue with the taste of creole kiss-creation. I curled into the mud of the Mississippi and hurtled my tiny shatter-box of a soul through the river-bones of my body. My body, sheltering and homely, hunger-hollowed and wild, found its ancient eyes. Found its youthful resonance. Found my adventure calves, my dreamboat-caught breaths, my sun-scraped eyelashes. Coffee stained throat and cajun dust, I kept wandering through a city that hums in saxophone trills, that remembers the drips and drops of haunted shadows. A city that sings in the swamps and swelters in the shade. A city that knows itself. A city that shares itself. A city steeped in itself. Deeply aware, self-referential and perfectly frozen in the perpetuation of time. Rich in love, doused in art,

Rich in love, doused in creation, dipped in warm praline-perfection. This city is a beating heart still alive. This city is a streetcar named desire. Full-bodied and blood-red. Color-grazed and pastel-parlor-prescience. This city is something still staring. Something still singing.

And delicate hand holds – firmly placed kisses, arched back wind-frames. Angled love with this love of mine I still want to hear. Want to listen to. Prayerful hearts aching across the horizon. Sinking into the river. Dancing across the ferry. Arms open wide and draped in freedom. Bottomless kisses. Wilderness promises. Rumbled rants raging at the resistance of reason. All I am, all I am, all I am loves you. Loves this moment lingered with heavy sighs and precious air.

I remember now that my life is a praise song to the sacred. When I saw the Mississippi river I knew it was she that spluttered up this city. Full of secrets and scattered sun dust. I remembered what it felt like to have the spirit kiss your neck gently on a Sunday morning… tilt your head back and let our star shine on the curvature of your face. I remembered these and I remembered light.

Love to New Orleans, love to you, love to hope still blaring from a saxophone.