november wind

scoop me up, november wind. tussle me around like these burnt, brown leaves. leave me alone, big wind. leave me alone, biting chill, hungry coats, scratchy hats, bottomed out boots and swollen socks. leave me alone, coming cold and bottle necked branch billow breezes

saddle me with love – love the backsides of my knees, the places where my skin curls into freckle, the turn at the base of my skull where hair meets air. and i too, love the minutiae of waking up – of turning on the cellular limitations of liminal space, of devoting myself to loving every day, everyday. to at least attempt to find the glow of love at least momentarily – everyday.


I don’t mind the Instagram-ed glorification and beautification of life (if done right) because it is precisely feeding a hunger our society needs – the sacred versus profane – crossing the liminal space to the magic realism of everyday – providing perspective to the mundane moments of our life – honoring aesthetic everywhere – honoring the beauty of our lives everywhere – finding the sacred in the profane and lifting it up – elevating moments of life that otherwise slip by – consciously cultivating an awareness and reverence towards the formed beauty of our lives splayed out – dabbing art here and there – crossing the boundary lines between prose and poetry; between the pastoral and the profound daily. a meditation, a practice, a transformative tool for creating guerrilla art in everyone’s hands (just please don’t waste it only on selfies, dear friends and lovers)

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show me how to show up

just show me the way. just show me the way. show me what matters to me, how to attain it – show me what i am – how to be it, how to find it. how to hang holly above the door and bless a space. show me what sacred space is, how to make room for it. show me where my soul is – how to poke it with a stick. show me what i love, how to love it. how to honor it. how to feel it beating inside my chest. how to stay organized, clear, resonant. how to light a candle and let it burn. how to be patient with children who have chaos in their bones. how to quell, how to find that meaningful. how to show that. how to show up, everyday. how to be more of myself. to find more of myself. to not be afraid. show me what i love and how to share it. how to give it. how to become more of myself.

madison avenue you are a bore

What a strange cobble-ball of a city / a wide jackal bitter of swelling concrete and steel – habits of skeleton and rock hewn together like braces / like an orthodontic fracture of an island / Cold now the November street funneling back pumpkin spice latte cups trashed like ashen words Tossed flippantly fluidly flagrantly / Graffiti-Tongued and loud-mouthed rapturous

I think about things I don’t need and then I think about it the sickness in my stomach that will not quell / I think about capitalism bubbling like a cystic tick burrowed in our Flesh / I think about what would possibly motivate me to want to wander haphazardly into Macy’s / to purchase a fluttering dress with a price tag higher than my IQ / The artificial flavors retching themselves from the cupcake corners, from the hot dog hollows
I think about all this sensory information coded in my brain like zeroes and ones and all the things that are not numbers; but are visions, but are colors, but are electricity, but are human strange ticking boxes ticking around me / the excess – Tell me something that isn’t a cliche, right?
Madison Avenue you are a bore / And the steam rises from the underbelly of the city, the steam flows hot tipped and cranking Even on to your prettiest of streets Even on to your glassiest of facades / Everything reflects everything here – just mirrors of Mirrors – shines back Not the sky just itself – just it’s own glass reflection Looking for itself In the mirror
I happen across the Empire state building / I find the word Empire is not misplaced
I write as I walk / each word finding more meaning to my senses then the street does / The task of documenting it a more thrilling task then living it / I hate this city, it’s true, but the city hates me as well – hates my lawless my freedom
What is necessarily the purpose of creating a magnificent space if it’s just for yourself
isn’t it supposed to be shared
What’s the point

The wound from which all other wounds source