little song

and when I am held by the never ending veins of green around me, I know there is nothing to fear; and when I pedal into the twilight dawning around me like scalloped May honeysuckle, I know there is nothing to fear; and when I greet 30 with an open palm and a heart full of gratitude and wilderness, I know there is nothing to fear; and when I walk through the last day of being 20 and I remember the starlit nights ; the giggles ; the sleeping bags ; the orgasm of birth ; the graciousness of all the many miracles of my life ; the way the paths have twirled like small keys, always unlocking ; I know there is nothing to fear ;; to have this day or any day , to have this bike ride, or any small gesture of grace, is the strangest gift I will never know how to process / to have been a part of any universe, with any spinning bubble-cosmos, of black holes, of stars and wandering rocks ; galaxy upon galaxy ; and to have any thought hold the illusion of mattering at all ; to have any human experience contain the deceptive magic of believing into existence any amount of meaning at all :: what a miracle : what a strange, strange miracle // each narrative of a tiny life a huge spinning star of conscious experience that I cannot fathom or place in a line ;; the lines go no where ; it spins in a circle, makes trapezoids and triangles and shapes without name ,, each participle and part of a noun or a parenthesis or comma the strangest and most wild symbolism for a language that defies reason : for a consciousness that billows out of a spinning black space desperately far from any other star // what wild gift is this, this strange experience of being a human, this timeless and eternal gasp at a sunset (the sunset itself an illusion of time) / and me, a little song out of the blackness that has been given far more stories then I deserve, and somehow, miraculously, still has more stories to live

the brightest

i dizzy bubble try to hold on to the day ; hold your hand in mine ; your eyes gazing upwards towards the clouds, or the light, or me, filled with so much light – you pour love words on me and hugs, soft kisses ; i think on this mother’s day only of the extreme honor i have of being your mother ; of how grateful i am to be your mother, to be a mother at all, and how much it gives me and my life ; i think only of how wild it is to know this love, to be able to hold you and still fit you inside of my arms ; i think of the years of watching you walk next to me and holding my hand and i am so immensely grateful ; i think of all the sparkling moments of my life, and this surely, with the may breeze combing through your dappled splays of tiny hair, this, and everyday i get to spend with you, is truly the brightest

The particular shade

I cannot wear my sunglasses when i gaze into the sun’s rays on the water / or into the chlorophyll dappled light through the trees – because the barrier between my eyes and the world is a film of unsubstantiated sense that I am not willing to part with / the sense of all my senses sensing the world at once is a gift too precious to unload / – a hat will not do my little hair strands must feel the sky / i need the fullness of my skin stretched like an organ of perception around me to feel the firm jolly soul of this rock I am sitting on ; and the air which is filled of so many lustful flies and crushed bone particles of days gone by / wishing themselves through the air / and the light only hits right when I can see it with my own little orbs of eyes : my little daffodils of seeing : and the particular shade of green on this new day of May is a brightness of verdant too vibrant to chastise behind plastic dark filter ; the hue and unmistakable shade of the presence around me I cannot name, or speak to, but can feel through my skin ; through precious sacred cones and rods in my eyes ; that filter my brain through the highest Bliss this little body has ever known / the presence always around me –