warm cotton heart, tucked inside my chest – i feed it well, keep it fearless and folded/a turn style/a watering can. the light – a presence; a singing bell of summer starting to chime. the way the dashes and hyphens of the branches keep tapping morse code to me. calling me out, calling me out, get out of your skin. carry your fear to the center of the forest and leave it there. bury it well, in desert ash and worm soil. let it go, let it go. the weight of worry that hums with you on a tuesday afternoon. let it go, let it always go drifting into this bask of light. this swelter of sunlight leaves. this canopy of harmony and hallowed wind. sacred is the day/sacred too – my heart. our little hearts that light the way like fireflies come out to dance in the darkness. our little hearts that light the way.

follow them. let them go. let them be. let them sing. let them swarm into the light. moths we are, little winged ephemerals. little things we are, just bursts of light. little hearts aflame in the dark. lighting the way are we, always lighting the way are we. always fighting the fear are we, always fighting the fear.

and winning, we are.

little word wizards

goldenfire hot rod light – pummel me, little photons. courage me out of my skin and let us glow, let us glow around this theatre – hunger voices parading about the stage, let my ribs catch the hollow echo of my own voice. let us wade deep into the light – let us wash clean the ghost voices that sit in the bricks. let us make our bones into magicians – little word wizards for an hour or two. hungry my heart, hungry my words/fire my cavern of a chest that cripples itself with ribs and cages – burned ash and tenderness. i keep loving the world, i keep loving the walls of a theatre, i keep loving the spin of a spiral staircase in a satin dress, i keep loving the swell of the sea that hunts me across a stage. the world is touching between my heart and the air i still have yet to breathe. the world is watching, i am waiting. waiting to explode again. i love breath, i love light, i love catching fire in my skin and racing it around in circles until the audience claps. i love this fire and i’m not ready for it to go out. even the embers, i think, will still keep my skin aglow. so let it burn, let it burn.

The autumn I learned how to paint, I was 17 and dazzled with discovery. I would thrill myself with the finality of the paintbrush – the still of the art room – the metallic stench of acrylics. I would rush home, dazed from hours of paint fumes and lay under the leaves, close my eyes and imagine painting the canopy above me. I was consumed to my bones with the delight of discovery. I could not get enough. I painted everything I could find. I knew I wasn’t a master – but I had an appetite. I had joy. I had a love affair with the discovery of a new art. I painted chairs, I painted pieces of wood I found. I delighted in watching colors talk to one another. Jangle next to each other, blend, mend, become one. Become something wholly new. Entropy. Ecstasy. I felt wild in my own skin.

Above all things, I wish for that – I wish for that for all people. The thrill of satisfaction. Discovery, joy, empowerment, creation, wonder, fascination, passion. An affair with creativity. With what you can create with your strange body and your magnificent mind and the things around you. That is wildly attractive to me.

And if I’m being completely honest, I’ve still got love stories stuck in my veins – like a chronic illness, I can’t seem to beat it.
I’ve gotten better at reclaiming my own life though. My own time. My own architecture. The rhythm of my story and the sound of my own narrative. My life as a creator, that will always fulfill me. Profoundly – if I am thrilled with discovery. More than any other type of classical “success” (which is all bullshit, honestly) – I seek only that lustful discovery. That lust for life. That thrill in discovery, in fulfillment, in creation. And a creative partner, then. Someone who sees, recognizes. Walks towards the strangeness with me with consciousness, wonder and a lust for life. And a sense of their own story. Of the beauty of a narrative unfolding. And the way two stories clink together like music.

lastdayofMay

the golden concoction of feelings on the water;
the seven pm Spring light:
I am that and
I am that too –
the willful ignorant rage of the shadows creeping

something about a day beginning or
something about a day ending or
can I manufacture something like emotion
something like Love –
can I turn it on;
off;
inside out
like a weapon

Can I graze it against my face;
a finality; a river
Escalations of bone; I am broth; I am hunter
you press me; flower ribcage into your book –
a field guide gatherer, a fumbled heart forager;
a finder of lost lingerings
I, a postcard,
I, a lock of hair still
attached
to the
head
Is it a lock then – or a key – or a strand?

Romantic love – I’ll just say it’s something I haven’t grown out of –
that’s what I’ll say;

I’ll pull my teeth out of your whiskers;
I’ll come back up for air
gasping
clutching my clavicle
for something
to ground me
to root me
a stray hair out of place
a stray root
still rooted
in these silly ideals
I should have given up 10 years ago

I’ll tell you I’ve grown past them –
mossy edged and weed ridden, I’ll tell
you I’m a woman now; I’m a realist now;
this isn’t my first rodeo,
and about 10 other cliches that roll off the tongue
that roll through my body
like a fire
like a flood
I’ll tell you it’s ok,
it’s just a Saturday afternoon; just a little prayer to the moon;
I’ll tell you I’m a big girl now
firm handed, strong-fisted
a real realist radiating with reason
I’ll sit in the stars and suck on the methane of the sun,
I’ll tell you I’m just a girl,
But by now I can’t believe you haven’t noticed
I’m hot breath and oxygen – supernova imagination,
Wildfire captivation, I am helium
I am exploding
(Your mouth just a catalyst)
(my heart just a chemical)

did you not remember?

I can’t make it there by 7pm
I’m sorry, I simply cannot make it
did you not
remember by May 9th the moss his draped itself
over the swollen wooden staircase on the other side of the canal –
the sight is a devastation of beauty

the weeks have grown up over the river banks and musty shadows of the dust-flies
have kicked up a new light
and the pools of aqua-green chase my bike tires /
hungry-hued at golden hour

I cannot possibly miss this sunset / I cannot possibly miss this
please I cannot possibly miss this dusty emberglow
please do not ask me to /
Please do not ask me to

all the years in the world – all the places where our minds meet, where our souls meet, where our stomachs clang against one another’s in hunger. in grace, in anger, in the river, in the river – i am always in the river swimming upstream.

i am a blanket of cold thank you’s praising the world for the strange bucket of lovely it has placed on my front stoop. the love, the wild love. the laughter, the echoing laughter. the friendship – such a thing i have forgotten, i have released myself from – to feel their laughter on the back of my neck again – grace, grace. gratitude and love. worship and magic – i will always worship the love in my life, the life in my love.

slinklove, you pile your hands upwards towards my skin – a bottle-nosed dolphin and something mammalian and curved – like the willow of a spine, the petercottontail of a clavicle. bones, rapturous, rattling against one another – flesh: hollow, formed, willing, perpetual. windowpane of your eyes/ they keep approaching, following, leveling. is it your shape or your circumstance i find myself in? is it this bed or this hurricane i keep myself bonded to? is it proximity? this thing – desire – is it close to me? or closeness to the sea (which heralds me back, and in heralding, bonds me – keeps me never approaching anything other than the brine of the sea)

is it intimacy, or the sea calling me back? is it ever approaching? your skin/the nape of your circumstance/my hunger/lust, or something language approaches; like teeth

is it skin; a shell; a sea/
or the shore, lapping back?

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.

“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.”