san diego, spun like thread

california, baked to the crust — filled with golden momentum and quarried secrets — captured in the every word, the sing-song bird, the querying lemon tree – the little reaching sky blazing in to a new day – the hills filled with their own wilderness, the ocean gulping down the haze of the world spun like thread — no one’s everything has ever wandered deeper into the sun / no stream of daylight has ever passed through my heart like this oxygen of motion /

bubble hills – you perch me a top the golden glow, the flippant hum of the ocean waves, the current of the current capture of the sky — the cloud fervor murmuring, the wash of pine and prickled leaves peeling towards absolute blue, the dots and dashes of brilliant purple and indigo flower eyes peering up from sandcastle sidewalks,, the tunnel of rainbow-colored bricks leading to spanish rooftops – red-blooded and brick raftered, taffy curled edges and magic-filled ledges, the popped blush of plantlife, the flash of magic, of bliss // of the everything looking back at you

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phoenix, az

sunrise over phoenix, and the world is quiet, the mountains stand at the ready – piercing the new day, bubbling like magma bones and fleshy cellulite strained into the air — the dirt is thick purple, the heat stiffles at every time of day – the air trembles with the murmur of the new day — these ancient piles, these magic wishbones of earth — i see you, i see you

and the news / the bruises, the endless aching heart of tragedy,, how dare we betray our lives with violence? how dare the world spin endlessly in this heartbreak – where is anything but senselessness?

the resting place of the air

i, savage rapture of my insides pulling against one another — i reach towards the sun, the sun pearls her little eyelashes back at me ;; i raid my memory for all the sweetest bits, the sticky glue to piece myself back together — i peel through every word and imagine it without you, my heart breaks at every small suture; i pull myself apart, i weave myself back together again

I, grown – feel my little life spinning again, feel like my heart has powers i’ve always waited to grow in to – i feel a silent blue light, a permanence of confidence, an unshakeable serenity — i feel i have all the time in the world, little youth bird, little capturer of light and words — i feel the resting place of the air – filled with words and wishes, i know how deeply i need the air and i know not why the universe spins this compass, peels me into the strange directions — i feel the universe in my every thought, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, i am trusting, or trying to, i am resisting, or trying to, i am releasing, or trying to

I love him terribly, terribly // my eyes fill with tears, i love him terribly

Strength is not devoid of pain, of attachment, of fear // love, an endless everything

I cannot loose myself from your sweetest caress, your confident affirmations, your presence and your care, the shelter of your body, your radiant joy, the peals of laughter, the courage and comfort – i love you terribly  

 

We are messy bundles of mistakes we humans, we try and try again, we fail, we grow, we learn, we shape, we fail again, we roll downhill and pick up steam and turn into a better self, if we’re lucky. I want to be a better self, no matter how many times i feel i am cooked – no one is ever cooked, no one is ever anything more than a spinning ball — it helps when i fail // i need to remember to remember to let go endlessly, to need less, to love more freely, with patience and forgiveness for myself, and patience and forgiveness for others — not to never mess up, but to always apologize and learn, always be reaching towards my higher self, even though oftentimes the growth spins round in circles, knocks you off and peels you back up again – the path is not linear, growth is not easy, failing is normal, trying again is brave

always unfurled

the gripping light – the curvature of rain, always the sculptural feeling of being alive — always the pools of light you find to cup in your tender hands// your burned skin, your bruised thighs, the nationhood of your hair;; the failure of the summer light pooling at the sound of fireworks — the little black den of another theatre, another philadelphia street, a scattered, torn apart city tucked away by shadow and light — the copy of the copy;; the labyrinth– summer heat and the piles of july standing on top of one another – craning towards the sun;; perhaps a perhaps-hand, always a maybe-limb ;; and here another bundle of words wrapped tightly together with string, twine, and the curl of time away from your fingers — always a curl, always unfurling, always unfurled

how big and how small all at once

I gaze into this moment; preschool graduation; their little voices laughing, giggling ; all a-splendor in the june grass and the splay of sprinkler spray // the green leaves, the sunlight streaming through — the patches of rainbow flecks from the umbrella;; I am astonished and humbled and amazed that I have mothered my son to this moment — that my son has grown to this moment // he calls his classmates by their name raucously – he runs on strong galloping feet; he gasps as he dunks his head into the wild sprinkler; he signs his name on the sign-in board on the white concrete wall with the sturdy yellow pencil ;; he has come to know this place – perhaps the first time a place has meant something to him in this way;;  I recognize this as the first of many separations in his life — one so large for such a little life — I recognize the strange gasping at loss in his eyes ;; I wish that I could bear the brunt of it for him – I know that I must not — he carries so much in his little body, on this big day;; this last day of school, this first day of summer ;; this calling out to the cackling world — he splays his hands into a field of rocks ; chimes in to a cheer if he does not understand yet ; he holds his mouth towards mimicking the crowd that is just one year older than him (a huge difference) ;; he stores in his teacher a reverence only the first teacher can possibly have ; he gallops towards the table of unicorn-colored cupcakes  ;; he knows not how to peel the wax paper off of it – but he does know how to stuff it in his mouth and speak with a mouth full of sunshine ;; I praise the small victories in my head ; the ability to hold his backpack on his own two shoulders ; to gather his things ; to wish his friends goodbye ; I know not how we arrived at this place from the sunny morning on which he was born ; i sit astonished at this small milestones and shutter to understand how I will approach all the many more I must greet — I take myself in too — myself as a young mother ; I see myself from a bird’s eye view ; see the youth in my skin; the burnt color of the season starting to change ;; I try to hold the weight of Jamie in my arms and memorize it ; how much space he takes up ; how little his body is still , and how big at the same time ;; this is an endless game with which parents play, is it not? How big and how small all at once? both sides of the time spectrum meeting each other at all moments — you looking from the beginning and you looking from that ever-present end at the singular and ever-folding moment before you

and listen

rapture lights, and the firmament of the sky wheeling like a bowl of wishes being dandelion-tossed about;; like light ;; like visible sound perched on 20,000 shoulders — us, an us for a moment, for an evening together as the sun dips under the philly skyline — the waterfront pressing towards us like a dappled water-beast ;; the thunderous applause of a drumset on fire , the rage of racing the rain back under shelter, the bliss of feeling young and wild,, the courage of the music to keep playing amongst the clatter of the stars in the sky — the pull of community towards the longing for togetherness;; a happenstance community formed in a matter of hours towards the common stage we enrapture ourselves in — towards the rapture, towards the glow, towards the sound of the music cheering towards the night sky;; come summer, come light within;; come every blade of grass, smother yourself in rain — and listen

a shelter, a house, a river

i tried to peel a poem out of my skin this morning – a little effort, a little rusty on the wheels, but still rolling, somehow; slowly;; i purpose myself towards the day — the days seem to be rushing too quickly for any ray of sun to come perch itself on my shoulder – but still i fly towards the new day; towards the end of the month – towards the rage of summer about to crash into me // i still love my gentle feet for walking me forward, i still love my feeble eyes for working in the morning ; i still adore the patter of tiny feet on my ribcage as he curls his body into mine (a shelter, a house, a river)

in the always space

i sit and hear their voices, again and again, and for the last time, again // i feel the rage of this green little room, the pulsing presence of the stage, the fullness of heart that everyone traces in steps around a tiny little theatre // i remain grateful for every experience, every last word, every first syllable, every gesture towards something;; and here the cataclysm of sword-edged wood climbs towards the sky, prison bars words away from you — and here the light splashes and pools of darkness capture these tiny song monologues, these vignettes; these emotional explosions;; this play a beautifully rendered one i am grateful to have been a part of

and here again; the rubberized canyon – the vault between sustenance and reticence – here the words turn towards their affectation, towards the pronunciation in the mouth, towards the impulse to intuition, to the firmament of reaction ;; here the ben franklin bridge curls sideways across the scope of the river- pulses under the valley of the clouds and leads me towards my theatre tucked away in a pile of old red bricks, thick with history, thin with fatigue, baked to the crust with power and beauty. here my words resound like a bouncing ball freakishly defying gravity — here the seats slide upwards on a rake and the boney structure of them all fills the empty space with beautiful cacophony. and here the peeling plaster of the rusted red brick walls catch my syllables with perfect sing-song reply. here i am grateful once again, in the always space

key west, florida

The landforms carve out of the ocean like a ribbon of dotted wishes along the coast. The keys play out of tune and in all the right places. The keys peel off from their country like a beautiful array of fuck yous – a tidy sum of rainbows distancing themselves from the madness of the motherland. The everlasting wind blows taffy hair all about the island – purpled and pinked pops of truffula flowers announcing themselves on the street corners. The wild roosters knowing no bounds. the freedom of the island is implicit – it sinks into the smoke-filled bars, bras and dollar bills affixed haphazardly to the ceiling and walls like a wayward bridge to the endless horizon. Something sacred hangs in the sub-tropical abandon ; in the hard liquor and white, angling 2nd story porches. the pastel creams and lilac shutters flutter in the wind like a wild, peaceful fever ;; the coral bones and chunks of sunken ship debris ; a rebel patch of land floating away from its rebel of a country ;; the half spun dream melody of a twisting madness or a bobbing wonderland

the mythology of treasure, of great men writing in rowdy dive bars, of mermaids and horror stories ; of key lime sweetness and rainbow revelry ;

austin, texas

the words are not what you’d think perhaps ;;

the wind rattles down the texas highway, past the blue bonnets and the highway long grass and the low-laying live oaks stubbling just past head height. the light filters through the shy little spear-leaves and shelters the cobbled grass stragglers at our feet. everything feels the lack of water. everything edges towards and away from the heat.

but the city – is it liquid; flexible; gathered at the edges and perking up at the center — it is rich, local, flavorful, pungent, spiced, metropolized, conscious-eyed and sprawling with creation. the city it is a galvanized portal to seven new realms and 3 recycled ones. the city is a map unfolded in ten hues of gold leaf, ash, soot and metal — patina and reckless abandon — to turn the rust of the south into a subterfuge for society and counter-culture

and me, i feel the sunshine on my skin for the first time in months – i forget it’s blaze and fire-tongue. i forget the way light shines through colors like platinum and endless power. i curl into cousin connection – into the courageous forever of a lifelong friendship // into comfort and endless discovery // i pound my feet into pavement and walk until my feet find my body at the end of the hours – peeling back towards the darkness of twilight gathering on empty branches and i fold my legs inwards towards the comfort of emlyn’s little house rattling in the wind. the wind rattling down bennet and 46th — keeping austin just how you’d think, perhaps — strange, unique, and all to its own, a lone star amongst a thousand others never quite like it in the night sky