ash to charcoal

strange growths in strange places / like unaccustomed travelers to my mind – how to shut it off, how to breathe out, how to remember who i was when i was barefoot and running across a bridge in Australia without a care in the world (and how to stop romanticizing the past)

new hallows now – cold bitter feet; wrapped, warped, bound, zippered, bundled bits of skin and shovels, harken the grey – harken the invisible sunset at 3:30pm where the sky just fades from ash to charcoal without a whimper or a sign to the birds. release me from this frozen tundra, let my skin feel the whip and lash of the sea once more.

slowly, brazenly, haphazardly, we bumble around our four-walled rooms, raging at the confinement of the season. slowly, humbly, mumbly, I curl myself inside out – swollen, molasses-fingered, reticent, fearless and fearful all at the same time.

white to white, the snow centers on our foreheads and presses inwards. white to white, it whirling dervishes around me – a bomb cyclone, a frozen apiary, a burned wish floating, a hungry season rotating towards the sun. white to white, we feel the color in all its everythinghue and silence. white to white – if it’s cold enough, the silence will sing.

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i hollow towards the light

i, rabbit horn, sea monster, rattle death – i call sadness into my ribcage to light fire to my heart. i mourn the afternoons bathed in autumn light through the rose curtains. i mourn the ring of singing voices in hollowed tree stumps. i fear the bones of winter crackling towards the sky without relent. i fear the branches; the harness of the sky to the earth. i fear myself. i search myself. i become more of myself. i grow in to being a teacher – giving strength, welling patience, harnessing words. i hark to the light. to the purpose that petals my feet forward. i hollow towards the light. i hear my own whispers; i repeat action and action and action and i rest not wearily enough. i hunger, i rattle, i raise. i reach towards the light – i keep reaching.

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

brave little fool

engender my body with gesture – with the movement to move, the courage to soothe, engesture my body with gender // with the firmament to fulfill a role already rolled out of the dice / wrap me up in the wrapture of my hormones; my genital fever ; my general fear of forgetting the way i am supposed to be presenting // present me : the present prescience of my perennial pubescence (the purpose of all that period blood) // hinder me, little wheel looking for a quixote – for the quixotic narcotic of hormone that makes my body moan ; twist ; contort ; retort and rotate and tolerate | so | much | bullshit — give it to me, girls parts ; tutu hearts – too, too heartfelt; too, too full of heart – you feel too much – you feel too much little girl — be like me little girl, stuff it. be like a man little girl, swallow it whole. devour feelings for lunch. let them fill you up with bone and anger and muscle and cartilage and ledges to lean over (not jumping, just leaning, just trust me — not jumping, just leaning; not learning, just pumping, just thumping – just trust me). let them fill you up – you’ll expand; balloon outwards; topple over yourself with musculature and strain; your chest will puff up – puffin-wide and proud – you’ll look remarkable – you’ll look large – you won’t have to feel it at all – you’ll look large – you won’t have to feel it at all – you won’t have to fear it at all – just fill yourself up with it. keep it safe in your intestinal tract. don’t trust anyone, little girl. all the men you see will have a lifetime of feelings bottled tight in their intestinal tract, don’t you see? stay smart. don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. that’s the smart way to do it – you’ll stay safe. you’ll keep everyone out. you’ll keep everyone out. you’ll keep everyone out.

isn’t that quaint – she isn’t afraid to feel. how adorable.

what a brave little fool.

Your mind ratchets like a sprocket
changing gears, ripping seams,
suddenly your mind sees with different ears

Maybe your body too,
feels it – the snap of sinews,
the stretch of musculature,
your chest when my head burrows, neatly into tendon and courage, tucked into your lungs, and the space between your ribcage amd your heart – cells like anything else, atoms like anything else, raging like anything else – a marching band like anything else, like everything else is only a slave to this wizard – this heart creature, swollen and incorrigible
My string of dandelion vertebrae corrode into honey and jam, marmalade words ringed like opals in your eyes
i supple, watering can, grow mountains/ i shed tectonic plates/ i am walking rose bush, fluttered silk/ i am musculature on fire/ i am waterboned and rivergasping
Thank you for this poem of a day, and the way it leaned on me

Hot blooded orchestra feet and a temperament for meat/ rich, waddling, grass-leaved eyes
The answer is I figured out how to unstopper the valve in my head

We live in the literary dreaming
Circumstantial words, or
coal in reverse – carbonizing back to plantlife –
keep it in the ground, it will form a circle.
A circumstance of stances not taken yet;
dances still flirting in dis-repose/
I said – to me, you are the alwaysman,
You said I cannot remember the shape of your hand, or
why you think mine should fit in yours

Heavy metals, though, they need supernovae to form/
We can manage it –
large hadron collider and such,
but the time
it will take
to match gravity
pales
in comparison
to your memory/
My circumstance;
atomic structure;
quizzical destiny looking itself up in the dictionary;
situational comedy;
resonance;
and circumstance

like two timelines clinking champagne glasses –
a salute to our cellular happenstance
and the fate-magma bubbling inside
(i told you i don’t believe in fate – you said,
yes,
but i do)

 

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)

new meaningfuls

new meaningfuls will come. worry not,
they will come
the cardboard box in the garage
will not take it all –
new meaningfuls will come

angling high and wish-washed dry
the world will give you hands again –
offer you a petal – say cherish this one too

new river dreams will come –
new sandwiched toes between the mud
new hearts red-rich and filled with stories-old
will come;
will be made new again

new meaningfuls will come –
the past will not walk away
with everything –
you have more years to grasp; you have more years to grasp,

gather, gain, grimace and sing

with half the afternoon past on an April 28th

sing a little, swing a little – singe my heart, will you?

i never want to take these smells for granted – the conifer russet, the mulch iron, the fuzzy grace of the lilac and the wisteria. i never want it to be anything other than a 3pm April 28th – curled catnap cat napping in the corner of the porch (radiant and perched, he swirls his body lithe). i never want to be anything other than a friday afternoon, deep spring (phase 4 and a half of spring to be exact). i want the alwaysbreath of the willow to lie with me on the days that are not this day. i want the alwayssky of the April 28th to be my horizon, wrapping around me with silver cord. tucking me in to my little garden bed. sprinkle a little soil on my head, and send me on my way. grow, grow, little one – the sun’s come out see you. to let you see. to let you be seen. come out, come out, little one – seeds are only one of the many many’s you are. you will be. you can be.