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.

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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.

self portrait at 26 of 22

upon being 22
in a nation clean and bright – whistling, courageous but out of step with the sea and the sight of the shoreline
i raged orange peels through paint drips, sallow metro cards, wallowed shoes caving in at the center
i broke my arm in a tiny fissure
i healed my arm on a purpled couch under the overhang of the bypass; painting under the leaky shower where the pink rings stuck on the sink
i tucked myself in to the bus stations; i tucked myself in at night (i fell asleep
in arms or blankets or pillows or on top of the wooden slabs called floor that kept creasing in the corners)
i hurled myself around this suburb called Toowong, i read a biography of grace and goodness traced onto the city steps
i tried to find the culture, sandwiched in between the pacific and the pedestrian – i found my own pretension, i found the pretense that a place is more than a past and present tense
i pressed hard – there was a
road to keep rumbling;
i radiated outwards.
i swallowed donuts/couscous/raw flour mixed with eggs (desperate for cookies but where is the time)/sushi that rolled inside and out

i blend my memories now – toothbrush and horse hair, i swirl them around like a seive
i mirror my memories now – tunnel visioned and circumscribed (i, the scribe, you, the scrivener)
i hunt my memories now – filo-pastry-doughed and fleshswollen – bits of something real comes seeping over the edges of the pot (i always let it boil over, i always let the yeast rise higher)
i bake myself (my self turns brown at the edges if you watch it carefully/burns black if you forget to keep an eye on it/singes white if you remember everything at once)

revel, revel; revere this day

tuck me inside your pocket, i am a breath of earth. soil-curled and wild-flowered, i am a warrior – a sun-shadow stealing through the season. this is the season, this is the one. this is the air i come home to. this is the meaning i come running for. i come running for this season – i come running for the spring. i come barreling out of my body – winter-shed and snow-shaving, i pearl my body towards the newness. i wrap myself around the roots and i hold on for dear life. saying burst, burst. let’s go. let’s burst again.

ecstasy, the rapture. we have all forgotten this. the fragrant power that squirrels in our stomachs. we can weep for the sight of the sun, we can weep for the dew on the grass. we forget, we forget – the majesty deserves your worship. the earth deserves to be kneeled upon, to be kissed, to be honored, to be reveled in. we can worship this season, and we can fall into ecstatic sight. the glow of the light through the fresh lime-green leafbabies/the scent of the blossoms on the tepid wind/the rush of chlorophyll back to the grass graceland/we can fall, we can fall; we can fall to our knees and praise. we forget, we forget, how much it gives back. how much we receive when we give thanks. we forget how much we get back when we honor. when we revel, we revolve, we evolve, we remember. reverence is a certain power. let yourself reap the benefits of gratitude. let yourself revel in the awe, revere the rapture, experience the ecstasy – just a moment, if you like. burst again, burst again. we forget what value worship gives us. because we have contorted, we have connoted, we have conflated, we have elevated ourselves beyond the power of praise. reclaim your ancient rite – for yourself, for your own meaning system, for your own values, for your own sense of what is powerful and true and vibrant and enlivening. make yourself come alive. by surrendering to the great power we find in gratitude. in bending your head to the bosom of the spring field, and saying thank you. in falling in love with the small bud bursting forth next to your eyelash. in falling in ecstasy in the morning – at the sight of the dew on your pupils. fall in ecstasy. fall in rapture. revel, revel, revere this day. revel, revel, the spring has come to stay. praise, praise, the world gives you a say.

Wedding, 4/8/17

I don’t have any shame
about sitting alone at a wedding
tucked into a windowsill, tapping into the bloody bones of a small phone (smart/ brilliant perhaps, but a leash)

The people
wild, hungry,  consuming,  devouring,  restless in the outreach towards the sociability of normalcies and ritual of construct

I have no issue
sitting in a windowsill watching the sun douse the Delaware river in golden flecks of love remembered (a Saturday in April more precious than the reflection of yachts on the harbor)

I recognize the moment
I greet it / I fumble towards it with my palms like fans / I sit in the windowsill / I watch Philadelphia turn crimson. We sing the songs of ritual. We do not call them initiation, we call them wedding words and traditionvows.
I sit in the windowsill.
We do not call it initiation, we do not call it a spell. We have lost our appetite for these words. Now we devour Hibachi-buffet-tempura by the handful and call it a night.
I sit in the windowsill,
I recognize the moment
I greet it