39/13: He wore his socks to his calves

i used to have a dad;
he was a good man with a barrel chest
and a ruddy face.
his hair, plain brown and his hands smelled
like oil.

he's dead now.

he died in a frenzy;
his voice broken apart by fear the last time i heard him.

i'm still incomplete

38/12:all put together and pretty

the anatomy of my body is set.
My bones are formed,
my ribs are both true and false
and my cervical curve starts with atlas
and ends with my tail.

my bones are trees and i wrap my legs around the earth
at least 1000 times.
this is a truth i can only know in autumn,
it's something about dying.

my blood is here, too,
tying me directly to you

as i sit under my nest, all put together
and pretty.
being part of every thing is exhausting.

37/11: secrets, also known as personal preferences.

I have pieces of truth hidden between my ribs
and
very particular reasons for
not shaving my arm pits.

You will never know either.

36/10: quiet musings of a server

Sometimes life is cleaning carpets
and picking up straw papers.

Other times, it's not.

35/104:09/30: "The Smell of Leaves"

The smell of leaves is deep like lungs.
It's a brittle smell, submerged, flowing with my blood
and rooted like love.
Each inhale is a breath of earth,
it smells like a hymn for the sky and also,
a flowing ovation for calming down, digging some holes
and crafting a nest.
Each leaf is a sensation of dying and living
and singing and grieving.
Leaves smell like ancient dirt
and becoming.
Deep, like I said before.

34/104:08/30: "Pretend You're an Old Man"

I once had a face that was different and I was younger then.
I had days that stretched seamlessly into more days
and in any given moment i would live and had lived
forever.

My steps were ethereal and nimble and, had I known,
I would have praised each movement as holy -
something worthy. Each heart beat might have gotten
applause.

The rust in these bones have turned my eyes orange,
time is done and my skin says so. I was younger once,
I think. Now I'm just a relic of a lifetime gone
by.

33/104:07/30: you know about Gingko trees? for andy

So what if the Gingko leaves fall like rain?

At a certain hour the top leaf might decide
the sun is cutting him a little short.
He's definitely made up his mind after he thinks it through.
No one likes getting one minute less than what he's bargained for.

Once he falls, his friends summarize the past few days and decide
this is how it must happen. (and you know what they say,
if this is the way it must happen then this is the way it shall be done.)

One after the other, and sometimes handfuls at a time,
fall
and
fall.
Little yellow fans spread out like the sky.
And just like that, the day is done.

33/104:06/30:Love Poem-Take 2

I've been meaning to say this,
but you know about life.
The bills that are behind and
how my feet hurt after work and
the dishes that balance on top of other dishes
with left overs stuck on each fork.
But, still, I've been meaning to tell you -

You are good like jumping canyons
and breathing deeply and
feeling your own heart pump your own blood
in the morning.
A fundamental and unrestrained good.

And sometimes when I'm driving home,
desperate with the heater on my feet,
the street lights swell up in me all that I can handle;
the only thing I can manage with any grace whatsoever
is getting to you.

32/104:05/30: Two Days is a Long Time in Some Circles

A new elegance comes from waiting -
Perhaps, a new quiet.

Accidentally, the scenarios aren't too docile,
slightly uncontainable and out of control.

And I want to say one thousand things (but don't)
and do at least half of that (and still don't).

Maybe it would be terrible,
or maybe it would just be.

32/104:04/30: Sometimes Things Were Bad

10077.
That was my first library number.
When I was 8.

I was a tiny wristed, white toothed 8 year old.
I learned to ride a purple bike with a purple dress on.
And I blew the hell out of bubbles
on a creaky porch swing.
I had a baby brother who I sang to
and made laugh and sometimes cry,
but more laughs.
and sweaty cousins to play hide and seek
and set up fake carnivals.
I even took piano lessons.

Sometimes things were bad,
but sometimes they were the complete opposite.

31/104:03/30: Let's try optimism

Take an inventory of all the things you're good at.
Start now.
It may take a few days.
Add items to that list that may not be completely true.
Then add "creative connoisseur"
if only because of the lies.

Anything that comes to mind -
write it down - or, better yet,
write it in the sky.
Let your neighbors know that
yes, in fact, you may cry a lot
(a lot),
but that can be a radiant and delicate characteristic.
The ability to openly weep, well, not everyone possesses it.

For example, on my alphabetized inventory
I might talk about my rib cage.
I think it's beautiful.
And occasionally,
I blast light straight from my sternum.

See? It's simple.

30/104:02/30: Two steps to remain lonely

For starters,
think about when you were little.
Remember, laying in you bed,
how fast your heart would pump hot blood
through your tiny body
when you knew this night was the night
you'd have to call the police again.

Sometimes he drank too much
and sometimes, she hit him with the
meanest words ever spoken.
(The reciprocation would blow the walls down)

Remembering; that's the first step.

Secondly, know that no one you know
can relate.

29/104:01/30: Never Ceasing

I will stand knee deep in heavily laden soil.
There I will craft that wheat grass into ropes and
tie my own wrists tightly.
I will rub the mud on my face if only to jump start
the decomposition.
(Not in a field of lilies, mind you,
just soil.
Stripped and full of broken boulders and empty)
That's where I'll die.

I will walk there willingly and I will
rip out my own intestines to beckon the crows. (i am them)

And if there is a god who cares about my personal queries,
well, it'll be then that I ask her about things like my skull
and my rib cage,
oh!
and I'd probably bring up about sacrifice.
But probably, I'd just ask,
politely of course,
"what the fuck?"

And for once, I will
let loose the glass from my marrow.

28/104: Poverty, who will survive?

Today, I said,
"things aren't always the way they should be."

I believe that, I mean, I must.
I said it.

The mere statement, spoken without a second thought,
took me aback.

I am living a fucking cliche,
in the worst way.

27/104: A dedication of sorts

Sometimes a girl might get lonely.
That girl, well, her bones just might break
because of grief;
brittle little sad bones
white with surrender.

Her nose might bleed.
The pain and the war,
it just gets to be too much.
And then, naturally,
there becomes no love left.

Harpsichords eat up the background
while the girl becomes magnolias.
No one listens.

26/104: Far from you.

You sat still.
(Except for your hands and feet.
They moved with intention, and more importantly,
grace.)

My heart blew down the walls as you sat there,
bathed in light,
singing.

You made me remember that I used to know you,
but somehow, this day, I don't.

25/104: No Hero Here

We have notes on yellow and
purple paper hanging around
this house -
on walls
ledges
computer screens
reminding us of appointments
and grammar rules
and outstanding bills that
somehow
have to get paid.

I wish these notes
could help me remember
that the wind still blows,
sometimes like running horses.

24/104: No one really wants that

I want to write you one thousand words
to let you know exactly.
But when I start, it seems all those words
that might be perfect
are all used up.

I need you to know somethings
and I need to know somethings,
but everything is clumsy.

23/104: Excerpts from a Letter to a Baby Who Won't Ever be Born

-I'm not even sure I could tell you about regret;
maybe in 20 years.

-Grief is okay; hurting down to your bones and
crying until your throat bleeds is quite alright.
Surround yourself with people who understand that.

-Love people hard.

-Expectations are rarely met.

- Human beings are mean, full of potential to
destroy everything, but so full of love it makes
me explode. It's difficult remembering both of those facts
at the same time. Practice.

-Laugh loudly.

22/104: Outskirts of Tbilisi

There's a long stretching rift in your perfect summer day.

Standing on the shore with tiny blue shorts
and a rib cage that's not ashamed to tell your age,
you chat with your friends.

Your wings are busting out of your back
and those nipples, jesus christ, they're so tiny.
And your floppy hair...
everything is so young to this earth.

Breathe in this warmth.
Soon Russia's shadow will blot out the sun
and you'll be blistering your hands
working for the rail way.

21/104: The baby is sick

Things move at a certain pace around here.
I sit and my heart's rhythm is Ray Charles
or just a cadence with the wind.
I don't know.

The afternoon sun sneaks through the trees
and comes right in these windows.
I don't have a bra on
I haven't thought about socks for days
and I can say 'fuck' any time I'd like.

(I prefer it this way, believe it or not)

I can't imagine a life where the phrase
"The kids need shoes" would ever leave my mouth.

Hallelujah for this life.

*20/104: Untitled*

I shoulder the thought of transparency
but shudder with fresh air knowing
I am a well of personal quiets
no one will ever know.

19/104: I Turn on the Radio

It's 2 am and I'm falling in love
with everything I hear.

Maybe it's the exhaustion, but I'm
waiting for Bruce Springsteen
to push me against the wall
and show me Americana
with his own hands.

18/104: haiku?

four black boys lying
on the porch, laughing, shirtless,
soaking up summer.

17/104: Love poem

I work hard for our little family - my feet ache
like nothing else.
My tarsals are spreading to help my body maintain.
Someone told me once
that maybe my body is in a constant fight or flight state.
He's right.
That's life, or mine anyways.

So, this morning before the moon gave way,
I woke up and made you
hot salt water to gargle because you're sick.

You gagged. I heard you,
but you did it anyways.

16/104: "Them streets are getting wider"

Get out that jaw harp and teach the night about grief.
Let it echo down the streets;
show the neighbors it's possible to have integrity,
even if we can't stand up straight.

I don't know what it's like to dig for scraps
or beg for beer or to carry packs full of burdens alone,
but I do have my own
and I know other pains.

So, sing it again, about the streets and let
loose that intoxicating harmonica.

15/104: Resisting the Urge

The best poets say, basically, just don't do it.
Do not break apart your sternum and squeeze the heart out.
Do not pinpoint the seven million reasons why.
Do not think of summer nights,
sweaty and raw, or how autumn is for lovers.
Just, maybe, stay away from love poems all together.

Which, let's face it, is good for one who writes with clumsy metaphors.
(concrete blocks take my words to the bottom of the river,
love isn't down there).

So, I will not attempt a love poem.
I won't...maybe I will.

Maybe I'll just write a few words -
maybe tomorrow.

*14/104: Untitled and Full of Night*

It's quiet around here, my heart is beating slowly
and melodically.
Life is slow and methodic.
This beauty is slow, too.
Everything around me is heavy, a sad piano - I walk with the same feet
but with difficulty.
I point to the sky and see the harmonica sized sparrows
flitting around,
unfazed by this sadness.

The blues are a sense of relief, but still too bright
to help.

The greens give me life, but life is sometimes
not enough.

I feel my heart - she's still there,
and I,
I am still here.

Let me forget.

*13/104: On regaining balance also known as, Not All Things are Autobiographical, but Some Are (from the nah series)*

Well, one person will know
the pains of a seriously vulnerable week
tucked deep into the palms of summer.

(My hair was perfect, and my skin
was happy)

But that soul will soon forget the smell of books and sweaty palms
and the feel of breaking through circumstances.

And then, after the forgetting,
as in the beginning,
it will be me.

I will wear that shirt again
I will walk the steps again
I will be fine,
but my old eyes,
they're getting older and
every
single
day
I am less and less desirable.

*12.5/104: New Mexico Remix (nah series)*

**DISCLAIMER** Very similar feel to New Mexico. I just had some left over lines that needed to go somewhere - so, I made a remix.

I'll be there and you'll be there,
lying flat, on our backs,
with dust under our finger nails;
becoming whole.
In between the mountains,
counting your freckles with my eyes closed,
we will only exist to each other.

12/104: For MM, concerning daisies and guns

I wonder about you sometimes...
if your hair was the color of sand
when you toted around that gun.
and if you named your weapon
and if eight years was too many years
in the military,
especially if peace was your cape.

Did you hear the ole' whistle blow
before
or
after
the compromise?

And when I hear you talk about the
lack of a sustainable economy in parts of Africa
or when you followed the Dead down your own Miracle Alley -

then, I know.

*11/104: "'I like your style'" (from the nah series)*

Sometimes on Mondays
you chop celery so fine
you can't even see it.
Then, you put it in chicken salad.
You parade it around and
eat it; then you've done it.

Other times on Mondays,
you go to a bar
and you drink at least
two beers too many.
Then, you walk around in the rain
and look at churches down town.

*10/104: Found Poem (from the nah series): million things*

a million things to think about
but i can only think of one thing
a million different ways...
you.

*09/104: New Mexico* (from the 'nah' series)

let me move there.
i'll build up our house with
ancient red dirt.
once, we might lay outside
and let the dust know us.
we'll close our eyes;
i'll braid my hair for miles
and miles.
you might touch it and
say, "the sun shines for you"
and i may count your freckles.
i might say "your skin is
terrain, maybe holy."
we could put our hands
deep into the water;
and should we dip our
cup into the sky
and drink it until
we flip inside out?
probably.

let me move there.
i'll stand up tall
with a sweet breeze
bringing earth to my nose.
once, we might have had a life
that wasn't mountains and leather
and open-like-soul skies.
i don't remember that
or the sharp pangs,
do you?
i might say, "let's not"
and smile.
you might agree.
we'll stay on the prairie
perpetually hunting with our
sunset bows and arrows.
we'll bleed there
and create secrets,
alone from familiarity.
should we walk with our
own feet to New Mexico?
probably.

*08/104: Sixteen and counting (from the 'nah' series)*

I was standing in the middle
each wall morphing into the next
in a sharp incline towards night.

Rain was in my eyes
and on my shoes.

The sky pressed down on my shoulders
as I stood in the courtyard

breathing; steady as the rain.

07/104: Seven Years Bad Luck

The music soaked into my skin.
My cells satiated;
My limbs numb with stimulation.

The news was sound.
The news was color.

She sang blue
with sand in her throat:
'it died and didn't even
say hello,'
so she said with his hand on her arm.

6/104: Failing the hanbleceya told by Lame Deer rearranged by me

I guess they meant what they said when they told him to leave.

He didn't leave.
he wanted his vision, goddamn it and he wasn't
crying out all night long, for four whole nights,
in vain.

His body was filled with the meat of deer -
he waas rubbed down with wild sage
and good intentions.
His pores were clarified with the white breath
of the gods, sacred steam.
His vision pit was prepped and fluffed
with the blood of eagerness and the misnomer of bravery.

They meant what they said when they told him to leave.

He cried out for the vision, the one
he knew was destined for only his holy meditation.

He fought with the Great Ones,
who were only trying to sleep.
For four whole nights he was smug and stubborn -
calling out until his voice went numb
and out running rocks.

The vision quest was a bust
(but They told him that the first night).

His elders told him something about suffering
something about patience
something about humility,
but he didn't hear 'em -

of course not.

05/104:Urban Sprawl: The Heart Pumps Oil

Part 1

The meat of the city, well, that's in the middle -
pressing against the skin, beating out bricks and pumping
out industry.
Give us styrofoam and PVC and ultra polymers.
Help us store our food
and keep our water cold
and tuck away those pills that keep my happy.
Give us Black Clouds, but only by accident.
That's okay, really, we'd rather not be inconvenienced.
We'll attach electrodes to your sweaty face and sympathetically smile
through your cardiomyopathy;
we'll whisper and quietly beg the far away heavens for relief -
get better, don't die
(if only to supply our demand).

::chorus::

Let me sacrifice the poplars to name streets after
dead presidents
Let me pick up a piece of concrete and place it behind
my ear
Let me attach an SUV to a carriage and let me drink down
the oil
Let me spill that oil on the wings of our
metaphoric liberty.

Part 2

You play basketball in your driveway
and for each person in your family
you have 1000 square feet of space.
You each get a TV
You each get a room
You each get to eat the souls of all around you.
Welcome home and take all that you want.

The End.

4/104: Slash and Burn the Soul

Fog is heavy on my head as I
drive past over burdened fields.

Stripped and repeatedly understated
for people who under appreciate the worth
of goodness.

Me and the fields part of the same story
until the end of time.

3/104: (Myth, Legends, Pop Icons) For Ian Dury

She had been thinking about it for days,
as undeniable as sunshine,
but that's not the story you hear.
She thought it through, the ins and outs,
the mechanics of such a delicate operation - she realized
this was the best idea she's ever had.
The snake with his bow tie and dazzling smile,
he was only her scape goat.

She meandered into the gated off section,
walked right past the "reserved" sign and laid her hands
right on it.
She bit it and let it hit her tongue:
"sour" she thought, "is this a fruit or a vegetable?"
"Seeds on the inside or seeds on the outside?"
"Which is which?"

(Questions are part of the 'knowledge' He warned against)

No one asked her why she did it -
No one.

If asked she would have responded:
"Sex, drugs and rock and roll -
why else?"

the beginning of my 2 a week: 5.02-5.09

1/104: What I Wanted to Say When She Asked Me About God.

I want to sit on that mountain
I want to I'll fly away
I want to swing low, but instead

I get anxious in hollow sanctuaries where every whisper hits every wall,
but my sins?
They fall to the ground like dead birds.

Somehow I've lost god under his heavy cross -
I think the gospel of blood gets in my eyes and
I just can't see past the crusades.


2/104: I Can't Get my Cup

I am shaky, a tiny nicotine pill
with the nervous shits.
My bowels are flopping - a suffocating blue gill
burning in the sun.

uncertainty makes me feel like dad's drunk again
and dinner plates are being hurtled across the dining room.

Who's going to clean the walls this time?

Well, not Jesus. he never does.



(not my best, i'm aware - but i have a whole year --> here's to getting better!!)

4.30: thoughts on creation

My body was rolled out from mud
and thrown out into the horizon.

It was a second form to another -
but, that can't be true.
I was either tenth in the line up
or first.
None of this second bullshit.

The bloody foam of the first
lovers - I must have sprouted up like corn
after their massacre - or wait,
was it from their teeth?

Who was the first mother?
can't be a man -
just doesn't make sense.

My neocortex is a nice cushion
and my axial bones are pure white -
they radiate hip hop (where'd that come from?)
but they do.

a KingFisher once dove to the bottom of
an ancient lake.
Found a race of men and they gave him
horses.

Maybe I was that kingfisher

4.29

I keep coming back to the night when I got hit in my head with a rock the size of my fist by a boy named Keith, he had blonde hair, too. It was dusk and we were sweet with sweaty faces from the day; running up and down the driveway, picking blackberries until our fingers were bruised, putting our ears on the black dog's belly to feel the puppies kick our cheeks, and telling stories about the basement Jabberwocky, who I always envisioned being a walking tree. He felt bad, probably got the dry throat for not crying. I bled, a lot; mom took me home, washed my hair and looked for ticks among the bloody strands.

4.29: a lesson

Taking off your bra on his parent's couch right after
homecoming doesn't mean you're cliche,
it means you're horny and probably
you don't know what to do about it.
Choosing to drive your parents car in new grass
with a girl from your bus doesn't mean you're
rebellious,
it means you'll probably get hit with a flyswatter.
Making beaded necklaces on your bedroom floor
doesn't make you a nerd,
it means you're lonely.
Getting sweaty with a black haired boy
in your hay barn doesn't mean you broke
any rules,
it means, sometimes, you just want to touch
someone other than yourself.

Thinking of these things with a swollen heart
doesn't mean it gets any easier -
it means life gets progressively
more difficult.

4.28: Acrostic

Let's talk about your existence - the
Only proof are two
Candid shots of you looking very sly.
Harvard wanted to study the possibility of a
North Atlantic Sea Monster trapped in a lake,
Edging her way towards modern extinction.
Scotland boasts you as a monster, but I'm
Still not sure you're real.

4.27

I pointed to where the couch had been.
It was green and god awful and probably,
I told them, where you had tried to sleep that night.
I showed them where the entertainment center stood -
I saw some melted CDs on the ground,
probably Journey or The Eagles.
I didn't look, I didn't want to.
How could your CDs survive?
I showed them to the room where I was asleep;
we called it The Cold Room.
Remember? We had an Oscar fish
when i was 7 or 8, and it froze to death
in there - poor thing, it's tomb same as his home.

They told me to distinguish where i had seen you last.
The front door, i said, Near the front door,
walking out to the porch that, now,
was in pain under the sunlight -
charred and stripped of dignity.

I cried, standing in a tank top the color of a bruise and
fireman boots up to my thighs, pointing out our simple life.
I tried with fervor to explain the paralyzing noise
of a couch,
of a house,
of a life burning down all around me.
and how, that night, the air was sweet on my black face
and the concrete was lonely and cold on bare feet.
Everything. I told them everything.

And they pointed out where,
plucked apart by midnight flames,
they found your body.

4.26: chatting with brett, a thought on cruelty

On my way home, The Eagles came on. I don't like them, but my dad sure did.
And i don't know what losing a job has in common with losing a dad... well,
except the losing part.
it just seemed like a cruel joke.

4.26

I have nothing worthwhile;
no witty social commentary on having tits,
no uncomfortable, pithy metaphor for pain.
i can't write about girls who are sugary with nose rings.
i won't write about how the law of proximity smothers
meaningful relationships, robbing them of dignity,
attaching them to machines and inserting
polite but awkward laughs in social situations.
No soft light street lamp talk;
i sure as hell wont' croon about cherry blossoms
and carbon based beings.
I won't because i can't.

Today, i have nothing worthwhile -

except for a quiet black cat
breathing on my lap; curled like a
parenthesis.
And a blue eyed boy who won't
let optimism die with the day, who says he
loves the fuck out of me.

4.25: on getting by

First, keep breathing.
They say oxygen can help you remain calm.

Secondly, remember, if it's hard to breathe,
determine the reason.
Is it because you don't want to?

Then, realize that maybe you've lost
god somewhere under neath the grief.
If you're lucky, you'll track her down.

Lastly, please keep in mind,
this is not unique to only you.

4.24: a birthday wish

i told you once that i loved you with a love that can't be named;
it still can't.
it runs deep like a soul river.

it was there that one time we cried and cried
because that boy hurt your heart.

it was there when we yelled at each other for no reason
at all -

it was there swimming with summer draped all
around us.

it is there when we tell each other the secrets
we just can't bear to keep.

it's there every single day
it's still there, bigger than
an exploding heart.

i say it now -
but this time, with longing
hanging from each syllable.

4.23: lies i have told

sure i knew what i was doing.

parked off this country road near the creek i fished in once,
his truck was still on.
wipers going steadily,
radio on low.

i made a few moans
because thats what you do.
i nurtured the heavy breathing and foggy windows and
the idea that i was naked waist up.

he kept asking. and asking. and his hands were so busy.

finally, i told him i had never
felt anything like it

4.22

my eyes are tired like the day;
moving around, searching for
self preservation.

it's exhausting - surviving moment to moment.

strap a goddamned bow on my back and
craft my arrows from the sunrise.

i'm hunting
and protecting
and singing my song:

instinctively fighting for my life.

4.21

maybe this time around i need something a little better, more dignified;
a push up bra and red beaded necklaces won't make me motivated.
resting easy might require more than new jeans that fit
like heavy summer.
i'm not sure doughnuts, even the caramel kind, will do.
self-soothing techniques might work;
but i might need a breathing mantra that dates back
to the dead sea scrolls.

maybe i just need Lexapro.

4.20

that fiddlehead fern, she sings my song.

she's the dirt like me.

4.20

to whom it may concern:
it's been a few years past appropriate but i wanted to, finally and officially, submit a big Fuck you;
in other words,
an appeal.

life was abstract, an intangible idea;
a list of things to do,
things to accomplish but with no real grasp.
(i didn't even floss my teeth for god's sake.)

the decisions i somehow made were
far too big.
no one's ever ready, but i wasn't even close. as a result, in the wake, i was abandoned by hope
(or vice versa)
and filled up with paralyzing doubt and gritty guilt.

i don't want a re-do. i'd say i fared quite well;
regained some dignity and unearthed a quality so far out of reach.

i just wanted to clock my complaint.

thank you.

4.18

My mamow, a kentucky woman with a sweet twang and soft hands,
she told me once how she got the scar on her foot.

'doing wash at the creek, ' she said -
'i spilled some kind of acid on my foot -
it's not like it is now,' she said.

she was little, i'm sure,
choring for her mom, who was part cherokee.
in essence, with those little hands, she worked hard for my mom
who would teach me to do the wash;

whether or not it's in a river.

4.16

i have hips to prove it.
here they are, guys, wide and
rebellious.
my breasts, too,
tiny tea cups, but here nonetheless.

don't let me forget it.

4.15: fat poem

i wish i smoked.
maybe i'd be skinnier. or cooler.
standing outside establishments, tight jeans
and a cigarette stuck to my dry lips.

i'd definitely be cooler, but skinner: that's what i want.
not so soft in the middle.

4.14: to a tiny being

i kept making ungodly mistakes today;
all i can think about is you.

this is the day i learned you lived.

this is the day that meiosis makes me proud.

god-himself came on down and then
god-herself set those red-buds on fire for you, little pear.
and that man on his bike i saw today,
pedaling with something to prove,
he's like us -
human and
tiny and
so sacred.

everylastdrop of me looks forward to you

4.14: found

"There really isn't anything to do up here so it is boring. but oh well i guess.

be safe on your way home.

it just got done raining up here so now we have the nice smelling weather outside and cool.
it was 80 degrees before it rained."

4.13

i am going to lay my little body down in the mud;
i will gently give way to the earth.

magnolias will grow from my fingertips
and new grass will sprout from my mouth.

i will submit to the ongoing circle
and my mind will be at ease.

4.12: selfless

I am a filthy human being -
and by filthy, i really mean beautiful and earthy;
crafted cell by cell, tooth and bone
in my momma's womb.
and, of course, by womb i mean
body.

she loaned me her own oxygen and blood -
she let me live in her private space;
i felt her thoughts and smelled her heart beats,
she loved me like i don't know what;

and she didn't know either.

4.11: a thought

I listen to the clock tick away in between songs; sitting on our couch, I still can't believe we bought it despite the early 90's color palette. I did the dishes tonight, my hands hurt from the rugged water and the cheap soap we have to buy. Choosing not to sweep tonight is fine - I will sit. I will wait on you and think of this life we created.
7 million miles away, people are dying and wars are breaking the human race, but here, in our hazy home, our life moves on anyways.

4.11

let me press my face against the cold mud
and breathe in real deep -
maybe i will inhale parts of jesus,
maybe not.

4.10: a certain memory

your eyes seem to be getting tired -
or at least you think they are.
i can admit, that delicate skin hanging on tight
underneath your familiar eyes sags more these days
but that doesn't mean what you think it means.

you told me today,
you said,
that just because it didn't happen on tuesday
doesn't mean that it's never going to happen.
it will, you said, eventually happen.


so you're talking like that,
talking about being away from me for good -
now i need to say this to you:

one time, a few aprils ago, you told me about a cedar waxwing who took refuge from spring winds in your magnolia tree. you didn't know it's name, and neither did i, but you told me about the yellow tail and the crest on her head, you told me with such excitement - we wondered with a fast paced tone, what kind of bird could that be?

that day i knew:
your skin is my skin and no matter what,
we will never be apart.

4.09

let's do ourselves a favor and tear the world apart.

let's take off our shoes and throw them at the people
we talk about late into the night.

let's stand in the middle of a muddy field
with big expectations.

Let's run with the wild dogs,
sweaty and bursting with freedom.

let's hang 'revival' banners out our windows
and march around the falsehoods like jericho -
(and let's laugh when they don't tumble down. )

let's love each other and live life like an exploding heart -
let's allow that to destroy this world.

4.08

Jesus Christ - that night....

that night i decided i didn't love the boy who always wanted to kiss me.

i was proud of that. i knew you were going to be -
you told me earlier that day, with summer hanging heavy all around us, you said you liked him but that i was different from that boy.

you woke me up when you got home late.
i didn't get to tell you my revelation, but you told me yours.

you said you loved me.
you said you can't begin to imagine life without me and my brother; your life, you said we were.

you'd be taken with him - he's handsome,
like you
and smart and stout and so nice to strangers,
like you.

you told me you loved me -

then, you died.

4.07

hurry and rush -
please, don't be empty.

keep your voice down; jesus, you're loud.

and count your breaths to know
you're real.

4.06

This tight fisted anxiety has been a close side kick
since six.

I was small, had a tiny nose, little wrists and the blondest hair
this side of adolescence.

Inside: a bundle of angry bees SCREAMING and flying hard against my heart
trying to get loose.

A nervous little Nelly with snaggle teeth.

Here I am now;
bad skin, terrible fingernails and a flat chest -
still struggling with this son-a-bitch sad song.

I bite his face off;

he turns around and whispers some shit about
----mortality------
----fragility------
some god-damned gritty scare tactics;

Low Blow, I say.
But then,
as expected,
I stew.
And cry.

And welcome him back to life with the open arms he needs to thrive;
he even invites his friends.

4.05

Just because I have tender grass sprouting up from my palms and a lily for a halo hovering around my skull doesn't mean I'm dead.

These things still hurt -

4.04 (a reprise)

he still calls you by your nick name.

he told us of that cat you tamed for him,
the smart cat who forces the dog to groom her.

he stood outside his house.
he told us of his wife who did paintings
and was a nurse.

he told us about the river
that rages.

he waved to us.

he misses you.

he misses life.

4.04

that grass was so green
or at least as green as
two springs piled high.

that tree had serious lines -
it stood tall enough -
it bent low enough to be
close to royalty.

i stood on that grass
and i touched that tree,
close to where a squirrel
decayed.

those white noise flies flew
that old man, the one with the buzz cut,
he talked about his dog and his long life
fighting the river
the wind blew the fresh magnolias to the
east.

sometimes life is quiet.

4.03

i chewed on pieces of womb
to grow,
not really, but it seems likely.
i suppose that between the zygote and the bones
evolution happened.

(act 2)

my bones will end in the
upper core -
they will be white
and they will be mine,
but my "mine" will have ceased.
Instead i will live in everything,
I will be watercress
and i will be lead -
i am a highly fragile polymer
but actually,
im' a carbon based body,
with one foot in the good.

4.02

If i stand too long
these feet might
dissolve into the mud;
my tarsals might
tangle up in the roots.

Those are sturdy bones,
stocky and multiple -
but sometimes roots
get the best of us;
wrap their skinny hands around
and cry tears until we stay.

4.1

i believe my body
has come from mud.
before the thoughts
i think
were ever a bother,
my limbs were shaped by
rain.

breathe in deep
with my brother
King Fisher.

i'm kindred
with the air
this spring.

this is the spring
of my healing,
of my awakening.

these are the things carried by crows

Your words taste like mud on my tongue
but in the best way:
like your language is the first
springing forth from mountains;
ancient as water.

hey you, get a grip

the crooked boards feel like home on these tender feet.

********************************************************************

it's been a winter for the books,
what i'm really saying is (jesus, get to the point)
it's been far too long.

i'm ready to walk face first into the sun

-one two unbuckle my shoes and
let me step out onto the stones
warmed by promise and breath;

gash the soles of my feet on hope and
let me hold my warm blood in these hands
cracked open and ready to heal.

*******************************************************************

this arrow has lived forever
rolled up in a ball of mud
created by me, for me.

*******************************************************************

These fields break my heart -
reminds me of days with dads
and counting phone poles
for fun.

*****************************************************************

2.24

what's that?
the train, he said.
she thought,
then said -
it's rhythmic.

the night is cold.