Palms/Psalms

Palms

full moon radishes
tiny sisters, bright
in our cloudy hands

Psalms

You secretless scoundrel:
I see your brain splayed carefully open
An unapologetic dissection
Like the Bible opened neatly
To Psalms, sing-songing, slithering, serpentine
Through my daydreams, my gray matter

You evil, instinctual, gorgeous animal!

How can I hate you
When you are so undoubtedly me?

Hello, Stranger.

I haven't posted anything in a long time. I've been writing--turned inward, back to the world, hunched and protective like I've got some kind of treasure to hide. But I don't. What I do have is an out-of-control collection of deeply inward words (inwords?)...and I'm just beginning to re-interpret and rearrange them and spread them out and let them go.

Here are a few:

Matching

Last night's glitter
Clings to my purple pants in a way that says:
I tried too hard;
It will never wash out.

Like I'm still at a party
But no one is dancing.
And I'm wearing the wrong shoes:
Practical, prim, predictable

Shapeshifter

Memories shape-
shift
Grow rectangular & cylindrical
Depending on the medicine
available

Glow & dim
Shimmer & dull
Spin out of my control-
freak mindfulness

They do everything
Except disappear
No matter how I
Scrape-peel-drown-starve
They take up residence
Make a home
In these dark red rooms.

Untitled

I liquefy
Filling in all the cracks
And splintered bits of spirit
Hoping to heal you

Working to mend a thirsty heart
Draining every last beat-pulse-throb
And pouring it over
Your sadness

For Love. For un-sad-ness.
For all the unruly pieces
That will arrange themselves to become
Unconventional Us.

Sea Sick I, II, III

I
All this oxygen and humidity
in the air, in my skin
makes me feel the opposite of dizzy:

Un-high. Grounded.
Or,  nailed to the ground.
Like I am breathing, muted, under water.
(It sounds like the inside of my head.)

II
And in my dream,
you were an arm, reaching
and you were a face, hovering
over the water's surface, meeting
my underwater eyes, holding
that moving, liquid gaze
with solidity.

III
Untangling.
Fingerstentaclessealegs
Feederscrawlerssuckersparisites
Seaweedgreenhairslimemire
Soggywrinkledkickflailsinkingshrinking
Swimmingreachingblindnaked
Liberation.

Above (07.27.11)

Above (07.27.11)

Good-bye, Brown. Sharp. Dry.
Good-bye, strange desert
(where I keep falling in love).
Good-bye, mountains
(from which I want to scream):
Good-bye, Wild! Sun! Fire!
Good-bye, strange dreams
(that leave me thirsty, desperate)
Good-bye, stubborn ground
(if only for a few fleeting days).

I will see you from far above
and all your curves and rough edges and scars
will become tidy geometric shapes:
emotionless, uncharged, no surprises.

What?/Kitten

What?

What then?
What happens when I tell you what I cannot tell myself?
In so many words
In so few words
With no words at all

What if?
What happens after I look into the eyes of my fear
And find I'm standing face to face with you
Whoever you are
Whatever you are

What name?
What words for:
This face, this fear
This power, this beauty?

Kitten

All I wanted was
a miniature world
with just enough
room for a rug
on which to curl
up my bones
like a starving kitten
and sleep

05.01.11/06.01.11

05.01.11

I often wonder if I am OK. If I am taking care of my body. If I am drinking or worrying too much or holding in too much past. Poisoning myself with old anger.

I wonder if I can shrink all this bitterness before it becomes Who I Am. If I can listen to my dreaming, because it is the truest truth I know.

I wonder if I will ever be able to speak kindly to my young self. If I will ever be exactly who I am, without excuses.

I wonder if I will ever whittle down all the voices to just one: my own.

06.01.11

It's astonishing, how these old fear animals still survive in my stomach cave, despite all the poison I've been throwing at them. They should be drowned by now, but they just continue to be.

I miss when not belonging was normal. I miss untetheredness, unsameness.

But here I go: being neither here nor there. My body is here, but my mind can't sit still. The problem with not being present is that all those lost moments build up inside me, all warped and cramped and wrinkled like old skin. I want to be with each moment while it is still newborn, clear.

But first I need to organize and open up my old moments, however ugly and soggy with fear they may have become. And sit still with them.

Pieces, Bits & Misfits

#1

I love the misfits. The sad. The observers of life's eccentricities. Writers. Lovers. Dancers. Dreamers. Homeless, awkward, shy, brilliant, geeky, not-put-together people.

People...dropping change, blushing, fumbling, stuttering, wearing mismatched socks, with lunch between their teeth and coffee stains on their white shirts. Chapped lips, too-thick glasses, bad habits. Cowlicks, qualms and quirks.

Who decided we shouldn't be wild? Who told us the Right Way to be and do and look and love? Who says we are not beautiful in our awkwardness?

#2

Everyone: sneezing, stressed, muddled, giddy, exhausted, growing too old too fast, forgetting, working on being capable. Meanwhile, I'll be inside. Rescuing a moth, wiping a dirty table, writing unsatisfactory words, drinking hot water from a jam jar. Gazing at all that wind-blown humanity outside, looking for my own rescue.