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.

Messy

Messy

But I don't know how to make messes! I like folding laundry and sweeping dirt into dust pans and being proud of the careful words I have written.

But when am I ever truly proud? Even when I write carefully, slowly, like someone is watching over my shoulder. I consult the many voices in my head before I even begin to write actual words. I filter, analyze, protect, shy-away-from the rawness of new words. By the time they reach the paper, they are no longer newborn.

Sipping (for Angie)

Sipping (for Angie)

the desert sun
burning
your lips
reflecting
the airborne dust
landing
in your ginger tea

Communion

bread so chewy and dense
it needs wine to swallow
like my own communion

in this sacred kitchen
christmas apron 'round
my still-thin waist

i take and eat and drink
for this is my body
broken but beautiful

Wind/Untitled

Wind

The wind leaves its scent on
my brown towel,
the one that used to smell of
boxes and time and dormancy

Revival. Reawakening.

I am still unpacking my bags,
still smelling the smells of
the past.

Untitled

What will we do with you?
Your unkempt hair
Your bitten nails
Your inappropriate dreams