The End

The End

The End:
What does it smell like?
Snow. wine. fire. autumn. ink.
What?

The Unknown:
Tasteless. Odorless. Mysterious.
Until proven otherwise.

But secretly, I think it smells like:
A spring breeze. bread baking. love-making. old paper...
Like coming home.

Tiny/Untitled

Tiny

My life seems to be going backwards. I am growing small. I was much more adult, certain, responsible, driven than myself today. Today, I doubt and question, I am lazier (or more relaxed?), groping for purpose. I even dress younger than I used to. I am getting older, but not wiser, almost over the "mid-20's" hill, barrelling toward 30 without a clue. I am fitting in less and less, forgetting how to be "normal", socially acceptable. In a world of my own where "cats and rabbits all reside in fancy little houses..." and I fit through doorways of a size I never thought possible! I am day-dreaming and having nightmares. I have tantrums, I pretend. I am curious; I am asking why.

I want a nightlight, music to lull me to deep sleep, my mom to scratch my back with her cool, knuckly fingers. I want to stand behind someone's skirts, hiding from the big scary world. I'm so tiny next to it, and getting tinier.

Untitled

I know that sound:
It is you awake, moving, changing
Bedsheets shifting, sun on your long hair.
It is a beginning, a becoming
Older, curiouser
A new day of you in the world
I hope it (the world) notices, changes.

Homeness/Grace

Homeness

And there is one place, a small space
that deserves the name home.
Here: you, me
the homeness of us.

Grace

On days when:
my pants are too short
my feet are too big
I have all the wrong words


I think of the beauty of imperfection.

Yin I & II

Yin I

I am a white moon
cold, suspended in black
dreaming of the dawn.

There are sad stories
hidden in my bones, my blood
now, will you listen?

Yin II

I'm all
off-balance, out of sync
the cold moon side of me taking over

I'm so
incomplete, empty-handed
my feet stepping just out of rhythm

It's very
dangerous, peculiar
how dark, how dizzying the world is
when you are gone
I'm afraid

Thanksgiving Day/The Question

Thanksgiving Day

It smells like autumn
down by the corner store
I linger just long enough
to miss home.

The Question

And the question, no--the Question is:
What nonchalant adventures
what lazy, meaningful afternoons
what wild conversations
what poignant moments
what is IT, really, that everyone else is so engaged in, while I flit about, gripping my to-do lists, my comfort, my pen, with white-knuckled angst?

What door should I be knocking on? Where is Inside? Where is everyone else, and what on earth are they doing?

2:00PM/11.16.09

2:00PM

2:00PM, the sun's just rising
dead plants unfurling their leaves
I blow smoke into the new air,
it clouds my face
the afternoon smolders, waits
for night to cover its blemishes.

11.16.09

So much to feel and so little time
for the angry skies
the too-quiet afternoons
for joy that is oh so far away
the spaces where a hand, a shoulder should be
tears, tears.

08.05.09/Feel

08.05.09

It rains when you leave.
I melt, become unrecognizable
waiting for the salvation of sun,
of you.

Feel

Feel the season
coming up from under your
brown feet
a rumble, a dance
coming up to shake your
tired body

Feel the way
you move without trying
you dance without music
free and shaking and
full of change