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.

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

Didn't/Humdrum Haiku

Didn't

Here is what we didn't do:

Fight
Wash dishes
Take the bus
Swear
Confront
Use the laundromat
Go hungry
Smoke or drink
Question our faith
Move
Shock
Realize our privileges

But I wanted--I want--to do much more.
I want to be more. Feel more. Touch more.

Ask. Move. Shake.
Question until my mind gives up.
I want to shock you.

All my wanting is too much.
You're afraid. I am not safe.
I am not the idea you had of me.
I am a Mystery, even to myself.
I am Other.
I will not be who you want me to be.

Haiku One

What if I scream it:
Yes, I'm watching the cookies!
I've got this apron.

Haiku Two: For Noah

moon stuck in the clouds
nightlight for this frightened child
mother of the sky

Haiku Three

you taught me to love
untamed, room for the wildness
that we know so well

Vinegar (October)

Vinegar (October)

The house smells faintly
of vinegar
the neighbor's dogs
for once: silent

spicy tea that tastes
of Nepal
rests on the coffee table,
waiting

I am waiting,
with clouded hope,
a heart ungrounded,
guiltily

I should be doing
more of the Right Things:
asserting, projecting
myself into the world
finding work outside
this vinegar-scented house

certainly not
sipping tea in silence

Purple

Purple

I will

hammer that nail
wherever it suits me

stuff my apron pockets
full of garden tomatoes

stand on a stool
to knead my bread

eat my carrots whole
raw, unpeeled, purple

not match my clothing
with my purse
(not even carry a purse if i don't want to)

celebrate my body
in nakedness, in clothing

decide who i am
and (i will) be that

i will be.

09.26.10

The reality of being back in the U.S. is flying in my face now.

The putting-myself-into-the-right-boxes. Being someone slightly off-center from my true self. Being confined, sanitized, respectable. I'm scared of that. Scared because I've been there before, for years. I know.

I must unfurl. I've begun. I am birthing a new self. It is shocking and shattering and healing. It is wildness. How dare I let anything tame it?

Nevertheless, I am attached to a world, a life in which expectations will always exist. What am I to do? I wonder if I've been born into the wrong world. Or time. Or dimension.

Another universe lives inside me.

From 07.06.10 & 08.02.10

07.06.10

It is a split. A parallel world that I know is not a figment of my imagination. It was real that I lived in Nepal. It is real; it's still there. It's real that I am back at home. I'm here. I carry within me that other world. I carry Nepal. It's real.

Why does it feel so much like fantasy? Why does it seem like so very long ago? Why can't my arms stretch far enough to touch both of these very different, very distanced worlds? And why can't I gather all my selves into one coherent Heidi?

08.02.10

Our car smells like crayons. Better than New Car Smell. But I think I'd rather just have crayons.

I've bitten off my nails. Again. I'll keep biting until it's safe to stop.

We're living in a periwinkle house on Mary Street. Our shit is everywhere.

I had to put my shit in a plastic container and hand it to the doctor.

I see topis; my heart swells.

We listened to bluegrass, spontaneous folk music in a warehouse on Walnut Street.

We watched Neal play the banjo on the patio.

I'm surprised by my life.

I hope Ella remembered me. Everyone else remembered me. I wish they (all) didn't.

I spoke my wildest dream out loud; it came true.

I am tired of boxes, straight lines, answers, safety, sameness. I don't fit inside. I'm curvy.

I am wild, evolving.

Goodbye

Goodbye. Life is full of this word. I've said it so many times before, but never with such finality. I may not see these same faces and places again. I can't accept finality. Oh, how I love an open end! The Possibility, the Chance, the Maybe lingering until it fades without my noticing. The long, subtle disappearance of hope--nothing too sudden, too noticeable. Easing out, bit by bit.

But life is sudden. These days, these days are fast and loud and certain. A count down. Specific dates and times when goodbye must be said. Finally. I can't even pretend that it's not real. It's very much my reality.

Hidden

Somewhere like
a clearing in a forest,
a box in a bedroom closet,
that triangular room under the basement stairs,
up the sleeve of your homemade dress

Messages
bones
secret loves
old kleenex

The things we hide
the things we save
the secrets and secret spaces
somewhere, scattered carefully
throughout our hidden lives.

Strawberries/04.07.10

Strawberries

I dreamed that strawberries were $1 each. Too much. I put them back. Back. I wanted to go back. We were on a familiar country road, mom. You and I. The breeze was perfect, you were beautiful as always, the strawberries were strawberry-red. And I ran down that road, trying to go back, getting nowhere, strawberryless.

04.07.10

My hand is shaking, dry, some vague shade of brown. Like a leaf. The wind, the world is swirling. I'm not sure how tightly I'm holding on. Enough to watch earth-colors spinning round me.

Oh, life! Why must everything be so intense and colorful and terrible and wild? I feel it. That life-energy beats inside me; I don't know what to do with it. So my hands shake, my spirit quakes with mystery and being and life. Does anyone else feel this way?

Carriage/Diagonal

Carriage

How can you bear it?
All the knowing, the feeling
under your too-thin skin?
How can you not break?
All that past, that history
Pressing on your bony shoulders?
How can you?

Diagonal

When you are gone.
I stretch
legs, arms, hair
sprawling. You are gone.
I stretch
to fill the empty bed
the spaces
where you aren't.
Where your arms, legs, hair
should be
sprawling.