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