Sunday, November 27, 2011

I live in a prison.
A prison of my body, each wall crumbling beneath the weight.
Somedays I feel so trapped in this prison, others I am so glad I have somewhere to call home.
Today I feel the structure of my prison sigh with exhaustion, sadness, loneliness.
I have not been tending to my sanctuary lately and it starts to fall apart in decay.
It is amazing how just one day of neglect makes the walls shutter.
So each day I must tend my prison/sanctuary. With kind words, loving caresses, truth, and devotion.
And Faith.

Unfinished 11/27.11

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

In the moments...

It is in the moments in the in between that I find myself. Fogging up the bathroom mirror with my breath, counting to ten to see if I can stand it. It is the moments when I am tired and close to tears that me peaks through...pulling at the edges, as if I wasn't unraveling fast enough as it is.  Bit by bit I am tearing apart. And each old piece is replaced with something new, similar but different, replication but developing at the same time. And all those pieces that fall away like burned flecks of paper are the bits of me that I am scared to lose. The bits that I have become so comfortable with. The bits I have grown to love and identify with. But now the new bits come in. Ripping off my old bits and tossing them carelessly into the bright flame. Each day it is a choice I make. I rip off these bits and replace them with new bits. Sometimes the choice is not even conscious... this is what I am supposed to do right? This is what my world is supposed to look like. This every striving, never happy, pushing and pulling, drive towards things I do not have. Things I should have. Things I should want...things I do want. And I wonder is it me that really wants these things, or is it the old comfortable, lovable, easily identifiable bits that long for these things? And I wonder...does it really matter?  

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

The Harvest Moon

This one is dedicated to my goddess friend Shinay who is a constant reminder of what it means to live in grace.

The harvest moon peaks over the horizon. Smiling at all the little people. This is a special time for the moon. When she gets to try on all her lovely oranges, yellows, and reds. She can swell with fullness, delight, and contentment as she over looks her beautiful world changing colors to match her. The leaves  giving up their redness in devotion and then falling to the ground in surrender, grateful of the gift to have been on this earth. The trees, naked of their children, reach to the heaves with spindly arms embracing the dark warmth the sky offers them. The ground sighs in relief as the expired leaves cover it's surfacing offering the warmth it was desperately praying for. And as the moon slowly saunters across the sky observing all that has been laid out before her, she chuckles knowing that today was just another day, and that tomorrow will be another.

Monday, September 26, 2011

love again

The act of asking someone to love is steeped in surrender.
Complete unselfish surrender.
Offering everything I am, every day, over and over again.
Hoping that what the other person see is my soul, the offering I am making.
Not my fear. The fear that I am not good enough, that things won't last.
But it is the fear that makes things not work. It is the things we let get between us and bearing our souls that make things fall apart.
So the key is to bear my soul, every day, over and over again. In patience, acceptance, and honesty.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

The seasons...

The seasons change and pass.
Rolling over each other, melding but separate.
The curves of my body change as peoples' arms slip away around me.
I lay dappled in the sun as fingers tip toe down my skin.
The seasons change and pass.
Rolling over each other, different but the same.
I smile as a snow flake drifts lazily down from the sky perching on my nose, as if winter is in no hurry, it will come when it is ready, for it knows that we will wait.
The seasons change and develope.
Falling over each other, tightening and loosening their grip on our lives.
My fingers wrap around others, as hand in hand, life changes, before our very eyes. The sky dampens with heaviness, and we wave goodbye to our past, turning our eyes to the future, with hope and anticipation.
The seasons grow and mature.
Accidentally bumping against each other, impatient to have their 15 minutes of Fame.
The green comes quickly now, pushing greedily from within. Ripping the seams of what has come before to rush unprepared and willing into what comes now. And the itch begins. The itch to turn one into two, two into more, and three into the future. To fall victim to that rapturous state.
The seasons sweat and pulse.
Eagerly rubbing together to create friction and steam.
The heat hits like a physical rebuff. Trying to tame our wild desires, but instead bringing them to fruition. Large, wet dew drips to the pavement and swirls of precipitation embodies the sky. Glimpses of limbs, pressed together, tumbling over each other, pushing past each other, drunken haze of delights.
The seasons crack and crumble.
The trees watch their young die in a fit of suddenness, the sun has abandoned them finally to focus on it's own inner torment. The clouds rush over to comfort the trees, reminding them that friends are still close by, through thick and thin.
And the seasons change and pass.
Rolling over each other, melding but separate.
The curves of my body change as peoples' arms slip away around me.
I lay dappled in the sun as fingers tip toe down my skin.
And the seasons change and pass.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

The Sacrifice

the ink bleeds into her eye as the pen floats across the planes of her face.
she blinks back the tears to preserve the ink marking her body. but still lightening bolts of tear and ink cris-cross her canvas. she is painted gold, burnished, prepared. the incense snakes through her nose and her body responds to the heat around her, sweat beading under her arms and behind her knees. the candle light reflects on the gold flecks on her finger tips as she clasps her hands in adoration. she moves her hands to her forehead resting her golden dyed hair and heavy eyelashes against her hands, holding her breath and releasing her breath in submission. she bows, placing her forearms on the ground, bowing her head in gratitude. with the release of breath she releases her fear. she releases her pain. she releases her weakness. when she inhales she breathes in the fear of the world, the pain of the world, and the weakness of the world. with gratitude and submission she breathes in her part of the world and breathes out her part of the world, each day trying to transform her part of the world into something. something that is finally only breath.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Oh you again...balls

I miss you, but I don't want to tell you.
I want to talk to you, but I don't want you to call.
I won't call either because it won't help.
But I don't know how to go on without missing you.
And I hate that I miss you. Because I know you aren't missing me. Not like I miss you.
Not that it matters. It was never about how you felt about me. It was always about me loving you.
Never about you wanting me, but me always wanting you the way you are. And you never wanting me the way I am. But that isn't fair either, because I know you care...or why would you tell me you miss me? You probably even do miss your way. But your way is not enough for me. I wish it was. I wish I felt happy enough alone that I didn't need your love. Didn't want your love, didn't want for you to hold me, talk to me, go out with me, support me, but I want/need those things, and you won't give me those how do I fix this? How do I go on missing you and not wanting you in the same moment. Wanting a different you. A you that can love me like I want to be loved. So how do I get on? Please tell me...

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Day 20: Brady

The smell of camp fire imbues the air and each time it gets harder to say goodbye to you.
We sit, we laugh, we smoke, we talk and each time I am reminded of the hole you leave in our lives.
We sit and wait for you. Baited breathe frosting our windows, and this is the price we all pay. The loss of each other, the loss of freedom to see each other, all because you chose to fight for the freedom of us all.


The crowd seeps past me.
Flashes of color, hot, flashy, golden, and pained.
I stand there in my underwear, polka-dotted, ripped in the seam, slightly too big.
The crowd moves faster, the edges blur, and something bumps my shoulder.
I am forced to the ground, brought to my knee.
The ground is muddy, trampled, hard packed, solid and heated.
I feel the gravity of the Earth, pulling me closer to the ground. Almost as if it wants to swallow me whole. But I push my head up, crooked neck to stare longingly at the sky, and I see.
Finally see the people's faces as they are yanked pasted. Theirs faces a torrent of different emotions, fear, confusion, joy, anger, hate, ecstasy, guilt, and all of them delicious, but strained. As if people do not even realize that they make these faces. I notice that their bodies are changing as they rush by. Blood gushed from wounds and heal before my eyes. Little slices, and I see that those slices are being made by words. Snipets of conversation, cutting into the very flesh, some deeper than others. The cloud of words circle people as a bee to it's hive, some coming from others while some coming from within. And these words change these people's expressions. Manipulate their life. Words like, SHOULD, RIGHT, WRONG, DIFFERENT, CHANGE, and for each person those words mean something different but they all look the same. Should live my life the right way. If I am wrong I will be punished and those who are different from me are wrong. Why would I rise up and stand for those who are different if they are wrong? Things are never going to change.
And this why I/people can watch the news all over the world and watch people die over my/their breakfast in the morning, why I/we go to bed each night and feel no pain.
Because we believe we are I's and not WE's-what hurts one, hurts all.

Monday, July 25, 2011


5am and I still smell of you. The stale sweat sits on my skin, my hair, my bed. My body bruised from your teeth/indifference. Alone. At last. Free to cry, free to mourn, free to wish, to hope. I wish I had never met you sometimes. When you are gone is when I miss you the least. When I can feel your skin against mine I am lonely, clutching you closer to make it more real, wish your heart would push through mine and then maybe we would be touching. Maybe once we are bleeding and broken. Sullied and sad. Torn and taken. We will finally be there. In each others arms, holding on tight to the memory of the moment itself. Grasping for the reality we have created in the deep secret hours of the morning. Just trying to find a way to feel, when we both feel so alone.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

For him, For me

People's eyes roam right over me. It is almost like I am not ever there. Almost. All I want is for you to notice me. All I want is for it to be you. But are you a bandaid for my life? Or are you just something I want/need? What is the difference? Why can't I tell and why can't you? I just want something real. Enough to tied me over. But will it ever be enough? Or can it ever be enough because I am in a haze, Walking through the twilight and all I want is for you to find me. I want you to come over and find me and there I will be beautiful in my mended manner. Sometimes I wonder if someone feels that way about me. Out there or in here and I just can't see it because I am in my own haze, my own twilight. Every day I wake up praying. Praying that today will be different. Today I will find my path, my love, my life and just like that it will all fall into place. But each day it feels the same, goes the same way. Each night I go to bed hopeful that tomorrow will be different, but how far will hope take me? How long will faith last?

Monday, July 18, 2011

Every night I walk the halls.
Running my finger tips along the walls littered with sensations.
Bit of him there, bits of me.
And every time I see him I wave. It is no big deal. I wave. Because day to day he is gone.
But when the day is over I dream of him. I walk that hall, touching bits of him.
I don't know why I dream of him. He was hardly there for me. But I dream of the way I wish he was. The way I hoped he could be, and then I wake up, tired because I walked those halls all night and I remember that for me, he was never there, for him I was never real, and for both of us, it is like it never happened, except for when I dream.

Monday, July 4, 2011


Just admit that you are lonely,
I whisper to myself.
In the dark, here in this safe place, it is ok to admit that you are lonely.
It is so hard for me, you see, because being lonely, must mean that I am weak.
Must mean that I believe that I do not have everything I need in this exact moment, and I choose to belief differently.
If I am lonely it means that I am succumbing to my most basest "human" emotions that I associate with what is wrong with our society and therefore ourselves.
But the truth of the matter is...that I am lonely.
And no matter how I paint the picture I
All those other things, like it meaning I do not have everything I need, is just meaning. Meaning I place on my life because it helps define me.
Instead I could just be lonely.
And not have meaningless words, meaningless meanings, define who I am and give myself the freedom and joy of just...being...lonely.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

No more

I stand before the mirror and place the tip of the chisel between my breasts.
In my other hand the hammer.
I bring the head of the hammer down on the chisel and curve my shoulders forward to protect myself.
Blood dribbles down my stomach to drip slowly from my knee caps.
I can feel the chisel burn my skin and bury deeper.
I am not just breaking my skin, but breaking my soul.
My outer shell that protects me.
I bring the hammer down again.
The taste of metal and something undefined coats the inside of my mouth.
There is no turning back now.
I know that soon I will die, but I also know that soon I will be free.
No more of my protective outer skin, nothing keeping from experiencing everything.
And even though it is an end, it is also a beginning.
A new start with no more hiding, no more ego, no more facade.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

It is during the hard times that I learn what kind of person I am.
When I am restless, or stagnant I learn just as much about myself as I do when I am moving forward.
I feel I am running through deep mud. My feet are sucked downward and nothing seems to work.
Not love, Not work, not friends, not creativity.
I am frustrated and yet I find that the emotional alone breeds itself.
Being frustrated makes me more frustrated.
Still I struggle, always struggling, endlessly struggling and I feel tired.
So Tonight I remember that it is ok to have a day where nothing seems to work right and that still I must continue on, so sleep is the cure to the restless head.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

the truth

I feel a complete fraud. I just considered changing the name of this blog just so I wouldnt feel so bad about not writing a poem a day but more like a poem a week and a feeble one at that. So I am owning that I have not kept my commitment of writing a poem a day or at least doing something to support my poetry each day. As always I reminded to respect my art by my good friend Aleah who is her art and lives and breathes it every day. My hero.
I fear I have nothing to say.
It is too important to say something I know.
Deep in my bones, but today, I fear I know nothing.
Today I look back and acknowledge that who I was, is not who I am.
We are the product of our experiences, but the result is something other than what we were.
Other than I am.
I bow to the goodness in me, and remember that with that good comes the work to sustain it.
The never ending "up hill" battle against ourselves and our ability to be Human.
We put so much importance on the individual experience, but we must remember that our experience is inconsequential, except that we are connected to each other, our experience is not individual at all but composite. Collective. Whole. Different, but the same.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

No Fear

It evokes within me things I can not explain.
Words that are so full of meaning that they have no meaning at all.
These words race through my mind, wash through my veins, caress my skin, ripple my soul
and I don't understand. The meaning is too deep to understand. And must I? Is part of the majesty that for all of my understanding, for all of my words, my contemplation, and coherence, this I do not understand. And I am not sure I ever want to. The point is to not understand, but the point is also not to fear. Again I surrender, in the name of faith. No fear for it will kill this possibility, but faith that no matter how hard I try I will never understand and I have no need to. This will end the way it is supposed to, and I will live it without fear.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Oh fuck it who knows what day it is...

There are so many different types of love.
Love of life, love of self, love of others, romantic love, familiar love, friendly love...but all of these are just love. When loving oneself, it is possible to love others, in a passionate deep love affair.
With love comes understanding, beauty, passion, compassion...all the amazing things that make life full and worth living. So why do I feel so lonely. I have these loves, except the romantic, and lonely I feel. Less. Missing something, perhaps not love though. Perhaps change. Something new. But does that mean someone new?
I want the sweetness of a love, a new love, with none of the thorns. But it seems they must be hand in hand and add the joy with the dark, which makes love what love is. Perhaps we are just told this? Perhaps love would be different if we just thought of it differently. Is the way we think of it only socially created? Is love even divine or is it defined by society. Would it not exist if we needed it to help create social unions?
Too many questions for tonight, no answers to be had.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Day 22: Herself

Drip, drip...
I feel my tear run down the hills of my face to drip from my nose.
The splash from my tears runs over my toes and I wiggle them in the puddle I created.
The pulse of my heart thumps out a beat in my head and throat and I swallow down the words I want to scream.
My head spins, my eyes droop, the tears keep coming.
I sway, the world stands still.
The nausea squirms up from my gut and I bend to vomit up my unending stream of anger and superiority.
Instead I catch a glimpse of this girl, 10 ft tall, pale, hallow eyed, dark haired, with shining worlds dropping from her eyes. Each one glistening, catching the light, gorgeous, bright, full of hope dropping from the sky like gifts from above. A smile touches my lips, and she smiles as well, hers brilliant and ripe, mine tasting of bile, and I open my arms as she opens hers and we fall towards this puddle of tears together.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Day 20: Indy

I guess you said your goodbye.
I hadn't said mine, because I didnt know how to.
Even after all my experience, I struggle with letting you go.
I see you, for you, when you are dark and broken, and yet I see you.
Do you see me? Is that what scares you?
Is that what makes you turn away? The fear that you just might feel something you can't control?
I can't keep up with your changed mind. I can't sit through your tactics. I can't keep climbing your wall. I want more. I know you want less. Anything to not feel pain. Anything to just get through the next day still breathing. But I know you feel that loss of us. I know you feel it so intensely that it burns your tongue and sours your stomach. I see your back breaking under the strain of maintaining and it brings tears to my eyes. I wish I could help you. But I have been down that road before. Damn, have I been that road before. And it is a war I am already stacked to lose. 2 to 1. And even though I would try if you asked me to, you dont, so I won't. I can' I guess this is my goodbye, sweet but sad, just like us.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Day 19: My Place

This is the place I go to make bare my soul.
I light my candle and light my incense, bow my head in devotion.
I breathe.
Maybe for the first time all day.
I breathe, in the smoke, in the flame and exhale all that I have been holding in.
I breathe it out for devotion. For the purpose of growth, to honor.
With each breathe my heart lightens. My arms become soft, my neck releases, all because I have a place to bare my soul in devotion.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Day 18: Sleep

hits my eyelids,
spidery patterns crisscross my vision
the space behind my eyes illuminated by the morning sun.
Toes curled, back stretched, body reminded of itself as I crawl hands and knees out of bed.
I start each day with my body upright. Straightened, lengthened, standing tall.
My heart pointed to the sky, opened and drunk on the heat.
As the day continues, my left shoulder pulls toward my chest hiding my heart, protecting my soul.
My right shoulder folds over as well, leaving me hunched, head bent, dark shadows hallowing my eyes. My feet become heavy and my back aches with weights too large and too invisible.
I stumble, broken backed, beat, bruised, darkened, desperate, hanging by a thread,
to fall, face first, into the comfort of sleep...only to repeat the same tomorrow.

Today I worked 14 hours, and tonight I feel beaten. My feet hurt, my mind is numb, and I can't imagine my life being any different. I feel a fraud and too tired to tear myself apart to share my soul and work on my art. All excuses, fallacies, but true tonight.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Day 17: Enough

Not Enough
These words stalk me.
They shadows my every step and darkens my mind to future ventures.
They are the black cloud that rains on my parade, and it is the inhibitor of true happiness.
I let these words, literally, rule my life.
I am never good enough.
I am never smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough, sexy enough, successful enough, happy enough, quiet enough, giving enough to satisfy the imaginary perceptions of the people around.
I am so worried about looking good that I let my parade be rained on. I let my love walk on by, because why could he possibly want someone like me, with my big, great shadow. And I let the "weight" of what I think people think of me drag me to the ground, nail me to the floor, and I look mournfully up at the people passing me by.
When will I be able to be enough...for me. Because it is a two way street. When I am not enough, neither is anyone else.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Day 17: That Deadly Sensation

I can feel it creeping up my spine.
Tip toed fingers caressing my back and I shiver.
Bubbles fizzle in my stomach and a smile touches my lips.
For a moment I feel I am falling backwards, taken in by that deadly sensation.
I can feel my heart getting tangled and I sigh a relief.
After so long I wasn't sure I remembered how to be twitterpated.
But I also remember that deadly sensation is of my own making, self-inflicted.
I thought you were all I had been waiting for.
All that I have prayed for day after day.
But it never seems just right, but each day I can tell I am getting closer.
Closer to the moment when all that I am missing in life is you.
And yet tonight I lie awake thinking of you.
Of how you make me feel more like a woman.
Of how you make me feel less alone and more alone. Bittersweet and delicious
Of how you make me feel sexy and wanted.
I wonder if it is you making me feel these things or the possibility of you that spurns me to tossing and turning and a long sleepless night of introspective moments.

Day 16: We Are One.

The beat vibrates deep inside of me as I rest my hands on my ribs to feel them moving.
Side to side I pulse, making music motion.
The twinkle of a thousand lights burst behind my eyes as I float away.
Taken by the crowd, taken by the music, the strong hands cupping my hips.
I feel the sinew in my muscles tighten as I rock, and it strikes me as funny, that hundreds of strangers can gather and connect over something so innocent as music, while thousands die because they can't.

That is the allure of the music, it reconnects us as human to our fellow humans and we resonate together for a single moment, one organism with the same purpose, the same problems, the same joys and we all breath out a sigh of relief as we settle into that moment.
The moment we are one.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Day 16: To My Mirror

To My Mirror

It must be hard to be a mirror.
To always show only the truth and then to be blamed for the reflection.
It must be hard to remember that beneath that shiny surface there is a person there.
A person of depth and beauty. A person so obviously blind to their own reflection.
When we look into a mirror, we do not even see ourselves. We see our insecurities, our pasts written in lines upon our bodies, our emotions, our mind states. And somewhere beneath all that there is the person we really are. Naked, bare, exposed. We fear this so deeply that we cover ourselves with lies, crimes against our humanity. And we use those around us to support those lies, we use other's mirror, so we are secure in our knowledge that we are worthless pieces of shit that are neither capable of loving ourselves nor others. As we drown in our own insecurities, we are safe in knowing that everyone else is drowning with us. As a people we drown. Delighted by our united stupidity. least we are united.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Day 14: In Cold Hell, in Thicket

To assist in my process of learning to become a poet, I have decided that I will be reading a poem from a great poet once a day and using this blog not only as a place to write poetry but also as a journal to write reflections about what I am reading and what the poem effected in me.
Currently I am reading Charles Olson. Great American Poet of the 50's wrote in projective verse...which quite honestly I am still not sure what that means. I know that the structure of the poem has something to do with the breath. But it also has to do with the landscape inside of the human soul rather than just discussing the landscape around oneself. But that is the extent of my understanding of the Projective Verse and most importantly of Charles Olson's In Cold Hell, in Thicket written in 1953.
The structure of the poem is so chaotic that it literally alienates the reader from the deep emotions being divulged, what is the point then?

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Day 10:

The world around me turns black and the anger burns in my gut.

Splashes of yellow, and puce. The shapes blur and all I can see if the object of my anger.

It churns inside me. Infecting my ribs and my womb with pus. It is an infection the eats me from the inside out. Tearing holes in my skin and shredding my soul into ribbons.

All so I can be right. Secure in my knowledge that I am right (self-righteous), secure in my knowledge that I am literally tearing out my own heart just so that I can be right.


I am three days behind, because Blogspot was down and I started to get judgmental about what I am writing. My writing takes little skill and requires more tutelage, as well as some fucking authenticity. All these things I write about are real for me, but are about being selfish. I am completely unobservant of the things going on around me. I have become complacent.

Day 9:

I am so eager to be loved.

I see it in the faces of strangers that pass me on the street.

Dreaming of that perfect love.

That is easy, solid and life changing.

And I am trying so hard. To be “right” so I can be lovable.

The thing is, I don’t even remember what it was like to be in love.

All the pain people feel for love is part of the process.

We, yes I, love this pain. Love this idea of love. It is so much easier than the real thing.

Love is devotion to the divine. To surrender completely to not another but to the divine. Love is something beyond the people "feeling" it. It is too great to be felt for one person. Relationship is about the people in it, but love is about everyone.

Day 8:

What I want to write is something meaningful,

But all that comes is the same story I have said before.

It is all egotisical crap spouted by pretty much everyone.

And still I feel flawed, humanly flawed.

Feel that no matter the work, I will always be flawed.

Day 7:

Even in the depths of this moment I feel alone, Restlessly alone.

All the nonsense about having it figured out is fake.

In the end I am alone. Left behind. As people’s lives travel on in a path already written for them I am stuck in the middle of my road too scared to go left or right or even make a deal with the devil. And all of it is lies. Lies to make myself feel little and alone. My privilege blinds me to the divine in my life. To the divine in me, and my divine purpose. The gift to be abundance.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Day 6:

I could be my little room.
Lost in space or stuck in a cave...none of it matters.
Because there is no connection to the outside.
I am the only one that matters.
And in my arrogance I think that I am the only one that matters.
The only one that is right, the only one who knows.
And in my arrogance I am left alone. I alienate everyone because I am the only one who knows.
I am right and everyone else is wrong.
And I am left alone, because I think I have done the work.
The most important work, and in my arrogance I realize that obviously I have not done the work.
That I am not just living in arrogance, self righteousness, but also in ignorance...
and my price is love.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Day 5:

I can feel myself melting away,
under the pressure of my ambition, I am compressing.
Smashed into a cubic square of my personality.
All that I am pushed into this small shape, boring and geometric.
It is hard to complain though, when I have helped create my very own cage.
When I have painstakingly built every feature and surface to specific dimensions.
It is hard to complain when I realize that this is all my fault.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Day 4: Untilted

The tips of my fingers pulse with tiny bursts like firecrackers going off on concrete.
My hips ache with complaint from exhaustion.
My lids close closely and deeply.
Calming drifting into sleep...numb.

And then it starts, as if a movie is being switched on behind my eyes.
Images of running, floating, skipping, dipping...I fly in my dreams.
No limits there, and it is so easy and natural to be that free...alive, enlivened.
But when I open my eyes...numb.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Day 3: Part 2

Why would love ever appear rational?
It is an irrational, clashing of titanic proportions, but sane.
It the spark before the bang and the deep, hot glow of a glass blower's kiln, uncontrollable, uncertain, chaotic display of socially unacceptable behavior.
All of these things often add up to insane in most people's books.
How can one hold on to this type of irrationality?
Why is there the idea that one must?
Perhaps love is not meant to be contained and carefully defined.
Perhaps it takes two incredibly HUMAN people to be just sane enough to attempt to be that irrational and succeed.
It evokes the same image of the glass blower bare armed reaching a metal pole into a bowl of molten, white hot lava to create something even more beautiful than what those little grains of sands started is a mix of two people choosing to be two people in love. A constant state of uncontrollable, uncertain, chaotic display of socially unacceptable behavior.
If I were only so lucky.

Day 3: The Right Now

I don't want to deal with this right now...
The "right now" is just the "looking good" statement we tack on
to assure people that we are working on it.
But what "right now" means is not now...not this, but in the future some day when I am...
Well Rested
Well Feed
Less Busy
Less Stressed
Less Confused
but all of those things are infinite if you choose to be that way.
We are, all of us, those things constantly, and when you choose the "not right now" statement you choose stagnation.
And we choose this "not right now" because we think it will be easier.
Easy Way Out.
But all it is creating is the Hard Way further development of the soul.
The REAL easy way, is to choose, "yes, in this moment I choose yes."

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Day 2: The Empty Space

There is an empty space...I roll over and it is next to me.
When I walk I can feel it just over my left shoulder, lurking.
Defining me.
It is the largest empty space and I believe, it defines others.
When people see me, their eyes float conspicuously to that space to my left and depending on the person...a smile, a frown, a nod, an upturned nose.
This space defines me by how empty it is.
Defines me in my loneliness.
Defines me in my worthiness.
Defines me in my success.
to others...
But to me this empty space does not mean these things,
to defines my triumph over loneliness, it defines my success in attention, and it defines my openness and willingness to have that space be filled when it is right....just simply by that space being empty and existing.
It is how we define things that change their...meaning.
And it is how we let these meanings define our lives.

I have a strong sense that someday very soon I will run out of important and interesting things to say and suddenly several poems about sunshine and flowers with tweeting birds with crop up and then you will all be sorry.

Friday, May 6, 2011

Old Poems

These are some other poems I have written recently that I wanted to share.

My hand trembles, another day goes by, another relationship floats into the past.
The world moves on around me while I recover, rediscover, and remember.
Remember that alone is ok
Alone is right, and maybe you were right.
Rediscover my life, my art, myself.
Recover my heart, my kindness, my values.
Remember that you are not the one.
"The One."
I am the one.
The one here in my life, enduring, changing, shaping, moving through my life with purpose and growing into the person I started out as.


Letting go of love is like
letting a piece of your heart die.
To have loved and lost is the gift you always wish at the end that could return.
To have TRULY loved and to have TRULY lost is to know need and sorrow, forgiveness and hate, pain and freedom, betrayal and loneliness.
Above all else, to love, is to grow.
To grow in forgiveness and servitude, compassion and depth of emotion.
And these are the growing pains of living in love, heart spread wide.
Some day, at the end of it all, I will appreciate the extra inch of height as I reach for my dreams.


I dream of running down the empty streets of Paris,
White silk trailing behind, red lips parted
breath steaming
rapture in my eyes.
Soaking in the dark, enormous beauty of this city.
Alone, singled out, but embraced by the strength in the bones of this city's history.
Everywhere you look ghosts of past lives haunt this city.
Strolling down the street, intermixed with the slang talking youth, dog shit, and picture snapping tourists. And no one sees them, these ghosts, they float by in silence.
In this you discover the beauty of the city.
New and Old, Grandeur and filth.
All contained in a glorious contrast, not seen by most, but certainly not to be taken lightly.

This city is a serious city...created on the starvation of budding artists, deep thinking philosophers, and the monument of human creation.
With a past like that, the cobbled streets make sense. Almost the dimpled scars left by the strong emotions of the past.
This city SHOULD evoke strong visions of the past. One must be aware of the fact that their lives are really only a part of a great lone of thinkers, feelers, and emoters.
WE are nothing in the grand scheme of things.
WE are but simple moving cogs in the machine of time.

Three Old Men

The sunlight glints off my finger nails and I bask.
In the glory of the day, the smells of fall, the joys of existing.
The smell of crushed fallen leaves and car exhaust fill my nostrils and Three Old Men sit.
Enjoying the last few days of bright sun floating through the leaves.
I imagine they sit discussing how much the world has changed since they were young.
How it was simpler or maybe more complicated.
How they traveled the world in their youth and learned things that their children and the children of today could never understand.
The sun peeks from behind a fork in a tree and I imagine sitting with my own friends bemoaning the eccentricities of our youth and curiosity. Extolling the great wisdom we have amassed in our long, full, lives and how we hope and pray that our children, and the children of the day have learned from what we have shared with them.

Phoenix through the Divine

I live in desolation
Everything bulldozed over
constantly bleeding...everything broken down
and replaced
by something NEW.
I grasp at the vapors of memory of what I was told one day, only to find that my hands are empty
and blackened, rubbed red skin peeks through the soot.
I am reminded that I am trying to get some where so...I stumble.
Painfully lifting the charred flesh from the ground to place it again on the steaming earth.
I know that someday...I will be burned away and I will be fresh, clean, free, and I will start again.


The lines cut the sky in sections of colors: lightening-purple, pain-yellow. The sky drips salt down my back for you. Tears of a sort for our goodbye. The lightening rips through the clouds, my world shakes. I grab for something to steady my trembling body and find an out stretched hand. I look around and see the lines cutting the sky are only in my head.


I lay desolate
my bones picked over by a thousand grains of white sand in the moon light.
I am content.
Everything that I am I have surrendered to feed this earth. This moment.
I have given my body that had taken in love, passion, hatred, sadness, confusion, disappointment, longing, and creativity.
And I have surrendered it to this soil.
My sadness fuels the rain.
My passion ignites the animals
and I am relieved.
Relieved that I no longer have to hold these concepts inside my body anymore.
All that is left, all I contain, is compassion.
A concept to large to be held anyways.
So it is something that is all.
All around, inside and out.
And needs no boundaries to be shared.

A Poem A Day For A Year: Day 1

Ok here is the deal. I have been writing poetry since I was around the age of 9 and had always dismissed it as just something to help me stay sane and work through my emotions. But as I have gotten older and begun to analyze my life in terms of "what I want to do for the rest of my life" the only thing that has legitimately come up is being a poet, being a writer. I know there are a lot of talented people out there and I have no illusions of getting famous or even making money off of writing, though that would be nice of course, more it is the commitment to not compromise what it is that I truly want to do with my life in the face of needing to succeed according to someone else's standards. So the challenge is this: I will write a poem once a day and post it here, regardless of how bad it is to get in to the practice of writing constantly. The issues are that most days I work 12-14 hours and often get home exhausted and spent. But this may be how life is if I have chosen the path of a I better get used to it.

Poem 1:

I feel I am a boiling pot
bubbling away, close to overflowing
with a boiling pot you must be careful of the hot water, but mostly you must be wary of the steam
The steam will burn you if you are too close and there is the possibility that suddenly,
with no apparent cause the water will burst forth and spray you in an angry blister inducing torrent that leaves one red, and sore.
This is my state, with no apparent cause I boil over, on whom ever happens to be standing next to me and I burn them.

But there is cause. That is the thing with boiling water, to get it to boil you must turn up the heat and contain the space by covering it with an air tight apparatus. This creates the perfect environment for explosion.
See it is the concealing, the covering that makes the environment possible.
It is the denial, and the self- righteousness that makes up this covering and the process then leads to an erupting, dangerous cataclysm of sadness, hurt, indignation, and lack of integrity.
The key to avoid this, is to not cover the pot, but to gently let it simmer, casting beautiful swirls of steam creating patterns in the air, only adding beauty to the world.