Thursday, February 26, 2015

inepta caeruluem caru volta

how was the world before our skin met?
was there glimmer? butterscotch .... the linger of mint? 
did licorice pour from your veins into flannel pockets of mirth?
did icicles recite tales of the battle of Dunkirk?
did energy collide to form thundersnow?
did children laugh as they swung high to low? 
however it works
wherever you go 
the place where you are is home for my soul 
whatever it means 
across fields of time
the place where you are is home for my kind 
so somewhere in California 
beneath a sun with tongues of blue 
I know that you love me 
and my truth is you 

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Thursday, February 19, 2015

tyto alba

the wing span of a barn owl is 42 inches
42 inches of ghost feathers & furl 
lifted on particle currents of atmosphere 
dip & dive
dip & dive 
silent nocturnal flyer 
dip & dive 
find me  
there in slumber beneath worry & bramble 
trembling in stasis 
exultant in dark possibility 
wrapped in skin with age & aspirin 
I am waiting for your sharp golden piercing 
dip & dive


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Wednesday, February 18, 2015

of sixes & sevens . . .

I lost my anger in the corner pocket of table six
or maybe it was in june of '68 ... in the red cadillac on the way to the parade
better to be invisible under stars & wooden desks
than to be seen for a creature dressed
in cyan & tattered sensitivity
able to absorb sunlight at a rate greater than or equal to
the speed of light
I am forgetting my mother's middle name:

anger was eaten with violets for breakfast in june of '68
just after my mouth was washed out with soap for saying "shit shit"
merely imitating the song of meadowlarks eating violets for breakfast

give to me your feathers & your strength
your wit & whiskey-wisdom orange paisley'd
of pine & sunshine & tomatoes

I lost my anger curled up behind a sofa at midnight
wearing flannel pajamas & watching the world in black & white
roll past
on a radio flyer
sunshine me home life o life ....
sunshine me home to the corner pocket of table six
touch my cheek
I am my mother's name
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Being Julie London


From as young
as I can remember, there was always music in our house.
From Sinatra, Duke Ellington to The Beatles. 
Music permeated our days and nights . .
And my oh my, how my mother loved to dance !! 
It might be the one singular thing she taught me . 
No lessons on cooking, sewing, gardening or laundry . . 
no baking classes or tidying-up tips . .
to dance . .
There was this one album. 
 Julie London. 
She was on the cover in about 6 different calendar-girl poses .
Crazy sexy . . before I knew what crazy sexy was. . .
I wanted to be Julie London. Not Petula Clark, Jane Fonda, Gloria Steinem, or Nancy Sinatra
( ok, well, maybe a little Nancy Sinatra .... ) (maybe a lot of Jane Fonda too!)
How my folks loved Julie London
and I became infatuated with her.
At night, when I was presumably fast asleep . I would fold, tuck & embellish my baby doll pajamas. . . Wearing earmuffs as a bra, and a stuffed pink boa constrictor
as well ....... a boa. :) 
I would dance.
The music played in my head. . . All feminine & ruffly-bowed. pink, and smelling of cigarettes & roses. 
 And I thought sex must be the grandest thing ever.  
Such frosted womanly power : coy but sure. Shy, but not.
Soft, yet daring. 
(There's that love of the contrast surfacing again. . .)
So, by day, 
I was mild & unassuming. Susie Chapstick. 
Blond pony-tails, and innocent visage. Poised & polite. Expected.
By night, I was a wild thing. 
Hungry for something I'd never seen, never tasted 
But i knew it hung from the cosmos; 
shining & brilliant like a star. .. with dark shimmering edges .

Then one day - at a very young age, probably in summer, probably in June 
I woke up and knew I was not where I was supposes to be. 
Wrong planet, wrong decade, wrong four walls, wrong baby doll pajamas . . . 
Not Julie London, or Jane Fonda. I felt Wrong.
A door was shut, locked
 . . some mask was placed . . .

then another day occurs
 . . a day when someone touches you a certain way. 
Maybe it's in the front seat of a car, on a summer lawn under stars, 
or on a parents bed ; 
but a match is lite, a fire blazes, 
fireworks are felt in the seat of your soul 
you simultaneously lose yourself
and find yourself as the collide of skin opens the door back
into yourself.
Maybe it's the raw honesty & explosion of sensation, 
maybe it's in the vulnerability, 
or maybe it's tapping into true Julie-London-Frosting
But the door is open
and you are finally in the right place.
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Saturday, February 14, 2015


carries the geography of significance, love & nature
to compare, define & ascend
how to you erase the trail of a touch ?
the cut of the movement of realization
the tracks of the spark & the knowing ?
... a path, a mark, a line, a pull - a scar
how is it that the grey, snow & bite of winter make it deeper
still & dry
there is an ache for the melt & a return of warm winds
to round the edges, shift the foundation
draw the map
trace the contours of connection with a sharp pencil of redwood
shade with pearl
color the valleys in myrtle & emerald
consider the water & outline it's phenomenology in blue
leave space
acknowledge the groove
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Wednesday, February 4, 2015

back to bowlegs . . .

the way you come in, is the way you go out
open & shining & riddled with doubt
breathe in the smoke,
wipe the ash from your eyes
you & the dogs
tag along for the ride
trails of wisteria, Seminole pines
mullen & sage, spring grass & rye ....
hurry ... before darkness
hurry ... 'fore rain
circle past the thunder
to draw close again
and ...
build me a blaze
strong as your heart
dance with me around it
long after dark
piss on the fire and 
call in the dogs
head back to Bowlegs
with me in your arms . . .
three quarter moon hangs in the sky
wisdom of fire there in your eyes
as hope lies dashed
there upon stone
stars lift it up
and carry it home
adagio sun swells in the east
the lark will teach us to trust what we speak 
and we never saw 
or will see again
a morning like that
that atones & amends
so ....
build me a blaze
strong as my heart
let's dance around it
long after dark
... bring on the thunder
... bring on the storm
the north star forever lights the way home 
piss on the fire
call in the dogs
and head back to Bowlegs
with me in your arms ......

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Tuesday, February 3, 2015

snow moon

damsel dressed in fibers of vetiver
opalescent diode shining foliage-green
performs in solitude
against the bark of nevermore
hold fast against my sternum 
your hand warms tender the fragility of
this unexpected illumination  
Keep it there ...
shelter the sorrow along with the falling
spark the weary lost bones 
shatter the ampule open 
smell our green verdant
delight of this passage 
rest your hand there ...
It is home 

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