Wednesday, March 30, 2011

calling . . .












dirt
dark
moist
air smells of blue
and spruce
mountain laurel
wild iris
fire & marshmallows
heaviness lingers in bone
removed from the sensual
embraced by the falling
fire dances beyond the woods
hearts lift together
walking walking walking
pixie-dust-path of love & light
painless
wanting float
laughter sparkles
hands touch
and hold
arms encircle
carried in
smells of smoke ... peace
tribal
mushrooms shine
the cord attaches &
fire dances
free-dom
transforms & bends
here - something silky, sideways & raw
steeped in time & forest strength
under the weight of this night
still ...
earth dancing under batik stars
dark moist soil whispering
it's open secrets
revealed in tableau's of pulse & beat
enchantment here . .
follow the trail of sweat, need & redemption
to sleep

you will find your way home , , ,

contrast
















.... and it is a morning 
dawned overcast & steel grey 
a cardinal sings .....
but green is lingering just there, below the brown surface of things 
jackson browne is playing somewhere in this hollow house
where are the songs for people like us ?
no one writes about the fondness that stands outside the 
borders of time,
no one writes the haunting, sliding feeling that steals into one's heart ...
and no one touches upon the jihad of the soul 
there were other lifetimes, other valleys crossed ...
other bodies where these threads of angst were caught.
or -  perhaps it's found in every line
every verse
every truthful note
it's discovered in the breath held - a pause in the words on a line - white spaces where
some things are always better left unreconciled ....
funny really ... how one can see past the cloak :
"the killer in me knows the killer i see in you 
and the lover in me, sees the lover in you"...
ahh , i have heard the torment of your desire
& faced my own shattered porcelain need
as it lays upon the cold hard floor 
perhaps the joy lies in the discovery of what lies
beyond the broken
beyond the script .....
with the promise of 
a cerulean blue sky and 
the return of sunshine . . .

FLIGHT














sitting in this airport bar
after slamming your truck door 
sobbing
open 
wounded
our love's not working anymore
seems i missed the memo
ignored some crazy fly-by 
allowed this mountain-fairy-tale
was it worth this holiday try?
can't understand why i'm crying
i can't connect the dots
this kaleidoscope of sorrow
tumbles & won't stop
for a thread of brilliant knowing
and a shot-glass full of truth 
my heart spins in fractured free-fall
like whiskey and vermouth
can't understand when i'm crying
.... searching for the why ....
stuck in this frosted moment
suspended in a broken-heart cry 
trapped by our mismatched baggage
spinning unclaimed--heartbreak on the side
bending to touch redemption
our worlds no more collide
i rise to evolution
which each movement -- compassion is found
will not carry your myopic fear with me 
i'll leave it here upon this sagebrush ground 
don't tell me your righteous knowing 
the path
the truth 
and the light ...
your cynical crystal-ball vision
is shadowed by
our last gentle night
.... blue green always is your color 
and you smell of warmth & pine
patterns of moonlight on blue blue snow
somehow ...
your hand will always fit mine

Sunday, March 27, 2011

3/26/11













i see the writing on my heart so clearly
i see the hardness of this distance from you
gone is the doubt & fear that tried to bind me
come feel the colors of this night
shift to blue ...
enfold this sorrow & talk to me dearly
wrapped in curly- willow & snow freshly new
found is the morrow in the echo of the valley
secure in the love & sureness of you
oh carry me
tucked safely in your pocket
oh carry me
forever in your soul
oh carry me
far across the hillside
oh carry me
closer to you
we travel solo
for most of this lifetime
we travel burdened by the baggage of our days
we make a turn
and change into the path of most resistance
we pause a beat and step out of the haze ...
oh carry me
far across still water
oh carry me to your barren, rocky shore
oh carry me thru forests green & silent
oh carry me with you forever more ,,,,

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

filling a hole










when i was young
i spent many summer days with my grandparents
sleeping in, playing endlessly
oatmeal &
naps
swimming, books & friends ....
every morning though,
i would collect odds & ends
wire, sticks, apples & rocks
and i would build a squirrel trap
an amazing squirrel trap
a safe, inviting squirrel trap
every late-summer-morning
i would build a squirrel trap
it would rest at the base of this huge old oak
propped open & waiting eagerly
expectantly
patiently
waiting
i longed to capture a squirrel
with intent sharp & focused
i would wait ....
birds churned & sang
bugs buzzed
i would watch .....
(  gramma would bring me a peanut butter & jelly sandwich at noon
with the crusts cut off  )
the sparse grass was moist & itchy as i lay on my stomach ....
watching
and waiting
for hours
there with my tightly pony-tailed hair
bobby socks & pastel-bobbie-brooks-short-sets
waiting
watching ....
for
a squirrel to
want that apple
answering some
ancient call
some primal need .....
to hold
something
wild

Monday, March 21, 2011

ravineux













... of the rain that washes these windows, hungry of wine, of heavy bread, of books, of blogs, of leather boots with high heels & tango shoes, of lectures & knowledge, of color, of smells.
i'm fucking hungry. 
i crave visions, revelations, magic, snow, dancing, language, poetry, thoughts that explode or linger, words that bleed, words that bruise, touch that heals.
i want to eat your laughter, the sound of your sighs, have all-you-can-eat-buffets of your silence and your semen, steak, underwear, wind, stout beer drowned in music.
i'll devour your salt-honeyed skin and all of your cherry tomatoes
i am obscenely hungry
of touch, movement, snow, quantum rabbit holes, peace, sunshine, mountain breezes, edible words like cunt & fuck
give me cigar smoke, tribal dreams and rainforests
sweet smell of honeysuckle
and your smell
your smell
one, two, three ...
madly hungry i am.
let me chew, gulp. lick, lick once again, kiss forever
to stick my tongue into every goddamn hole, to have my mouth full of you
songs, strawberries, earth, joy. 
to feed the mirror image, to surrender to the hunger really
unlock the larder, turn over the desk, pull down your underwear, get wet, pour your mind into my hands
and
will
tenderly
hold 
you

Sunday, March 20, 2011

sunday afternoon ,,,,









sunday afternoon 
with a
black thunder sky raining down
all i want to do is leave this quiet-happy town ....
so i
throw the golden tarot down
let the cards nudge me
... and the magician that is you
weaves the spell
pulling me away  ....
i follow the trail of you to the Cumberland Gap
... grab a 5th of jamieson and never look back
ego & dreams
collide against my bricks
breaking my stubborn
another one of your tricks
but the memory of your 501's
there against my leg
enfolds me & holds me
steering me to the trace of you - the space of you
somewhere along this twisted road ...
green vibrance stirs the soul of me
whispering to ghosts who won't let go of me ...
caught in some blood memory of what has been
and what will yet be ....
pine laurel awakens the scent of you
this mountain pass
rolls me as you do ...
intoxicates
captivates
and leads me down
thru the Cumberland Gap
black thunder sky raining down
steering me to the trace of you ...
the space
of you .

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Home Ec














i made a flowered jumpsuit for Home Ec . . .
purple, yellow, pink
well, i was suppose to make a jumpsuit
this would indeed secure for me a bright & sunny, prosperous future
complete in every way
i made a jumpsuit for Home Ec
it was shapeless & odd
also we cooked blueberry muffins
muffins & jumpsuits would pave a perfect path towards Nirvana
of course, i didn't know what Nirvana was then ,,,,
though i had tasted it in a kiss
i had felt it under a June sun
and i could smell it walking on a snowy night
when i was small, it was in my grandfathers hand ,,,,
fairly certain that it was not found in Typing, Algebra
or Home Ec
the mechanics of sex were taught in Home Ec
in, out, protection, marriage, baby
pink papers & close the shades !!!!
this is a penis
we did not learn about heart in Home Ec
we did not learn about heart
independence, humor, compassion
pathos, eros, logos, ethos  
or how when you lay with someone, regardless of intent
and your naked & breathless ....
it changes you
folds you upon yourself so the raw-selvaged edge shows
Home Ec didn't teach you about worth or love
or writing your own story.
i didn't like Home Ec
i wanted Fitzgerald, Anais Nin & Kipling
Paris,  Dublin & Lord Byron
i wanted Flight School ......

Thursday, March 17, 2011

discovery ...










what is it
to embody the stillness
utter stillness
that lingers here in the corner of this nearly full moon
quiet .....
heart slows, and beats to the rhythm of antiquity
rhythm laced with fierce stardust
loss &
forgiveness
quiet hollow echo of the cosmos ....
gather & hold fast this moonlight
quiet shadowed life
being in this night
is home .....

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

one














... is there always one ? one who fits no mold, does the unexpected, who inhabits your heart as as no one can ? one whom you can't let go - he passes thru our lives and creates poetry & chaos - waking you up to ancient treasures buried under layers of scar tissue & debris .... who holds you so accountable that the anger rises up, up up pouring from the very marrow of your bones ...... and there is this involuntary hunger & perverse need for more ..? does everyone have - one ? this is no disney romance, this is no realized/idealized soulmate who completes you - rather one who challenges & pulls & pushes & confuses the fuck out of you .... there is no reconciliation here ... no closure - no end game. merely the knowing that all paths converge and break away ... only to suddenly blend once more as we navigate over rocks, mud... sometimes paying so much attention to the ground beneath our feet, we don't look up, up, up and see the moon and the stars and indigo night until it is to late - and we glance up, stumble and suddenly - we've lost something - some sparkling magical thing that felt right. and you walk down your path alone with this involuntary glimmer of that something more ...... and a knowing that someday, around some unremarkable corner - there it is again ... day 1649.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

sleep in late winter ...











last night i dreamed that dream ..

the dream where we lay
in a large, burled-mahogany four-poster bed
with sheets of baby-yellow-linen
the walls were of this heavy, green stone
dusted with moss
and
the ancient, mullioned window was
open
your mother
brought us breakfast
of fruits & breads
in a basket
she was delightful & wore her chestnut hair pulled up
into a red blossom
she wore a white dress
we were young, yet strangely ... old
we were joyously happy
it was spring
and we smelled of soap & midnight
i don't recall your mother much
and this past winter may have been her last ...
but would she have fed me breakfast in bed ??
would she have liked me ?
kisses. open.  
sparkling wonder laced with
sunshine & want ....
open rumbled yellow morning joy

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

house on charles st.



























palm of hand
cool of glass
gentle hands, jolly laugh
cowslip spode
& blue bamboo
oatmeal mornings
with captain kangaroo
silk sofa pink
curtains of lace
regulator clock
ticks us thru our days
windowed bed
and squirrels in treetop bowers
as dylan sang of spain & watchtowers
smell of time
books & lore ...
the smell of whiskey thru the old kitchen door
tales tucked into every room






dust & love
& french perfume
time escapes, but love lingers there
fast asleep 
in that old plaid chair

day











grey petals of sorrow
folded & felted
mark the day
the weight & harshness of steel satin
thick with embroidery
makes movement graceless & awkward
a missing
a loneliness lingers in every nuance of presence
but ohh it is so veiled ...
paisley quilted-golden mirth weaves
it's trail into the fabric of change
changing perspective & vision & hope
winter is like that
contrast & dance
sleep & dream 
sharp cold & promise of spring 
...... golden once again 


Monday, March 7, 2011

pericoloso



i am attracted to dangerous men 
men with no plan & too much game
men who stand in doorways 
and lean 
musicians - all musicians are dangerous men
poets 
cowboys
men who wear button-fly 501's & drink Guinness
i want to be a groupie with the IRA
and sit amongst fierce madness & purpose
wear short skirts & no underwear
i am attracted to dangerous men
men with foreign accents & no last name
men who suck life in & laugh at speed
who whisper between thighs
and smell of jasmine & diplomaticos
i want to hold fast to his taunt back as we ride across some
saguaro pine mesa ... hold fast
and watch the sun rise up in the East
and scream at the top of my being 
that I am
          a Dangerous Woman