I am a little wary of seeing your face, and
I am a little scared of who you were to me.
Friday, August 26, 2016
Friday, August 19, 2016
The autopsy of Amanda Grey
Lungs
She spent all of these seconds listening. "She was so quiet" they said, and " she had nothing much to say," but what they meant is that no one really asked. If they had,
They would have known, that it isn't every day you meet someone from the farrest of places. It isn't often, you meet someone who has so very much to say.
She had been to the moon twice, and maybe she was lying because she had at least three moonstones, so she had probably been three times.
She held her breath to prove that since she had been to space she had figured out that on the 17th of each month she didn't need air.
She would run, and she would run, and it was only a matter of time before she went to the moon and decided not to come back.
Aren't you happy here, though? They asked her and she would say "Neither here nor there" but the greatest mystery is,
What if,
That was far from the question that should have been asked,
And maybe a better question would be "Is there a where that you will be?"
The autopsy of Amanda Grey
Bones
She lived in a home she built from the sky down and,
Her body wondered out loud, "plug me in please," and she shushed it. SHHH. Body.
We are not made of things that can be recharged, and other things were meant to light up with electricity, but you and I, we run out when we do.
And she would nail down boards of her house, chimney and rooftop, and it would be difficult some days, building her house this way. Her knees would get scuffed up.
"Some things take sacrifice," she said to her knees. Matter-of-factly. And she painted the roof. She hammered and splinters stuck in her skin, but, she knew that the house would keep her safe. Someday.
And her lungs quivered, and knew they could not speak to this woman, paint on her cheeks and in her hair, splinters in her flesh, and bruises on her knees.
She hammered and hammered and sawed and built but she still had nowhere to sleep. "It will get done" and the bravest, the bravest of her body, finally spoke and her bones said, "Oh love, this will not do."
Bones
She lived in a home she built from the sky down and,
Her body wondered out loud, "plug me in please," and she shushed it. SHHH. Body.
We are not made of things that can be recharged, and other things were meant to light up with electricity, but you and I, we run out when we do.
And she would nail down boards of her house, chimney and rooftop, and it would be difficult some days, building her house this way. Her knees would get scuffed up.
"Some things take sacrifice," she said to her knees. Matter-of-factly. And she painted the roof. She hammered and splinters stuck in her skin, but, she knew that the house would keep her safe. Someday.
And her lungs quivered, and knew they could not speak to this woman, paint on her cheeks and in her hair, splinters in her flesh, and bruises on her knees.
She hammered and hammered and sawed and built but she still had nowhere to sleep. "It will get done" and the bravest, the bravest of her body, finally spoke and her bones said, "Oh love, this will not do."
The autopsy of Amanda Grey
Bones
She lived in a home she built from the sky down and,
Her body wondered out loud, "plug me in please," and she shushed it. SHHH. Body.
We are not made of things that can be recharged, and other things were meant to light up with electricity, but you and I, we run out when we do.
And she would nail down boards of her house, chimney and rooftop, and it would be difficult some days, building her house this way. Her knees would get scuffed up.
"Some things take sacrifice," she said to her knees. Matter-of-factly. And she painted the roof. She hammered and splinters stuck in her skin, but, she knew that the house would keep her safe. Someday.
And her lungs quivered, and knew they could not speak to this woman, paint on her cheeks and in her hair, splinters in her flesh, and bruises on her knees.
She hammered and hammered and sawed and built but she still had nowhere to sleep. "It will get done" and the bravest, the bravest of her body, finally spoke and her bones said, "Oh love, this will not do."
Bones
She lived in a home she built from the sky down and,
Her body wondered out loud, "plug me in please," and she shushed it. SHHH. Body.
We are not made of things that can be recharged, and other things were meant to light up with electricity, but you and I, we run out when we do.
And she would nail down boards of her house, chimney and rooftop, and it would be difficult some days, building her house this way. Her knees would get scuffed up.
"Some things take sacrifice," she said to her knees. Matter-of-factly. And she painted the roof. She hammered and splinters stuck in her skin, but, she knew that the house would keep her safe. Someday.
And her lungs quivered, and knew they could not speak to this woman, paint on her cheeks and in her hair, splinters in her flesh, and bruises on her knees.
She hammered and hammered and sawed and built but she still had nowhere to sleep. "It will get done" and the bravest, the bravest of her body, finally spoke and her bones said, "Oh love, this will not do."
The autopsy of Amanda Grey
Brain
There is a secret way her brain worked, and you
All wondered why she walked around with her huge yellow headphones on, every day.
We both know, that sometimes the brain misfires and there is a mystical creature in the street,
Scales? Wings?
And she would look past you at the things music created not just in her mind, but on the road. She would flinch as the cars passed, because she developed a fondness of sorts for the way her mind perceived music, and
The things her mind made.
She could some days scoop it up in her pocket, or swallow it whole, or paint a thing that maybe others could see,
Maybe not.
Brain
There is a secret way her brain worked, and you
All wondered why she walked around with her huge yellow headphones on, every day.
We both know, that sometimes the brain misfires and there is a mystical creature in the street,
Scales? Wings?
And she would look past you at the things music created not just in her mind, but on the road. She would flinch as the cars passed, because she developed a fondness of sorts for the way her mind perceived music, and
The things her mind made.
She could some days scoop it up in her pocket, or swallow it whole, or paint a thing that maybe others could see,
Maybe not.
The autopsy Amanda Grey--
Intestines
She was shit. Maybe that isn't a beautiful thing to say. But she would sit reading articles warning against sociopaths and how,
All they did was leave a path of destruction, and
Like a psycho she thought, well hey at least it's a path, it could have been all brush and bramble,
And maybe at least now you know what direction to avoid.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Are you the host or graft?
There is a storm, the sky is green the sky doesn't,
Want you to put up your umbrella.
Some days you walk with me and some days
You trip on invisible cracks in the sidewalk.
Your chalk art is growing into a canyon,
What parts of your body want to revolt?
Maybe lately it is better to be just a little bit wary of
Whether your body is telling the truth.
Friday, August 05, 2016
I need water and light the way you need magic. The love affair I have with the sea.
there is the moon (I told you it was beautiful)
there is the reflection of it in the street,
there is the rain on your face, and once again I recognize that
I lived, and some days I am proud of that accomplishment.
I need magic, too.
I am impressed by the shoe choices spanning the crowd.
I reign in my mind, focus on counting them, the colors, the formats of footwear, the stones inlaid in them.
I can feel myself watching the patterns, the one-two step to her one-two-three,
The skipping, bouncing, shrinking of all these people. Her face pops into your mind, with her small child. No shoes, but a hell of a lot more intention.
I want to take mine (shoes, not people. distinction.) and hurl them into the water, watch them float a little before sinking, look across at the stranger in the red hat and grin because then at least they will know that I know I'm a little mad.
I don't. I'm mildly disappointed in myself that I don't. It is not a thing people do.
What I do, is remember the feeling. The leaving, the running, the descent into anonymity.
The first breath in a place you don't speak a language, the strangeness of your body not belonging with the other bodies, the possibility and uncertainty and newness of that. The thickness in your lungs.
I've made promises. Sometimes, I revel in what it may mean to just wear a raincoat when it is raining. To stop feeling every sensation as a reminder that the beauty is pervasive, and it is not yours to have but to borrow, and there is work to be done.
there is the moon (I told you it was beautiful)
there is the reflection of it in the street,
there is the rain on your face, and once again I recognize that
I lived, and some days I am proud of that accomplishment.
I need magic, too.
I am impressed by the shoe choices spanning the crowd.
I reign in my mind, focus on counting them, the colors, the formats of footwear, the stones inlaid in them.
I can feel myself watching the patterns, the one-two step to her one-two-three,
The skipping, bouncing, shrinking of all these people. Her face pops into your mind, with her small child. No shoes, but a hell of a lot more intention.
I want to take mine (shoes, not people. distinction.) and hurl them into the water, watch them float a little before sinking, look across at the stranger in the red hat and grin because then at least they will know that I know I'm a little mad.
I don't. I'm mildly disappointed in myself that I don't. It is not a thing people do.
What I do, is remember the feeling. The leaving, the running, the descent into anonymity.
The first breath in a place you don't speak a language, the strangeness of your body not belonging with the other bodies, the possibility and uncertainty and newness of that. The thickness in your lungs.
I've made promises. Sometimes, I revel in what it may mean to just wear a raincoat when it is raining. To stop feeling every sensation as a reminder that the beauty is pervasive, and it is not yours to have but to borrow, and there is work to be done.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
If we are all crazy women,
Actually crazy. Minds that tricks us, and minds that allow us to create marvelous sketches of the cracks in the walls of the places we have made home.
If we can with our tongues and mouths and breaths describe to the blindness in us the reasons why everything we have made is valuable,
If we can hear the voices and let them know that our voice is louder though,
And maybe we are altos and sopranos and maybe we whisper but it is ours and it is the one we hear.
If we can, crank up the music and feel the pulses in our limbs, beating and convincing, always persuading us to remember and to capture when it was we allowed ourselves to exhale,
And maybe not hold our breaths just now.
When we, crazy ones, are able to stop chasing and simply enjoy what we have caught,
If we can look at our reflections and hold eye-contact and maybe not be the one to break it first, defiantly warning our reflections that this time they would have to reach through mirrors that are not broken and place palms over our eyes because we are willing to see what we are, and
We will not be looking away first this time. And we will not be bowing our heads to her gaze and our faces are cracked and our eyes are old and we
Pulse, beat, and sketch those cracks because
They are there-- but the walls are strong and we have
Made this home.
Actually crazy. Minds that tricks us, and minds that allow us to create marvelous sketches of the cracks in the walls of the places we have made home.
If we can with our tongues and mouths and breaths describe to the blindness in us the reasons why everything we have made is valuable,
If we can hear the voices and let them know that our voice is louder though,
And maybe we are altos and sopranos and maybe we whisper but it is ours and it is the one we hear.
If we can, crank up the music and feel the pulses in our limbs, beating and convincing, always persuading us to remember and to capture when it was we allowed ourselves to exhale,
And maybe not hold our breaths just now.
When we, crazy ones, are able to stop chasing and simply enjoy what we have caught,
If we can look at our reflections and hold eye-contact and maybe not be the one to break it first, defiantly warning our reflections that this time they would have to reach through mirrors that are not broken and place palms over our eyes because we are willing to see what we are, and
We will not be looking away first this time. And we will not be bowing our heads to her gaze and our faces are cracked and our eyes are old and we
Pulse, beat, and sketch those cracks because
They are there-- but the walls are strong and we have
Made this home.
The women I love, in all the ways--
They sometimes have a brief pause freeze on their faces.
Maybe they were talking about the future, maybe they were mentioning baby shoes, pink or white, or with those lights that flash when they pound against the dirt.
Maybe they were discussing a song, and how someday they would pick up the guitar, and play away the mosquitos while sitting on uneven blocks of wood.
A far away look, like scanning a memory or a hope of some thing and a wondering-- will this be mine? Do I deserve this joy? Am I able to design my life and maybe then they either look down or away or maybe they still gaze into the fire weighing what their minds will allow them to dream of.
Friday, July 08, 2016
This is the kind of week where I know and I know and I know that there is more than just a little work to be done but
I also feel in the bottom of my spirit that I need rest from the barrage of tragedies and
I need to revel in some lovely things.
I listened to him revived with thoughtfulness in his words, and insight into what he wanted with his life.
I sat alone and wrote and listened to music and I
Drove an hour in the dark to hug my love,
And I sipped coffee with honey and I said goodbye to a dear friend (but I have a dear friend).
I spent the morning with my sister and my brother,
I played fetch with the dog, and her loppy ears and tongue and gangly legs all tired and happy.
I turned off the television, and
I walked, and I walked, and I walked.
Maybe once I would have shamed myself for looking away but
I now know
This is looking in.
This is making sure I can raise my head up out of my bed, this is making sure that when I turn back on the news, I can brace myself with the strength of the things worth fighting for, and whisper "Okay. We keep going."
I also feel in the bottom of my spirit that I need rest from the barrage of tragedies and
I need to revel in some lovely things.
I listened to him revived with thoughtfulness in his words, and insight into what he wanted with his life.
I sat alone and wrote and listened to music and I
Drove an hour in the dark to hug my love,
And I sipped coffee with honey and I said goodbye to a dear friend (but I have a dear friend).
I spent the morning with my sister and my brother,
I played fetch with the dog, and her loppy ears and tongue and gangly legs all tired and happy.
I turned off the television, and
I walked, and I walked, and I walked.
Maybe once I would have shamed myself for looking away but
I now know
This is looking in.
This is making sure I can raise my head up out of my bed, this is making sure that when I turn back on the news, I can brace myself with the strength of the things worth fighting for, and whisper "Okay. We keep going."
This is the kind of week where I know and I know and I know that there is more than just a little work to be done but
I also feel in the bottom of my spirit that I need rest from the barrage of tragedies and
I need to revel in some lovely things.
I listened to him revived with thoughtfulness in his words, and insight into what he wanted with his life.
I sat alone and wrote and listened to music and I
Drove an hour in the dark to hug my love,
And I sipped coffee with honey and I said goodbye to a dear friend (but I have a dear friend).
I spent the morning with my sister and my brother,
I played fetch with the dog, and her loppy ears and tongue and gangly legs all tired and happy.
I turned off the television, and
I walked, and I walked, and I walked.
Maybe once I would have shamed myself for looking away but
I now know
This is looking in.
This is making sure I can raise my head up out of my bed, this is making sure that when I turn back on the news, I can brace myself with the strength of the things worth fighting for, and whisper "Okay. We keep going."
I also feel in the bottom of my spirit that I need rest from the barrage of tragedies and
I need to revel in some lovely things.
I listened to him revived with thoughtfulness in his words, and insight into what he wanted with his life.
I sat alone and wrote and listened to music and I
Drove an hour in the dark to hug my love,
And I sipped coffee with honey and I said goodbye to a dear friend (but I have a dear friend).
I spent the morning with my sister and my brother,
I played fetch with the dog, and her loppy ears and tongue and gangly legs all tired and happy.
I turned off the television, and
I walked, and I walked, and I walked.
Maybe once I would have shamed myself for looking away but
I now know
This is looking in.
This is making sure I can raise my head up out of my bed, this is making sure that when I turn back on the news, I can brace myself with the strength of the things worth fighting for, and whisper "Okay. We keep going."
On being a nomad part 2
I nip my teeth into the flesh of the peach,
Listening while you tell me about how you are going.
I usually leave, but, as usual
I hurry you along and
The sweet and sticky juice of the fruit makes its way down my chin
And I nod
And you hug me, you tear up, I laugh you off and let go.
You hold on.
"It is time," and I remember I've said goodbye to you before.
And something in this life I've chosen or the people I've chosen to fill it with, I am always,
Always saying goodbye.
On being a nomad part 1
It starts with a tiny drop of a thought. We brushed our hand accidentally across the old plastic globe in the hotel lobby.
We smelt saffron, and tasted it in a recipe we made.
We heard a poem, a story, saw a photograph,
And then.
We tossed and turned, scheming and scheming. Our hair got tangled from moving our bodies from one side of the other.
We saw the time.
Saturday, April 16, 2016
I need to remember how
I used to make myself numb when I needed to,
When I thought I couldn't have a future
Or didn't know how I could live a life that was mine.
Maybe this is worse now, knowing I will make the one I want,
Just not with the one I want it with.
I need to,
Shut it off,
Shut it down,
Let her go
She
Doesn't want me now. And so I need to forget
The love and vision and hope and possibility.
I need to become numb
And stoic
And not hurt any more.
I did this. I did this.
I know it. I did this and I don't get to try again even though now
I am someone worth trying for.
I used to make myself numb when I needed to,
When I thought I couldn't have a future
Or didn't know how I could live a life that was mine.
Maybe this is worse now, knowing I will make the one I want,
Just not with the one I want it with.
I need to,
Shut it off,
Shut it down,
Let her go
She
Doesn't want me now. And so I need to forget
The love and vision and hope and possibility.
I need to become numb
And stoic
And not hurt any more.
I did this. I did this.
I know it. I did this and I don't get to try again even though now
I am someone worth trying for.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
I do a kind thing now
when people speak of heavenly things and God and comfort and religion
and I get quiet,
and I smile softly and nod.
I don't reveal things like just maybe it is much simpler
and maybe God is there and maybe God is not.
I am not an angry atheist who has been disillusioned and is determined to take the whole rest of everyone with him. I do not spout scientific theories and facts, ripping apart by force the carefully constructed faith of villages and small churches, or adolescents in freshman year of philosophy class.
No, it is much more personal. I hope maybe that there is something more. I could believe so.
But the nagging back of my mind suspicion says that maybe there is not.
And really-- if you think about it (which-- is that not how we got here?) if I were to pick between a handful of us (because we are and were always the special ones) getting to live forever, while the rest of us were in pain forever--- would not the choice of nothingness suddenly set whatever soul I have, however temporary, at slightly more rest?
Peaceful and blank and maybe not there anymore.
And yes, I have had a good life in that these words as I type them make me tear just a bit. But wouldn't that maybe be nicer than having everything while everyone else has pain?
Didn't I already get that in life, with the abundant blessings I was given?
I let the people who believe, believe.
when people speak of heavenly things and God and comfort and religion
and I get quiet,
and I smile softly and nod.
I don't reveal things like just maybe it is much simpler
and maybe God is there and maybe God is not.
I am not an angry atheist who has been disillusioned and is determined to take the whole rest of everyone with him. I do not spout scientific theories and facts, ripping apart by force the carefully constructed faith of villages and small churches, or adolescents in freshman year of philosophy class.
No, it is much more personal. I hope maybe that there is something more. I could believe so.
But the nagging back of my mind suspicion says that maybe there is not.
And really-- if you think about it (which-- is that not how we got here?) if I were to pick between a handful of us (because we are and were always the special ones) getting to live forever, while the rest of us were in pain forever--- would not the choice of nothingness suddenly set whatever soul I have, however temporary, at slightly more rest?
Peaceful and blank and maybe not there anymore.
And yes, I have had a good life in that these words as I type them make me tear just a bit. But wouldn't that maybe be nicer than having everything while everyone else has pain?
Didn't I already get that in life, with the abundant blessings I was given?
I let the people who believe, believe.
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