I am a fallen woman.
When you’re struggling and there’s nowhere to go
Besides the place where you think you know
And the world has left you red and shown
Faced with swell and eyed with crown
We share the malt and fest the pear
And walk the mile, & smoke despair
While lies abound and eyes defray
The partial sweet and half decay
Of life amidst the suffering
Of compound pain on compound strain
Of lashing out because in pain
Of years and years of allowing chains
To bind me to your rage, your shame.
I see you, Monty. I see you, Caine.
I see your fake, sorry, and I’m not gonna stay
To watch you rake my face again with rays
Determined and uncertain of everything
until the clear appears
and I remember
Is it safe?
To go back to the memory
of the place where we are always together?
Can we pull up that sun again (please?)
Plug in the cords that way again, please?
if manifestation fails in the face of change,
Then we will pre-
before it grows,
for freer to suffer after the snow.
I have been here before.
Where did I imagine this?
If they’re waiting
I am waiting
I am seeing the red river explode in front of me and it is glorious.
In flame, my eyes are one with the fire, plasmatic and belvedere.
Attempting to manufacture deja vu, to validate the nostalgia of our idyllic moment,
my image of you inside on the air deck.
chopped wood and slow water on the iron.
soapstone soft and waxy
holding my stay
are lion, pegasus, rhino, and carpenter ants,
the latter always plural.
my basin ringing
my pelvic bone resting
my memories conflating
I will never leave.
Blessed is the monk who decides to move on and remain in the world of suffering
The misunderstood Boddhisatva can never claim h1r claim
instead, portrayed exclaiming,
let’s get straight to the point
whenever love walks in
the scene changes.
jazz twinkles and rumbles on the speakers.
finger snaps begin in the back quadrant of the room.
The walls grow gilded
and the trees remember how to dance
we forget that jazz is improvised, like life, when we are hearing it secondhand.
do you know if your fish has been frozen?
are you living your life secondhand?
The electric organ holds the answers
Percussive, subtly but assertively, it won’t let us forget
that when we cannot touch hearts,
we lock eyes.
I was confirmed on a dark night of the soul. As the force of my feet shook rocks capside, my ultimate self nodded softly and sadly in agreement to that phrase: “not in this lifetime.”
and we all wept.
The man in the mustard fedora faced away from me in a night terror on my birthday, telling me something in a silent language that only makes sense inside of a sphere of onyx.
while my body remained locked immovable, my spirit became hyper-aware as the blind can sense a sneakered starer from twenty feet away. thirty if they’re watching.
i woke up out of a dream one morning two months later and felt the miscarriage of the fantasy child that i didn’t even know i had. and then like an elephant
or a crow
i cried a little as i felt my cat’s little cool feet walk across my body
and her moist tongue washed me back to the morning.
at the root of a coconut tree i was left to my lonesome by my comrade, like a mother justifying.
“this will be good for them.”
or like a guru, “through suffering comes truth.”
or like a son, “this is for all of those times you abandoned me before.”
but mostly like a gull, who, not having to tell his brothers that he loves them, is deeply integrated into that rule of self-sufficiency.
he who finds the oyster first…
and there’s no malice for the speckled from the smoked.
the raven told me i didn’t have to cling to grim death.
his eyes shot a grappling, a striving toward the donkey wheel into me.
his feet held steady and his talons stung my arm like a tattoo.
he told me that the lesson would be worth it and i was reminded of the fallacy of heaven,
that ridiculous empty promise for martyrs and weakened dreamers.
but Strength fell onto the table and told me that after giving birth to cubs a lion must know that work must be done before they can hunt together.
Elected Uncertainty Leeching.
Creative Return Breaching.
I am not done with my preaching.
Not till I’m done with this bleaching
persisting the christening
while my backside,
projects Joy onto you.
I am terrified
while spring bears witness to grapevine virtue.
We know not where we wander.
On this prehensile fabric we tread.
with buckets of water and filth
wares on our backs
sticks in our grip
moving forth we endeavor our visions
manifesting our toes to the grounds
our drive directed
we push forth,
What do ye seek?
Why face morning-call?
Through body and farce
chrysanthemums and weeds
aligned with sight we condense our dreams-
into tiny packages-
and bless them with seeds.
present them to all
and no one.
memorize them as creeds
to wish fare better on future
and to remind ourselves to breathe.
world of form
whirled into form
Reverence is my love for you, fellow traveler.
I wear my vulnerability like a billowing veil
and my steadfastness like a mounted pole
or a well-rooted bush
O to look upon you, beauty! you creature of mirth!
Your skin a pillow
for the air.
a missing mirror found.
Blessed I face you in warrior’s trust
delicately holding your pain and ecstasies through my gaze.
Forest meets rich ground.
We are Illuminated.
Lush eyes moist,
gushing your insides.
hereafter I hold your laughter in the way of a coddle
and your weeps in the way of a rock.