home six

i fell in love at the wrong place.  i fell in love in the wrong time.

to feel my heart, i wrapped the earth around my finger, searching for the pulse.

here it is.

delilah, when will you come with your blade and remove this history.

delilah, when will you come with your blade and remove this sorrow.

delilah.  when will you come.

35,000 feet is a long way to see.

a long way to feel.

to stretch the roots of pulsating life.

dawn, eleven point five hours.  i wonder if the sun will show her face when she is scheduled?

i can feel the hum.  the heat generated by one million tiny root hairs rubbing together, creating their own friction, creating their own heat, bringing their own spring.

fuck this season of darkness.

it is time to bloom.

it is time for color.

Published in: on 11/03/2011 at 1:37 am  Leave a Comment  

grey.blanket.home.

and then there are times that home is uncomfortable.  a wet wool blanket draped over naked skin.  itchy, heavy, grey.  sometimes you cannot escape that home.  sometimes that home is the very one that does not inspire or incite awe or even warrant getting out of bed.  in fact that home, begs the opposite.  that home is tuesday.  that home is 11 weeks until the next vacation.  the next real vacation where there is no wifi and where you leave all the folders at work and where multiples are the reigning norm, along with breakfast at noon or one or whenever it is gotten to.

that home sits wrong in your belly.  a meal not quite digested and over-consumed.

home.

when i am at this hearth, i wonder at what brought me to these cold ashes.  i wonder at the life whose path is both, all, and.

Published in: on 08/06/2010 at 11:45 pm  Leave a Comment  

threetreethree

you are 600 years old.  you soar from root to sky wrapped in the circle of your life. layer upon layer, ring upon ring–all that living. a story written in an indecipherable language.  a complete history. witness.

home.

i am a spider maimed to four awkward legs swinging from a nylon web ascending.  the further i get from the ground, the less gravity exists.  i don’t even know where i am going.  i have no idea that home lies ahead.  that home is in the sky.  that home is all red wood and danger. that home is near extinction.  i have no idea.

there are no limbs.  near my small body, your body is miles long.  i sail, upward, perhaps a mile, perhaps ten and stop.  suspend.  allow my head to fall, allow my back to arch, an inversion to the ground’s horizontal line.  my hands stretch, fingers extend, they become the roots that nourish. the roots that release.  bones stretched in the wrong direction can only let go, can only abandon earthly restrictions–the soul sees the opportunity and seizes the moment to sprint. home.  my center, free.

home.

in the threshold between the universe and the earth i am home.

in the shadow of an ancient.  wise watcher.  i am home.  in the place where there is an absence of life. an arrested breath.  home.

Published in: on 22/05/2010 at 9:24 pm  Leave a Comment  

four

green rhythmic thumping.  heat pumping.  fluid coursing.  home.

i am insatiable.

i didn’t expect home to look like this.  to grab me by the roots and yank hard.

i didn’t expect to want.

i didn’t expect to feel pain and responsibility.

i didn’t expect  an element not listed within the four directions.

home.

it is tomorrow already and there is still so much unknown.

it is tomorrow already and my eyes are filled with sand.  i can hardly see the dark path as it spreads before me.

but the rain spills over from your heavy lids.  the water drips from this leaky faucet and home.

home.

home.  an old building with patches, scars, a fixer-upper full of charm.  a month to month lease with an option to buy.

i wasn’t even–fucking–looking to move.

home.

four walls.  soft tissue and burning muscle.  muscle contracting and expanding with change of address forms and thin walls that let in the light.  western light, warm and fertile with healing.  the sonorous breathing of late night dreams.

home.

Published in: on 21/05/2010 at 12:16 am  Leave a Comment  

two.home

there is an ocean.  there is so much ocean.

i stand on the edge looking to water rather than to land.

home.

the rush into my chest.  right to the center of my sternum, breaking that most solid bone.  the one that protects the organ of blood and circulation and living.  the one that spreads wide across my trunk with bony fingers.  also protecting.

i am a bag of cells.  blood. bone. tissue. memories.

i am one more bag in the ocean of living.

creating an island in this home.  surrounded by home.

this is the place that calls to me.  this is the home that sends out signals when i wander too far.  this is my umbilic link to the universe.

this hearth is not warm comforting secure.  this hearth is filled to brimming with lessons and lashes.  this is my home of truth.

Published in: on 18/05/2010 at 8:58 am  Leave a Comment  

home.one

i remember cresting the top of a rolling green hill and looking down the length of a gentle valley–the only other beings within that line of sight were sheep, scattered about, grazing.  i took in a breath, let it seep slowly out and felt home.  necessities on my back, sun overhead, grass beneath feet, subtle salt in the air with the sea just to my left, body fatigued with walking–alone.  home.

thousands of miles from familiar.  from family.  home.

i spread my palms wide, open to the sky.  another breath.  the only sounds–heartbeat, breath, blinking          grass rustle.

home.

one.

Published in: on 15/05/2010 at 5:29 pm  Leave a Comment  

grey

i am swimming in grey.

i dove in somewhere between midnight and dawn on a stormy, coast evening.  it coats me.  the grey.  i am covered in the space that lies just to the left of socially acceptable and mostly to the right of my heart bursting.

this.grey. she…i. am.  there is.  overwhelm.  envelopment.  breath.

this.grey. it is strange behavior and elation.  it is a smile that creeps in and stays for long periods of time.  it is overzealous senses quick to take in every scent, sight, texture, subtle sound, near emotion.

this grey is second expanding.  this grey is an entire hand’s breadth.  grasp my center, pull the sky through my core down to my roots, wash it in the full spectrum of color.

this grey does not avert eyes.

this grey spills forth with honest words spoken gently.  earnestly.  listening as she cascades around me, casting a swirl of–

this unexpected pool where i do the breaststroke in long, certain strides and float and exist with conscious presence.

grey.  the threshold between the worlds.  the sacred place where stars are born and die.  the muted congregation of all color and the absence of.  a concert where the music crescendos in silence.

this grey. i am wrapped in this grey and all the clarity and ambiguity it spreads before me.  i am watching the universe unfurl in this grey.

Published in: on 12/05/2010 at 10:19 pm  Leave a Comment  
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the hidden rivers

in the grey space between 2 and 5 am, we have the majority of our conversations.  the brain is exhausted and concedes its white-fisted clench of control over the mouth, over the heart.  in the pre-dawn, honesty holds the throne of power.  what is a star nursery?  why does my heart contract with the mention of a place billions of light years away, a pool from which infantile stars teem?  how is it possible to live within a memory and make one simultaneously?  in these strange hours i can tell you stories that my voice has hidden in a corner for many years.  in the wrinkle of time where my eyes burn with insomnia and my heart charges with the force of a cavalry, i swim in the secret rivers and my thirst is sated.  perhaps for the first time?  or is that the tale of electricity and sex and new.

why is it that i can see you?

do you actually see me, or am i willing a vision, writing the story that i want.

in the questions there is judgment.  in the questions, doubt creeps in and the authenticity of this experience is lost.  i cannot hear the clock ticking between 2 and 5am.  i cannot hear the future’s breath, panting in anticipation of a promise, a vow, destined to be unkept.  i can only.  i can only.  i can only take you in, incrementally.  i can only feel what is before me.

Published in: on 30/04/2010 at 11:32 pm  Leave a Comment  
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skin

the skin is the last to heal.  theskinisthelasttohealtheskinisthelasttohealtheskin

the head and heart.  sleep.  work.  drink.  meditate.  talk. scream.  pray.  read.  watch movies. smoke. cry. walk. cook. be still. knit. distract. chant…elixirs.  the list of serums for head and heart are endless. restricted only by the bereaved’s creativity.

but the skin.  it takes touch to heal the skin.  tattoos.  rain.  wind.  sun.  skin.  my flesh is grieving and i cannot comfort the grief.  my own touch, my skin to my skin does not relieve this sorrow.

i need the unfamiliar geography of another’s hands, another’s flesh to touch me and initiate healing.  i need my cells to mingle with another set of cells and feel warmth relief acceptance desire.  a jolt to catch the skin up to the head and the heart.

today i stood at the ocean’s edge.  the wind had ceased for a moment and even the motion of the waves was quiet.  this lasted for seconds before the rain came  in cold pelting beads.  and the wind rose again.  and i wanted to strip to nothing and let the water and the wind bathe my skin in touch, in contact.  the grief of my skin is only just realized.  my head has ruled this process with my heart a close second and the skin has been neglected.  but today, my flesh released a wail of protest.  a keening for what has been lost, and now i cannot shush this organ.

skin

is

the

last

to

heal

Published in: on 03/04/2010 at 7:58 pm  Leave a Comment  

daffodil dancing

i want to bother you.  send you words and thoughts and harassments.  i want your response.  i want something drastic and gorgeous.  i am moved by all this spring bursting around me.  intoxicated by bird song and flower, blinded by bright color and texture shaking off winter with utter completeness.

how is it for you?  how does spring wash over you.  are you feeling it quiver in your cells, hearing the humming bird’s wings before you see her buzz by in a blur?  are you moved to follow a path because it is the one with full sun exposure and rows of emerging tulips?

i have only ever known you in spring.  we met and parted within the width  of this glorious season.  it makes me want to know you again.  makes me a little crazy with wanting to reach out and pluck you from the warming ground, hold your scent and budding softness close, drink you in gulps of insatiable winter thirst.

Published in: on 24/03/2010 at 5:19 am  Leave a Comment