59/365 : this morning i'm up before the sun, screen-glow-rise.

i miss the earth so bad it hurts--
and yet.

one of these days i will go home to the
dark, dark wild
crying apologies,
praying for some way
to right my absence,
tenderize the abuse.

58/365 : my favorite flowers grow back east

for alyssa, nawal, jen, adrianna and judy... thank you for being my eastern sunflowers

we are all holy sunflowers turned up toward a magnificent sky
but--
i like most the ones who grow back east
where it's unlikely
and hard
and still somehow they shoot out of slate cement
into smog-filled skies
screaming tantalizing blessings
for all the angry
suffocated
trying
souls
who walk weary
too fast to even
notice

holy is, at first,
the struggle to remember

then eventually,
it is just love

doing that thing it does
drenching everything weary
in it's okay baby
mama's gotcha
mama's gotcha

57/365 : 'revolution' is a highly misused word, but to actually pull this off would be one.

i'm done pining.
i am doggedly planning.
honey bees, sage, beavers, mud huts
three stories high.
homecoming
never felt so honest.

56/365 : the truth is

the truth is i want to love you more
than sudden sun in the dark cloudy winter
i want to love you past
the ways i hate you
and stop only
where that
loving
turns
dark
on
me

55/365 : self-hate selfies

{here: have this instead, this time}

if i hold the camera just like this
you'll get my good side
and i'll avoid what terrorizes me
about the image of my body
for just a few moments longer

look: my face, tilted slightly to the right
down a notch
eyes high
mouth closed
mischievous smile
hair wild
forehead--cropped off

you can have this picture of me
where i'm still
and knowing
and devilish
and just the right kind of crooked
from the shoulders up--
maybe a little bit of cleavage

the bouncing blubber when i dance
or the witchy cackle of my laugh
or my nose that's a tiny bit longer on one side
if you look at it from the other
or my chin skin that's growing deeper
or my arms that are thick as butternut squash
because i eat pastries and drink wine
and don't make the time to exercise
all that much--not really

those things, i don't want you to see
not permanently
on a screen
where you might be able to relate
or worse, abdicate me
from my position of queen
in the kingdom of Perfectly Edited

there: i said it
i'm afraid for you to see me
i'm afraid you won't love me
i'm afraid i won't get my need for love met
if i'm human

i'm afraid because i was a kid once
who had needs, like all kids
and mine weren't met
like all kids
and i was traumatized by that
like all kids are

my story is i was a fat kid--really
and i didn't understand
that Jimmy McQuilkin's reason for not loving me
might not have been because I was fat
it could've been instinct
or other human things
or the fact that he was 10

no matter, because i am an adult now
and i can choose
to hold the camera just like this
until my arms fall off from exhaustion
and my face morphs into the strangest
version of fake

or --i can stop looking at myself
from the outside in
and i can start dancing
like a kid again
you know the ones who always
tilt their heads confused
when you try to capture the truth of their
wild incalculable magic

i can feel the yeses boil to the surface of my skin
until the conditioning of my self-hating
has no room
for stiff arms
or cropped minds
no energy to hide
the joy in me
that wants to shine
without apologizing
or shrinking
or over-saturating
or misconstruing
the real expression
of simply doing
what makes my body
happy

54/365 : i explained it much better when he asked, but inside, it still felt like this

how do you know the
difference between rape and
dominating sex?
i don't know. i don't know. i
don't know. i don't know. i don't.




// this poem is a tanka.

53/365 : easy tail-wag

these romances grab hold of me like
invisible leashes
invisible fences
like i am a dog
suddenly loyal
to some undeserving drunk
who never plays catch with me
like he promised he would
the day he lured me in
to his ownership

so many yards i've sat inside
waiting to be leashed
waiting to be walked

they let me out their back doors
to piss and shit

they don't even clean up
the piles

52/365 : lovable

is resting cheating?
no. resting is not cheating.
it is resting.

is eating cheating?
is drinking cheating?
is not going to yoga cheating?

no. it is eating.
it is drinking.
it is not going to yoga.

and it is really,
truly,
honestly
okay.

because there's nothing
i have to do
to prove that
i'm lovable.

let me repeat that for myself...
lovingly...

there is nothing
i have to do...
softens eyes, lowers shoulders
smiles like looking at a child
to prove that
i'm lovable.

i just am.
just as is.

tired poems,
massive doubts,
self-hating shouts and all.

still lovable.

51/365 : bumper sticker poetry

YOU HAVE ARRIVED. THIS IS IT.

FEELINGS.

50/365 : freaking

i am so uncomfortable freaking you
really
don't let the lipstick fool you

49/365 : that's how strong my love is

we park
under the rain
windows fog
both of us say
what neither of us want
to be true

it's the best we can do
this being true business

i drive my drenched everything home
clear a table
dress it in cloth
a candle on either end
an empty heart
center frame

there's a quiet hope
in holding nothing

48/385 : happy birthday to me: i wish i were crowd-surfing

being born is like crowd surfing
a whole sea of hands
just waiting
to lift you
pass you down
to the front of the party
where the band
cries love
in the language
of drums and
sliding riffs sliding
into lavender skies
of sunburnt cries

thousands
no millions of miles
we travel--
those of us, old
and catching babies--
just to feel
that one feeling
of everyone holding us
like in the beginning
before we needed music
to feel its rhythm
pulsing
through our tambourine hearts

47/365 : cinnamon buns

in my dreams you are
cinnamoning inside me
spiraling against my lucid
sugar glaze
in ways i'd rather not talk about--
would rather just taste

after, you hang me like a baker's spoon
above the steel counter
watch my icing drip
and splatter

then you cool me on a rack
in front of the window next to the lilacs
like in 1952
when the smell of sex
lasted long after the taste

later, wrapped in robe
in the dark dark light
you sneak downstairs
to fork and knife me
ravenously--
devour my buttery pastry
empty my plate
then toss me
as i quiver and shake
into the sink

you rinse me warm and soapy
hands of love
dry me soft and gently
rub me off

but when i wake, i'm empty
atop another empty plate--
a whole cabinet of mornings
alone

46/365 : i wonder about the oil in those lamps

i'm tired and would rather be pressing my finger tips against your weathered lips
in between your forgotten ribs
underneath the ache of your secrets
where love still burns
like a sanctuary lamp
in the darkness
of empty rooms

45/365 : romance

my face will scrunch so ugly when you fuck me
trust me
i use a mirror

surrender ain't pretty
it's more like butts of oranges--
the spot where stems break off
and juicy joy bombs
are free to fly
into malnourished mouths
only after
patient hands
have peeled back the rinds
and spread apart
the pieces
plump
for sucking

44/365 : apologies in advance

dissociative
is a five syllable word.
very convenient,
thought the poet with more rapes
than fingers or reasons why.



// this poem is a tanka.

43/365 : deter

hovering between
dead and relaxed in the tub--
dissociative.
hands devour my flesh. fuck
that spiritual cannibal.




// this poem is a tanka.

42/365 : to the king who's yet to find me

there's an empty space in my bed for you, darling
the sheets are untucked and the
comfort is fluffed just right

if you slide your nose against my neck
where my creamy skin meets my ginger head
you'll hear secrets with the bite of your
taste buds

you, my kingdom come
my invisible prince
my masculine mistress

you are rare and fine
and you will find me at just the right time

citrus burst between my teeth
you will offer something clean and healthy
sensual and tangerine
dark chocolate
without the misery

there will be bitter
but we will do better
than quitting as if we're too tender
to endure
love's marathon
meditation

we will sleep through the night
and in the morning
we will bite
consensually
like breakfast
but better

41/365 : there are too many things to say about technology that i might have to write for a whole month about it... in my journal. by candle light.

there's nothing like
writing and slashing
a poem about forgiveness
for hours on end
in front of a screen

to make me want to smash my laptop
for real this time

40/365 : ascension 2.0, a forgiveness poem to social media world wide

it's not as bad as we think
we're just getting used to it

the reflection of our longings
for attention and belonging--
our human hunger
to be together,
to melt past
space and time

it's not as bad as we think
we're just getting used to it

our un-closeted desires
that no longer require isolation
the invitation for initiation
for howling
for song

it's not as bad as we think
we're just shiny and shimmering
like new machines
that can feel too clean
too powerful
with too much at stake

we don't necessarily understand our new age
or how to save the holy parts of the old

but it's not as bad as we think
because love breathes through the blinds
like sunshine in the winter
against an unstoppable shower
of illuminating snow

it will be revealed
what we need to know
we will discover it
together
in status updates
and poems

it's not as bad as we think
we just have a lot to say
to each other
and ourselves
to our mothers
and the hells
that we suffered all alone
in the darkness
of no one taking the throne
to lead us home to our holiness
or each other

but now--now, we have kingdoms
empires of sisterhood
circles of seeing
merkabahs of believing
and each of us
is royalty
each of us
is breathing meaning
into the new song that we're careening

now, we are fractals
wearing amethyst crowns
come aware of the castles
we're building from the sounds
of love, of liberation
of desperation
for something real

it's not as bad as it seems
because now, we are free
to see and exceed
the matter of our fears
and the limits of our mortality

now, we have the power to be
wise and rebellious
to lean in to our togetherness

and yes, we could do better than this
but we can start with this--
merging together
with our words
and our feathers,
our pictures
and our letters

we're learning to share
we're learning to receive
we're learning to hold our need for together
as if it matters more than ever before

it's not as bad as we think--
to have a mirror of our humanity
we just don't always like what we see
but that's on us
because we're powerful
and we're free
we're just taking some time to get used to it

39/365 : no matter how far you run

he chased me down the sidewalk
with the dark-lit sky and the street-lights on low
i had a suitcase in my hand
and a griefcase in my throat

he cried, no matter how far you run
i'll run farther!

then we both ran and ran
for hours and hours
until eventually, i tired
and he caught me, and we cried
wet grass, cement black
heavy air, it's so unfair
i don't want you to catch me

too bad, he said. it's not your choice.
i will always hold you
even as you run forth.

i guess that's how to father
when your daughter loosens her anger
and her only way out
is wild

38/365 : for aquarius, who's tired of bearing the water for thirsty men

break shit.
rage.

feel all the ways that it's not okay
that love was ever kept from you

tell the truth.

of his selfishness, and her fear
of his pain, and her brain
that couldn't quite turn that broken boy into a man

it's as sad as your secret fear
that you might not ever feel
       real love      pulse
long and hard
from thought
to mouth
to body
and above

that they might all be
too sharp
and dangerous
or dull and
shapeless

to bring a simple glass of water
to your simple thirsty lips

listen.
it's as simple as this:

next time you climb the
mountain of love
do it with someone
who's not in a rush

examine his hands before you leave
ask him what he's willing to carry

ask him to carry more
ask him to carry it all

37/385 : stuck behind my ribs

Audio recording software >>

i hate the poem i haven't written yet
the one that's stuck behind my ribs
pounding a truth so loud i don't wanna hear it
shouting, "will somebody please listen to me?"
"does anybody ever listen?"

i have a child of rage who has too many things to say
and too small a vocabulary to say them
perhaps if she could dance, she'd have the chance
to move them like branches chosen as treaties of peace
wind-blown, sun-struck, sweet

but she can't dance, either.
she was told she should be nicer
and quiet, and careful, and calm

she didn't have the kind of mom
who fought like dinner was on the line
when her freedom was at stake

no, her mother shouldered the weight
of being called a mistake
of being told her waking soul
wasn't enough, and believing it

"will somebody please listen to me?"
"why doesn't anybody see the path to love?"
"i'm hungry. i don't think there's enough here."

so i grow up with that gnawing fear
that insatiable hungering for love
and i cook and cook and cook
and the pot is overstuffed
and the plate is piled high
and the table is crowded in
and i think i'll never have to shout again
the walking directions from the home of your heart
to the home of mine

but i'm wrong--
this time, and next time--
a feast is not enough
we're all carrying children of rage in us
each with a different bus-full of shouts
that no one can quite get out
like a bad dream
when you try to scream
and the silence stuffs into your mouth

36/365 : not only our trunks

if minds are like trees
will we ever break free from our trunks?

those big hunking stories
we think are the sum of us?

will we always forget
our tendrils, our twigs?

the fuzzy ferns of possibility
that are just as much us

as the weight of the ways
that we're stuck to the soil

where our seeds
once fell

and dreamt
of becoming big?

35/365 : from grouse, with love

you ought to practice spinning
feel the fear of speed circling through you

you ought to practice every day
spin and spin and spin away

until you can feel your strength lengthen
until you know the truth in the round:

there is a fine point
at the center of every sky

it is impossible to break
and you are always inside

so am i, dear friend
so is he, lost lover

the point expands
the more we spin

we become the very thing
we're afraid of:

ourselves, strong
and able

34/365 : Goodbye Ghost-Loving

I've officially resigned
from ghost-loving

It paid poorly
gave no vacation time
nor health benefits
and the co-workers
had this terrible habit of
disappearing completely

It's a miracle
I didn't lose a limb
lifting all that weight
alone

33/365 : what if gray were actually purple?

would we stay longer
in the royal mix of madness?
not be so quick to slice to black or white?

oh, defining mind
clasping claws
hungry fear, always needing to know

do you not remember
the days of fire
burning wild on distant horizons
while your sky was full of
heavy indecision?

there were years when thick fog filled your mind
and you could not find
an ounce of love in your reason

but you know better now--
enduring pulse,
able bones, strong hold
at the edge of mystery

you know color
is never exactly what it seems

32/365 : Why we do Impossible

Impossibility bites and kisses the back of your neck

turns you around

lifts your shirt above your chest

presses bare flesh against bare flesh and says,

Fuck me totally or go home, sweetie. 

Lean in or I'm leaving. 

We think people want what they can't have.

But it's not that. 

It's the space between asking and hearing 

a yes or a no

that toes the holy threshold of 

everything treasurable and true.

That's why we do impossible.

To love things enough that we let ourselves 
linger with longing.

To hunger something so particular that we actually

breed patience. 

To find an edge that our limits lose themselves against.

That's where our ecstasy waits.

And our broken moan: that's our hallelujah.

Our diving in again: that's our orgasm.

We can have impossible

over and over again.

It only depends
on our asking.