Wednesday, April 30, 2014

120/365 : this poem is about money. it just seems like it's about sex.

good god, i want you.

i want you in my vagina.
i want you in my mouth.

i want you combing through my hair
with your unassuming fingers
that know how to choose
things that last.

i want you to buy me that pretty green dress.
i want you to feel my lips move slowly across you.

i want you to quiver.
i want you to shout, YES.

i want you to shake song out of your spirit and leave it on my doorstep.
i want you to walk when i'm treating you like shit.

i want to be so naked, so raw, so real and wild with you,
that you cringe and hiss every time you leave the bedroom.

i want you to know that i get you:
i get that you love to show up and praise

what's helpful
what's beautiful
what's love.

and i want you to know that i'm ready for you.
ready to tumble til i'm laugh-cry-dreaming with you.

because i finally get
that i am helpful, beautiful love.

i finally get
that i'm more than enough for you.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

119/365 : i know nothing about love

i know nothing about love
the kind where staying together forever
earns us all gold metals and
parental approval

i know nothing of parental approval

when i was twelve
i wrote in my livejournal
things that got me in major trouble
things that the backdoor neighbor
somehow read and repeated to my mother
as they stumbled into each other
walking their dogs
through the suburbs

i wrote things that i'm afraid to muster from my memory
and spill out in front of me for you--
normal things that make up my normal gory roots

perhaps if i tell you, you'll want to fix me
or judge me, or worse love me

love me so loud that somehow
no story would be too gory
or too boring
to stick around for
til the end--
even the beautiful ones
even the triumphant ones
even the everlasting love that is actually
alive and well in the temple of my heart
(my heart, that's more protected and unscarred
than i ever let myself admit)

i am not my controlling father
i am not my silent mother
i am not the suitcase carrying my favorite journal
on the side of the highway
thumb out praying to god that some stranger
could take better care of me
than the very people who birthed me

i am not my disillusioned victimhood
i am not a divorce statistic
a broke kid writing poems
a dandelion seed to far from mud
to root and grow
into something normal
that turns into a dream

Monday, April 28, 2014

118/365 : the trouble with love stories

the trouble with love stories
as in, the stories we tell ourselves
about what can qualify as
reasonable love,

is love needs far less reason
than what we've been reading
and repeating like a religion of verses
for the scared soul

choosy children, we are
choosy and unwise
saying, this, this is my favorite 
story of all time 

read me no further
write me no new scripts
the parts, we've cast
the credits, we've pre-written
before we've ever met the
glory of the tradition we follow

silly children, bound to be sad
bound to a bible of culture
a stone tablet of choices
chosen without ever knowing

the god of the wild wind
the goddess of an unrelenting spring
in a hidden garden
back behind the trailer

back where nothing is forbidden
and the greatest story of all
is your capacity to fall fully
to your knees, heart spread
and hungry
for something hearty
and honest
as lips touching lips

Sunday, April 27, 2014

117/365 : songs of the ballerina

i carry my love stories like tiny camp fires
jewelry box capsules around my neck

the only one who knows
the songs of the ballerina

when the clasp tilts back
and the spring uncoils

is me

Saturday, April 26, 2014

116/365 : old ways, new wardrobes

my old man's scribbling poetry
in bed next to me

warm flesh against warm flesh and
the candle in the corner

is flapping its flame
like a hummingbird gone mad

when i think of my friend judy
in new york city

and her old man allen
and his late wife hazel

whose opulent dresses
heavy with history and lace

he gave to her in a big red trunk
"they're amazing," she told me

"like a whole new wardrobe"
and i think, i know exactly what she means

except my new wardrobe is naked
and dripping in cum

and totally undone

Friday, April 25, 2014

115/365 : priest hole

it is spring in eastern oregon and

the john day river is screaming cold

but you like the shock of splashing

and i am laced with fairy wings

and this is more like love than

even ice cold hail pitter pattering

on the tin top trailer roof

could scare me out of

Thursday, April 24, 2014

114/365 : secret recluse, born again

black cats and bats
i can't read your destiny
but mine is screaming at me
to go sensually
and independently
through the illusion
of them needing me
and into the reality
that i need myself the most

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

113/365 : what evaporates and also somehow stays

i start my mornings with
coffee steam and
sage smoke
like silk rope beauty
inside the strings of time
whispering romance
and the extraordinary
experience of
or hunger
as everything
floats away

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

112/365 : still safe

it only takes
the car breaking down
the taxes over due
the phone company calling
and an empty wallet
to look up at the sky
and stop asking, why--
why me why me why me?

you see, it's the dam breaking
that's shaking some truth awake

i'm okay
i'm still safe

safe enough to seek pleasure
in the rough edges of
ancient prayers for
more than the
bare minimum

Monday, April 21, 2014

111/365 : meeting in the middle

he wants to grow me into a woman
who needs to be fucked like a hammer needs to land
against something so purposeful
that two impossible surfaces
get stuck together
and grounded

i want to grow him into a boy
so wild and raucous that he breaks
the steel with echoing laughter
and there are no disasters
too big for this mama
to make love out of

Sunday, April 20, 2014

110/365 : ode to cereal and handsome old men

i think i have to write a poem about the significance of frosted mini wheats 

and age and nostalgia 
and being pulled into my next evolution 
by a whole sea of older men 
and not objecting 
not one tiny bit
because they eat the same cereal as my dad 
and i haven't eaten cereal in years 
i stuck so long to granola, almonds
ginger, plain greek yogurt
but now, now i am done pretending 
to be healthy and good
now i am ready for comfort and love
and adult fucking 
and the kinds of foods that grow my belly
round and shamelessly alive
now i am giving up on feeling 
helplessly young
i want to indulge in the american pleasure
of cereal for dinner
or right before bed

Saturday, April 19, 2014

109/365 : the revelation of being received

if i could take a picture of this feeling
i don't think i'd frame it
i'd probably just make 101 prints
and then tack them to my walls
like a prayer flag
a string of repetition, singing
a song as gentle as lips on skin
finger tips on my chin nudging it upward
saying, look, look out, darling
a whole forrest of eyes
are meeting you
they want you to build on their roots
they trust the strength of your hands
they see themselves in the wild of your eyes
and they want you
to share
your magic

Friday, April 18, 2014

108/365 : intimate, strong, magical

this is not a poem
this is a proclamation
of identity

this is how they see me
this is what i know myself
to be

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

106/365 : dear slam poetry

dear slam poetry,

i love you so much
but doing you
just doesn't feel good in my body.

let's still be friends.

what's short, sweet, and earnest

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

105/365 : giving in

lullabies and lucid love
you've earned your nap
go gently, darling

soft first, soft first*

quiet now, it's all okay

*this line added by the brilliant hayley

Monday, April 14, 2014

104/365 : here, in the quiet sorrow

here, in the quiet sorrow
of knowing i won't heal you

(i can't heal you)

i bellow love throughout my body

knowing some will find yours and ring inside
like an echo of honest comfort

and other bits will head out
for the mountains

and open sky

Sunday, April 13, 2014

103/365 : more than dogs

I swear in this town tulips are like trumpets 
and god is a marching band you thought would never come 
after a dark uncertain winter 

The wind is blowing steady across the yard 
carrying dandy lion dreams, 
kissing daisies at my feet, 
ready to meet the spark 
of your heart and make fire together.

But there's a dangerous saturation in the air
that doesn't care the season
it's dream is to be the wet blanket to our flame
to have us believe that we are alone
inside our phones and our digitized homes,
our love starvation and our heart's deep craving 
to be known
to be tasted 
to be bit into and torn away at like a hearty loaf of campangnolo 
something you can actually hold and devour
You must be the only one so disempowered 
and distant, it says
You must be the only one trying to write poems about it
You must be the only one twiddling your thumbs
waiting for someone to save you

But It's not true.
We're all waiting like dogs for our owners 
to come home and take us out for a run
This is what makes us the same thread of insanity

But the time for crazy is up.

In this town there are doggie doors for all of us
and crawl we must
down on our knees
where we can remember how it feels
to touch our tininess
where we can come alive inside of it
instead of die because of it
where we can come alive together
like tulips burst into a bright blue sky
or better 

like children crawling under tables
collecting fallen crayons 
making fairytales out of hairy legs
and forts out of table cloths
kissing booths out of closets
and cash registers out of shoe boxes
friends out of flowers and
trumpets out of cucumbers

We must remember the wonder
that is not afraid to build magic
now that we are old and grown and able
now that we are bigger than the table
we must not fear feasting upon it
we must ask ourselves
what do i want to feast on?
who do i want to feast with?
what will i bring to our supper
to our salvation
to our hunger
what will i till and labor for 
because i love it
because i love it
because i love it
what will i plant that will bloom in our garden
what is my instrument?
what is my sound?
what is my cry?
where is your shoulder? 
what do i desire?
can i let myself taste pleasure?
can we taste each other this time around?
feet bare in the ground, marching
knowing that we are more than dogs

Saturday, April 12, 2014

102/365 : royal heart

you have a royal heart
i accidentally scrolled into words that are now
resting between my breasts
in the nest of my hope-cracked ribcage

darkness, darkness
thank you for teaching me courage
and the kind of freedom only reached
after two weeks of free bread and
seventeen cents in my bank account

now i've stopped believing that it
takes more than the magic of breathing
to be worth as much as gold

now i know there are always
sharpies and napkins and the chance
to write something as old and ancient as
a buffalo's soul

now when i've forgotten how to grow
delicious and bold
i will remember
that my heart is made of folded flower petals
as old and holy as the sky

Friday, April 11, 2014

101/365 : spiraling grace

i am following the portal
through a dark dripping
cave of shadowed fears,
shards glittering deep and
dense with truth

crawling through the cold hole,
knees collecting
sparkling battle scars of faith
and elbows earning
cataclysmic strength

nothing can stay the same

i am giving up on blame,
crouching like a black panther
eyes aglow and knowing

i am entering
the other side
of my soul

Thursday, April 10, 2014

100/365 : speak, vagina

if you look at the anatomy of the throat
there's a striking resemblance to the anatomy of the vagina.

this means two things in 
my Revolution of Sex book:

1. blow jobs. totally rational!

2. vaginas. meant to be given a voice.

i'm gonna focus on #2 because #1 
gets plenty of air time.
(still lovin' on the blow jobs though, fellas)

here we go
your voice is the advocate
your vagina has been seeking.

speak, vagina.
speak your experience.

when you speak the moves 
that move you closer to pleasure
a song moves through your body like a 
safety lullaby
like a national anthem that you're actually proud to sing
for a nation that you actually believe in:
the love protected borders of
your very own muscle and skin

and when you feel safe
to sing
from the great plains of your vagina
the creative force of your sage wild womanness
will be so potent
you could make it rain
on a hot summer day
in south dakota

and rain, it will, sister.
rain it will.

in whirling winces that turn into hold on, slow down, that hurts. wait. 
this is good rain.

in kisses that moan i love your fat dick pushing up against my cervix.
this is good rain.

in rhythmic pattering yes yes yes yes yes.
this is good rain.

in compass focused sweet instructions, smaller circles, gentle gentle, over a bit, oooooh right there.
this is good rain.

in eyebrows raised, mischief games, bite my toes, slap my ass, baby!
this is good rain.

in honest fatigue or genuine, i'd rather just read.
this is good rain. 

you see when your throat and vagina work together
you will release the deepest kind of pleasure:
resonance in every color
none better than another
each their own simple truth
raging storms with nothing to do
but fall
drench the land of your body
with the salve of your honesty
and then wash away quietly
until the next storm
the next song
the next yes, 
the next no, 
the next i know what i want and i will speak it, claim it, savor it
even if it is not what you want
even if it is not what i think you want
even if it is not what i think you want me to want

i will spit the sock out of the back of mouth
i will not choke now
on doubting my pain or worse, my pleasure
i will have agency
and i will speak until every part of me
feels safe enough
to be wild enough
to be raw enough
to be emotional enough
to be honest enough
to be playful enough
to be curious enough
to be innocent enough
to be loud enough
to be deserving enough
to orgasm

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

99/365 : still together

your chest, a cave of safety
the unruly wind of me
spirals into, soft and slow

red barn refuge
on a hot day in indiana

you sir, lounge of liberty
lockless sanctuary--

you hold me so quietly
i don't have to move a muscle

and still, i ripple

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

98/365 : you, in your hard-hat. me, in my mirage.

beautiful man
outside my window
do you smell the sage smoke
spewing from my hippy home
in your plain white T
and dirt painted blue jeans?

is it crazy for me to
make babies in my mind
with your muscles so defined
and my heart so wild
that only our child
could be brazen enough
to bare all your strength
and all my care
in one?

Monday, April 7, 2014

97/365 : born to pollinate

you are in full bloom--
a crowfoot violet with black magic lips
a tongue so yellow it whips
the tiny specks of kelly-heart in your chest
into pulsing pollen
like smoke incinerating

up and out and all around
the honey bees carry
your potion

imagine a voice so
potent it calls to be carried

imaging knowing
that voice is yours

imagine knowing
that voice is all of ours

Sunday, April 6, 2014

96/365 : the glory of forgetting

somersaulting inside your sheets
we're like the mechanical magic
of a washing machine

and oh, how we conveniently forget
over and over again
to take ourselves out
toss panties and jeans
to the drier

how we've grown gorgeously
habitual at setting no timer
to remind us

who wants an alarm
when we could instead
stay wet
press reset
do yet another tumble?

Saturday, April 5, 2014

95/365 : for my old man

do not bow out
as you near the end
saying, you... you go on and
smell the tulips without me

do not begin to believe
for even a moment
that the scent of love
is limited

or that you have lost
your sense
for breathing it in

take the daylight
by its hands and
skip across the sidewalk
of your heart

scribble truth in
light blue chalk
knowing the rain
will wash it away

draw smiley faces and
hop scotch mazes anyway

who cares what tomorrow brings
you've survived thousands of them
you will outlive many more

if the doorway of today
is inviting you to play
dear god, please don't
stay cooped, shutters shut

the sun doesn't always shine
this wildly

Friday, April 4, 2014

94/365 : maybe it's supposed to feel like this

i can't remember a time
when i didn't struggle at the ledge
of my potential
like a toddler, skipping the line
between curbside balance-beam brilliance
and asphalt face-plant meltdown

per usual, i'm still scrambling for grace
like an egg that wanted to stay
sunny side up
but broke too soon
where it mattered

Thursday, April 3, 2014

93/365 : crow in the void

on a black trampoline
in the middle of the
midnight sky--

freedom      in the darkness
and countless ways to
fall   through.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

92/365 : hungry

i wanna know if you'll meet me
lick the sweat off my neck
taste my expression of sex
in the dark red tent of
a million dancing prayers

if you stay long enough
my ass will rattle
and you will know like any
sage prey
exactly how many moments
before your sight slips away
swallowed whole by the
snake of my hunger

try--try to say something
with your hands
on my harvesting hips

my listening works like this:
if i feel you lift my fear
all the while waking my hunger
i know you are safe
to devour

but don't worry
i savor
the rare meat
licking from the base
of the bone
to the tip of the crone
grateful and shameless,
i feast

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

91/395 : lineage and longing

Poland 1912

in her pale yellow dress
buttoned all the way up
the back of her neck
hand clenched
back spent
her tired beauty couldn't
buy her safety
her silenced creativity
saved no one
not even her husband
who was too afraid to
hand over his heart
to the earth of
golden potatoes
and gray skies
a simple soup
of sustenance

Baltimore 1962

the white notice tacked on to the
pale yellow door
of their humble row house
with ink letters so black
that everyone on Gorman Ave
could read the shame
from the sidewalk
Eviction Date: July 3rd.
my mother heard her father
cough plaster from his lungs
on the floor above
her closet-sized room
while her mother
took obsessively
to the broom
hush-dusting away
the truth that she could
do something
louder than tidying

Columbia 2002

the pale yellow wall unit
held the television set like
a shrine to trashy fantasy
everything a shade of
over-sized luxury
static pulsing a horror of anything poor
or peasant-like

over blasting celebrity gossip
my father chides complaints,
your mother still hasn't
paid me her check
we won't be able to make rent
this month

my mother like an angry
silent dove
holds up her middle finger
slams the bathroom door
and chokes back tears
in a mirror of
cloudy fear