151/365 : i've missed you, mom

your skin, soft like
clouds, like fallen cotton
floating, fluffing
humming lucy loo lullabies
straight into my shaken veins, my hardened earth
straight into my softness

150/365 : you, who has left your courage in the sky

i need you to hear
the harrowing scream of our
silence. i need you
to listen with your penis
listen with your sadness
listen with all your bodily might.
call home your king.
call home your courage.
we must rebuild our empire.

149/365 : the darkness

if i had the time
to die
for say, just
five minutes
right now
i'd do it

fall flat on my face
feel my spirit
like grace
float over, over the sky's soft blue
over the crescent moon, over the the threat
of all the things i'll never do

i'd undo the spell
of embodying hell
and remember
the darkness
of god

148/365 : don't do it

i don't want to talk about this,
but it's your birthday on facebook
so i click on your picture
you, and your little boy
whose face is square and edgy like yours
and i can't help but remember
that time we took your four-wheeler
out for a ride under the dazzling sky
of howard county country air
me, in my 12-year-old fashion statement:
overalls and shoe-string tank-top
you, in your hick uniform:
blue wranglers, white jockey tee
and me, silent as the night
when you unzipped the copper
pushed me down by the shoulders
and chuckled, adolescent and smug,
you know what to do
now do it

i see your boy, he's four years old
and i can't help but hope that somehow
you've grown out of your adolescence
that somehow he learns to touch shoulders
with a tickle so insatiable
with a love so relatable
that he never has to say,
now do it

147/365 : i was 13

dear mom,

where were you
when i told you
i got raped
by a man
twice my age?
when i told you
when i told you
when i told you

146/365 : If Your Sexuality Scares You

treat it like a child

seeking sweet asylum from pronouncing words right

or choosing the right ones at all

let yourself, instead, get better at tumbling

fumbling for the truth of 

what turns you hot and happy

let yourself get messy--

you don't have to do so in public

not even with others quite yet

you can start in your bedroom

all alone with the hum of

your most tantalizing music

you can start by letting 

one honest wish 

fall out of your lips

you can start

by imagining

you're meant for it

that you wouldn't want it

if it didn't want you back

and mutuality is heaven in the sack

if you've gotten this far

and you're ready for more

you can dress yourself as a lover

in the colors and underwear

of a sensual lust affair

with your most turned-on libido

begin with your own recalibrating

unlock the knob of

your turn table

you won't be able to make all the music alone

but, at first, you can bang the drums

let them know you're ready

and then, with the steady rhythm

of your song, bouncing off you

like a love charm

you will draw near

your most resonant

peers

if this scares you 

because you already have a mate

or you think it might change your fate

'cuz perhaps you like your own gender

or you wanna be

a gender bender

or you might have to stop pretending

that whatever ways you've been spending

your sensuality, is true

because you're afraid 

this might cause conflict

or worse, that you're not worth it

because you think there's not possibly

someone else who's meant to be

licking you from head-to-toe

meeting you in your favorite flow

because you think you're not allowed

to have a favorite

because maybe all of this lovin'

would require you

to melt more

i say to you this:

MELT

become like caramel cream

deep dazzle finger-licking

sweet saucified surrender

even if there's nowhere to put it

no a la mode to match

your flow, quite yet

it will still feel better than 

cold and chewy

scared and unwilling to soften

boxed and packaged inside 

a crafted image of love

i say to you this:

show up for us 

as you most long to be

let us receive you

like a born-again-virgin

paint us your fantasy

of earnest perfection

we'll get it wrong

undoubtedly

so will you

but naming and claiming will be 

the beginning of knowing 

your pleasure is not to be feared

you are not weird for 

wanting connection

you are sexy

you are not wrong for

wanting bodily belonging

you are ready

to be met in your aliveness

wet and desirous 

or intimate quietness

you are ready

to be met

all the way

145/365 : SHARING (is the shameless revolution, folks!)

S hame
H angs
A round until we
R ing
I it out... we
N eed a big
G roup hug!

144/365 : Hustle Not Hurry

you don't have to hurry
hustle and hurry are not the same thing

you can hustle the way you do
to fetch the ball when it's gone
beyond the goal and the coach
hollers, "hustle!"

with love in your heart
you still just jog
drag your feet a little
maybe even skip

you know you have time
that it's not gonna kill you or
anyone else
to not sprint
to not expend all of your energy
on the tiny in-betweens
of skill drills and whistles

you can hustle without hurry
without fear of losing your spot
you can hustle with heart
with attitude, easy and true
that says, "okay! i'm goin'!
chuggin' along!"

you can hustle like it's a game
and we're actually playing together
and it's actually better
when you're happy
and not sour
when you know we're staying together
when you know we want you
to have fun on this team

143/365 : the definition of magic

do you remember the first time
you heard Joanna Newsom croon?

i do. i was eighteen
and my boyfriend made me
a mix cd called "songs for this"

"your skin is something
that i stir into my tea,"*
she wailed to me

and i knew what she meant
without ever having
experienced it

this, i'm learning is
the definition of magic:
from the stars and the clouds,
the universal gets pulled down

and we can suddenly
taste the poetry


*

142/365 : "over time i've lost my fire"

last night we didn't fuck
hardly went past second base

laid coiled in the cool covers
of three-months-in

listened to Joni Mitchell sing
the song about the midway

listened to stories about
back in the day

when we thought
we could build forever

listened to our hearts beat humble
knowing better

141/365 : e coli

the city sidewalk hums
with trash-cans
thunder-boxes of e coli
rolling, dehydration
trolling like stumbling
drunks, no coffee
what will we do
when the news doesn't
change, doesn't say
we were just being
sensitive?

140/365 : culling in

these tea leaves come from the very top of a tree
somewhere in Southeast Asia
somewhere where tress have grown for five hundred years,
small hands culling in their magic

and something about this--
this laying in bed, bath-soaked, naked
playing old Leonard Cohen
like not a single thing is happening
this Friday night in the city of Portland--
something about this, also
feels like culling in

139/365 : a poem, hand-written, to be put in a 5x7 frame, that you can keep forever as a reminder of what this is

maybe one day the palms of my hands
will be strong with age
but still soft with sensitivity
like yours

maybe i'll look down
at the forest of lines
impossible to read by sight
and remember
the way you used to tell me
to smell your kisses
panting ceaseless yeses
nose hungry, nestled into my chest
whispering, what a woman
what a woman you are, rachael

maybe i'll remember the taste
of always wanting you to stay
and the love
that had no problem
letting you go,

only that empty-home feeling
which happens
when we trust ourselves
to hold all of love's power
in young humble hands

138/365 : chill the fuck out

jodi told me to write a poem
about how he unwinds my mind
with his fucking
late at night
after we're both spent on speaking
and we're both ready for dreaming
but i, in my quick-aired thinking
cannot slow the wind
i, i need rain
heaping hailing
drenching tsunamis of his body
breaking into mine
in order to finally find
the still breath
the ancient yes
the blue tenderness
of quiet
that's always waiting
like a backdrop prayer
like the monks in their soul lairs
like the devotion
of nothingness
and love
and pigeons in the downtown city square
always around somewhere
pecking, waiting, wondering
when we'll chill the fuck out
and feed them

137/365 : slow down

heart rushing wild
oceans of mistrust
teeming, screaming
wishing a way out

there is no way out

there is sinking down
becoming deep blue truth
unaware of speed

a crash so at peace
you'd think it
a gentle breeze
if your mind knew better
than frantic senile words

136/365 : still we try

the truth is
even sex
can't make
poets
immortal

135/365 : wrinkles

i watch them gather
like whole villages
of sunny sunday afternoons
with nothing to do
but lay by the river
and wonder
how a sun so far away
could feed this
holy day, and
still, we bother
with the way
our skin gathers, and
still, we fill our hours
with fear

134/365 : trying

i'm back to writing crappy poems.

i knew this day would come.

i have a pitcher of
ice cube excuses
assam tea, cooled but ruthless
staring me cold in the eye
wondering why i'm not
digging deep
why i need this
sour-sweet lemon squeezed
into the center of everything
in order to feel anything
tingle
at all.

133/365 : flutter

do you think the sky is immovable?
like the way we see color
as just color
dense and true
dry and undoable

have you not
been a dragonfly?
eyes keen on cutting
baby blue like an ocean
that moves for you
when you flutter with
enough hunger

do you believe
in your own wild
weedy wings
to take you
through the magic
of possibility come alive?

or do you buy into the
puppeted strings
and small dreams
of those who need to know how
before seeking the wow?

132/365 : indulge

while breathing,
I like to lick
my fingers wet
and stroke
the forgotten dust

such grand
indulgences
wait
on the wooden
table

131/365 : Cylindrical

You, Boom Boom
Red-Blush Truth
(under chest, still
traced with youth)

You, True Blue Eyes
(cylindrical, stacked
curious, on track)

You, Train
You, Choo Choo
You, Non-Renewable
Sure and Able
(so insatiable)
Engine

I am here
to ride You

130/365 : The Waypost

Fleet Foxes croons
Mykonos on the stereo,
I'm bare-soled over the
couch's elbow,
it's 90 degrees
on May 14th,
the city is dressed
in delirium and swimsuits,
Antonio is stoned
behind The Waypost,
his birthday was yesterday
he turned 33,
the year of eternity
so says the Muslims,
lounging, I'm wondering
where the old folk go,
for drinks and joints
and to get to the point,
my old man Chris
came in my bed last night,
he's 57 and
basking in the Heaven,
of my eternally
youthful delight,
my hair loosens free
curls kissing my cheeks,
like little legs
pushing off a tree,
like a tire swing
under my rim,
i am free and heavenly
laughing sweetly,
just wanting someone
to laugh with me.

129/365 : steam

there must be
something gathering
in the earth
like sweat

ready to extend
outside cozy--
become known
out there

there must be
a lover
for which
the air turns wet

128/365 : telephone wire

if i were alive then
and you were blowing me kisses
from the window
down the block

i'd sneak down the
creaking stairs
and reach into
my mom's wicker wears

pull the bright yellow yarn
from the batch
rush back to my bedroom
and throw it to you

like a magic kite
no need for wind
just us and trust
that love is as simple as this:

a strand in the night
two cups on either side
placed right to our ears
so we can actually hear
the grunts, the giggles,
the happy patter
in our small strong hearts

127/365 : scribbled on card stock, found under my desk

love is pulling the car
off the road
walking around
pulling me out
holding me without a sound
because words are no cure
for emptiness

love is shouting my name
into the wind
four times over
promising something bigger
than names
or sky

love is asking for my eyes
when i'd rather hide--

126/365 : autonomy kept the cat alive

tonight i saw two
black cats, back to back, prowling
the streets like tumble
weeds, fast and dancing, fear-free
white chests, aglow and alone



~~~

this poem is a tanka.

125/365 : i am the goddess.

tonight i saw two
eyes, brown kindness, side by side
squinting, i love you,
through salty sweat dripping in.
gorgeous you, hummed the goddess.





~~~

this poem is a tanka.

124/365 : Of Roses And Rhymes

this city is a garden
where all the sensitive seeds
furrow deep in the dark
wet wonderland of winter

just waiting for the sun
to hit them up
like a spotlight
saying, go, go honey

it's your turn
sing us your
gorgeous moody truth
sing us your news

sing us anything
true, we'll treasure you
we'll pick you
we'll put you in our

blue glass vase
from the vintage glass case
we'll study your face
for heartbreak and

saving grace
we'll smell your exhale
as your lips tell all the
secret trails of who you

never thought you'd
bloom into

this city will water you
through and through
'til you can't undo
the nourishment

123/365 : simple math

i'm the quickest breaker-upper on earth
who cares that i just put a hundred dollars worth of
lingerie on my credit card

this heart has no bail outs
or payment plans
it requires careful book keeping
and no close calls

not that i'm stingy with my love
just that when you call
i wanna feel all of your yes
in your silent simple breath

i wanna build
a song machine outta the
beats of our hearts and it's
not gonna sound too good
if we're too far apart

122/365 : who i find out there

i hate the way love sweeps me away
into a dustpan of forgetting

forgetting to grocery shop
forgetting to sleep
forgetting to see my best friend perform
forgetting to write my poems

i don't forget to pray when i'm all alone all day
i don't forget to stand strong in the circle
and sing for the fallen
and dance with the weathered
'til we all feel a bit better

no, when i'm single
i always remember my prayers

until love marches in, wet
and then i always forget
how temperamental
joy can be

how much i still need
to stand like a tree
palms of my feet facing upward
breathing stalwart
like i could hold the pose forever

remembering that there is never another
who can fill my belly's hunger
who can close my glow-glazed eyes
who can show up in this body, in this time
who can write the story i want to live inside

remembering
it's not about
who i find
out there

121/365 : You Ain't Alone

Is this enough?
To feel pleasure on a Thursday morning in May?

To be 27 and touching myself?
OMing after dancing to

You Ain't Alone
by the Alabama Shakes?

There is a howling dog
outside my window

a wailing ferral hound.

I don't know what she's thinking
but I feel the same way.