Monday, June 30, 2014

181/365 : wishing i could say

The tongue is the organ of taste, and also the organ of speech, said John O'Donohue.

What is the flavor of the words we don't say?
What is the taste of repression?
What is the sensation of freedom of tongue?

I've watched a thousand butterflies explode
from the back of my throat
out the tips of my teeth
into the quilt of sky and trees

I've felt the gong inside my lungs
the gong of emptiness
the gong of emptied-it-all-out
the rippling quiet joy

And I've tasted the hunger of holding back
the withheld lion claws
waiting for some antelope to surrender
feed my hallow courage

I've learned there are no martyrs in nature
Who would sacrifice its life, to feed my fear?

I must hunger for the taste of my own depths
I must hunt myself down
Puncture my silence

Sunday, June 29, 2014

180/365 : and by faith i mean acceptance, love

things are getting very spiritual over here
i'm asking myself
if i can have faith in my sadness
faith in my death
faith in my heartbreak
as much as i cling
to the water on the rocks
making all the colors more black and gold
all the deepness
a more beautiful horrid empty

Saturday, June 28, 2014

179/365 : i'm starting to understand why christians attach to heaven, why jews talk only of hell, why buddhists practice letting go

i like the way this love is drawing me closer to loss
shining brights in my face
like a swerving car
like a late night in the mountains
like a fear of death by animal

actually, i'm lying
i don't know if i like it, at all

Friday, June 27, 2014

Thursday, June 26, 2014

177/365 : the love i want is breaking

the love i want
is confrontational
like Everythingness
like chasing tides
like a dog
like vomiting salt water
like resting in a sweater, hood up
like wobbly yoga, stretching too far
like napping in the car
like remembering
like wishing i didn't have to remember
like learning to let go of my longing
like holding myself through the night
like not fighting where i am
like not trying to understand
like rattling out my fear
like hissing when nobody's near
like hurling
like eyelids shutting soft as horses
like hooves never actually hitting you in the face
as you clean the horse shoe of all that power
even though it's what you've feared the most--
being hit by something powerful
like being with fear
like laughing
like quiet tears
like that
like leaning into that
like rubbing up against that
like finger fucking that
like tongue sucking that
like earlobe grinding that
like asshole tickling that
like soft hair dangling against bare chesting that
like hands grab and squeezing that
like pulling that in
like holding it with all your strength
like hurting with desire for the Everythingness
like so much endless fear of nothing
like still needing the Something anyway
like fuck fuck fuck FUCK
i wish i didn't love you this much
like i wish i didn't know you were gonna leave earth first
like i wish i could hold onto a belief that i'm not alone
but loving you this much
and grieving you
before you're even gone
makes me certain that i hate
the heartbreak
of being mortal

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

176/365 : Not Something I'm Prepared To Do

Maybe pleasure is
A laugh, a disappearing
Fear, a forgetting.
How deep must your forgetting 
Go, to get to your remembrance?

Maybe pain forgets 
Nothing. Holds every ache like
A starving child.
Except, not even. Because 
Starving forgets for survival's sake.

Maybe something wild
Out of left field (like god?)
Can help me deal with
The possibility that
I might have to love your suffering.

Funny, at first I 
Thought maybe god could help you
Feel less pain, as if
You're the one who needs god and
This "god" thing can take away pain.

I wrote once a tiny 
Prayer, "To crack all the 
Way open. To give everything
Away." Now I know better
Than to think myself powerless.

Maybe love is the 
Real ish we all wish would come
Hold us, on nights when 
Pleasure is a trickster tale
And hurt is an answered prayer.

I wish I could be 
the carriage for that love 
The pumpkin that ushers
Her in, the shoe, the romance,
The dance, the dance, the dance. 

Feel so stupidly 
Romantic, as if romance
Is dumb, as if it 
Never saves the day, as if
Betting on love is naive.

As if betting on any
Thing is unenlightened. Fuck 
Enlightenment. I want 
Attachment that saves. I want 
You to want to stay alive.

I want you to feel what I 
Feel because that is 
How I feel myself, through you. 
Otherwise I might 
Disappear, and that is not 

Something I'm prepared to do.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

175/365 : truthity truth

today i took four seventeen minute naps
in the gaps between eye gazing
and truth blazing
matchbook sessions

today i dreamt of my loves
one slumber at a time
felt the crevices of my mind
reshape into smiles

today i stretched into miles of meditation
in one quiet breath

today i managed to feel rested
even as i worked

today i feared that my sleepy fearlessness
made me careless
and not good enough
to impress the souls i spoke to

today i forgot in the darker corners of my dreams
that it doesn't matter all that much
who i impress
we're all
gonna be gone
in a poof
so soon

today johnny told me
that scientists say
the first human to live to 150
is probably already alive

the lifespan of humans has tripled
over the last 200 years
and there's no reason why
it won't triple again in the next

i wasn't scared when he told me
because his bright blue eyes
and healthy grin stretched wide
boiled a hope in my belly
i didn't know could grow there

but now, in my bedroom
well, now... i'm remembering
that hope i felt then
and i'm wondering
why moments ago
i felt so scared
to live past 87

so much of my fear comes down to matter

who will feed me?
who will need me when i'm old in america?
who will want me?
how will i possibly want myself?

i can't imagine not needing
the feelings i feel like i need now

but then again

last night, chris fixed my broken down car
and after, we sat inside it
and talked about the disappearance of ideas
the evaporation of romance
the glory depth of exactly what's between us

and now, it feels like us humans are gonna have to get better
at what comes after romance
at loving what's left in the room swept clean of delusion
(not that we can ever get it all)

but still
i've got all these relationships
swimming speckled in the light of truth
there are so many wrinkles
and even more stories
and every day we are feeling beneath them
for the chord of connection
and it's so fucking beautiful
so fucking beautiful
that even wrinkles
or not kissing
or nothing romantic developing
or breaking the rules about
what the world tells me is a suitable way to love
feel tiny
so fucking tiny
next to the infinite rhythm
of my strong beating heart

Monday, June 23, 2014

174/365 : fuck me

i can't wipe clean the image of you and me
fucking, our joy weeps
hummingbird ecstasy
moose bellowing belly glee

i've never been so happy with someone in bed

Sunday, June 22, 2014

173/365: a hundred hopeful places

the lighting's changed
you say

it's nine now
not eight

and we're making
love again

like time is only
the changing of skies

like age is only the disguise
we wrap around our souls

like there's no such thing as old
we both look like

children in the night
breaking the stupidest rule of all time

forgetting anyone ever wrote it in the first place
forgetting there was ever a moment

of lovelessness
forgetting the aches we've made our identities around

forgetting the feeling of thinking ourselves unfound
forgetting ourselves to the crown of togetherness

glowing faces
exploding love handles

a hundred hopeful places
to pull each other close

Saturday, June 21, 2014

172/365 : summer solstice

in the morning
on the sunniest day of the year
the moon would like us all to know
that he did not get enough rest

half clothed
half undressed
he hangs right beside
the skyscraper's sunglare

he doesn't scramble for the clouds
to cover his face
to hide him away
from the world
for just a few more hours

he just rests there
all his shadows
in the glaring truth
of all that morning light

Friday, June 20, 2014

171/365 : perfectionism

maybe if i write this in a poem
i can get away with it

the this, the it
being the need to be perfect

or at least better than most
i know, it's so gross to admit

it feels like slime leaving my lips
i wish i could stick it back in and shit it out

flush it down the drain
into a spiraling spout of forgotten about

but i can't
it is with me today and i cannot expel its weight

i cannot make myself show you my low-quality film
i cannot let myself tell you the extent of my thill

just yesterday a woman asked if i would give her a name
it was an honor so great i nearly cried

just yesterday another woman told me our connection changed her life
just yesterday i wouldn't let myself revel in the delight

of sharing
of revealing
of letting you see me
in my glory
in my blurry
in my humanity

there's still something in me
locked way the fuck up

a tough lid to unlatch
an impossibly wet match

i envision myself smashing it to bits
10,022 tiny shards of truth
sparkling in the sunlight

i imagine at night walking barefoot on the sidewalk
stepping atop my old self
puncturing the soles of my feet
watching all the attachment bleed out of me

i imagine these visions won't happen
the dramatic won't unlatch what's haunting me

in fact, the dramatic will be the thing that keeps haunting me
this picture in my mind that something big will find and save me

from my fear
my fear of you knowing
my fear of you knowing me
my fear of you knowing that i want you to love me
my fear of loving me
my fear of loving
my fear of loving fear

i want to jump today from one small rock to the next
i want to cross the stream that way
and when i get into the forest
i want to give myself a loving rest

Thursday, June 19, 2014

170/365 : poetry pen pals


write me your
uncensored terror
in long cloths of

write me
into a moment
that i'll forget
with the next line

write me like a painter
use burnt siena for my

i wish we used paper
so i could rip at the folds
to open you up
with different styles
depending on my mood

today, i would've used my teeth
yesterday, a knife
tomorrow, perhaps my fingers
won't feel so inadequate
the envelope, so stubborn

i like thinking of you
as something
i can put myself
inside of

although i know
there is no such thing

although i know
my knowing puts out my dreams

and so many of my dreams
have poofed true

so what if
i can fit inside the cozy hold
of someone else?

what if what he said
about building a nest
in his tree for me
stands true?

what if i don't like the nest?
what if i'm a choosy bird?
what if i'm the one
who keeps tossing myself
to the streets?
who keeps choosing
to make her own damn house
in her own damn tree?

sorry, i got sidetracked
distracted by my anger

ang her
angst her
hang ger
grrrr hang
ay ay ay ger ger ger nnn

i love the poetry
of your fists hitting me
under a cloudy sky
i love the wild howling high
of roaring
no, more than roaring
facing myself in my rage
red hot blood

i am not sorry
i am not sorry
i am not sorry

i am just wild
i am just a child
i am just a wild child full of rage
i am just saying the sayings that need to be said
to wake the dead parts of my love
i am just love
i am angry angry love

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

169/365 : how's this for an honest ending?

i'd recommend poetry pen pals who write truth like meditating lunatics

i'd recommend old men who take you on vacation in their trailers

i'd recommend five-year-old soulmates who cackle and cuddle in bed

i'd recommend quitting everything and then starting everything all over again

i'd recommend forgiving your mother

i'd even recommend forgiving your father

i'd recommend spending all day long in a long flowing robe

i'd recommend keeping some secrets that nobody ever knows

i'd recommend a threesome with an old married couple

i'd recommend letting him rub his stubble all down your neck and nipples

i'd recommend not trying to find money, but making it, like a wish, like a prayer

i'd recommend taking a vow of silence somewhere in there

i'd recommend my life, but that's not the point

the point is, i'm fucking into it

the point is, i'm fucking into myself

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

168/365 : magic remains

this washcloth is wet and sloppy
not even warm and soapy

but still, i will take it to the wall
take it to the soot
take it to the past

i will rub and grunt and

i will give up
too fast

i will fall over onto my cushy bed
brow full of sweat

i will not chase
a clean slate

i will not retaliate
against the dirt of fate

i will study the wall for magic shapes
made of the remains

Monday, June 16, 2014

167/365 : innocence

i left heaven on the stoop for someone else
i ding-dong-ditched my gift away
i watched from around the corner
as she answered the door
picked him up with delight
i thought i'd feel much better
i thought i wouldn't hate my courage
i thought love was a daily package greater than attachment
i thought i could deliver anything

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Saturday, June 14, 2014

165/365 : No Time To Write How To's

I got no time to write how to's
I'm under the bridge getting kissed between my legs
I'm under the moon waxing nudity on you
I'm slipping into desirous lips, fingers swift against scalp
lungs howling around spine
How did you find? How did you find me?

I'm waiting under the street light
on the wet bench with my cool sit bones
thrown wide, side by side

I'm smelling my breath for kissability
I'm checking my heart for mutuality

I'm not sure
if I'm ready to go to the river with you

That was then
This is now

You didn't know I'd write you a poem
To reward you
For your commute

You knew it was the desirous thing to do
To jump in your car and come meet me
But you didn't know you could go
Off your desire
And not feel dire or doubtful

Or maybe you did
I don't know
I don't know you

I'd like to keep not knowing

Except maybe
side by side
Legs warm and cozying
the mystery

Friday, June 13, 2014

164/365 : which poem do I owe you now?

which poem do I owe you now?
the one about the Wanting?
or how about the Thrusting?
i've got thirty on the Kissing
and a few more on the Sweating
but the big one's about the Crying
and the Unconditional Howling

feral sounds only Lions Like to Hear

Thursday, June 12, 2014

163/365 : let's play

i'm not sure if it's fear
that creates our hunger to feast
fear of death
fear of disappearing
fear of being eaten by age or weakness

but i want to bite into you
like a juicy grill-charred stake
chew away at the flesh and blood
get bits of you stuck between my teeth
meet the taste of my aliveness
in animal wildness

i want us to scare ourselves silly

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

162/365 : after playing with too many matches

it registers as hunger
the churning hum inside my body
an open hose
a gushing channel

it registers as "feed me, feed me"
this light, this force
that's filling my insides
like a water balloon

tighter, tighter
heavy, heavy
i'm waiting to explode
into freedom

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

161/365 : this is not the end

the bare breath hushing breeze

the strong knees that say, "i don't feel less powerful"

the city fountain full of tears

the joy, the splash, the chilly shade

the way you walk away

the breeze that stays

the moon, a little more than half full, wanting


to tip

this is not the end

this is not it

the declaration of devotion

that we cast into the darkness

not aside, but wide, like tic-tac stars

the secrets we wish

that feel more possible than this

the way we bank on some other life

to live the love we couldn't

Monday, June 9, 2014

160/365 : most used words

soft, skin, sky
hands, lines, hunger
body, flesh, wish

what does this tell me about me?

that i'm simple as a pearl-eyed babe?

ancient's another most used word

i can't help it--
dirt and darkness--
they're so damn relatable

Sunday, June 8, 2014

159/365 : gladness

fire vibrates, tale bone
to the tip of my crone
when i remember

when i remember you
and who you brought me to 
inside myself

volcanic power with 
no desire for destruction

but still
my eruption, inevitable

Saturday, June 7, 2014

158/365 : Show us your heart.

I am afraid
of loveless
American in that way.

The havoc.
The romance.
The rain.
The war.

Friday, June 6, 2014

157/365 : when the woo woo shit works

you told me "i can't do it"
and my internal response
didn't skip a beat
"i'm so fucking magical"
"it's not you i need"

the trees did not fall over
the breeze did not stop kissing me

Thursday, June 5, 2014

156/365 : the kind that dies

my mom's in town and
I want to rub off
run off
get stoned
touch myself

how hungry I am for the quan
the key that unlocks me
shoots me up

I'd be the worst drug addict
the kind that dies

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

155/365 : little wads of ones

I'm collecting little wads of ones
folding them long-ways
scrolling them sideways
tucking them into hideaways
behind books, inside nooks with burnt up matches
banking on a winter of rainy day requests.

Wild trust like this doesn't last.

I am not a saint.

Or am I?

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

154/365 : to damian

i see you're playing 
with the fire of truth, the
spark flying, wild 
landing on the soft sheets, burning
holes into what was once
neat and now we, we 
have to look at the black-brown
edges of emptiness, the
to-land reality of ashes,
the homelessness of 
passion. i see my 
self translucently
glass, absent, open.
i see us dancing 
messily, and then perhaps 
in tandem. i long for more 
than subverted desire. 
i long for fire 
that is not afraid to say,
"i know how to burn shit down."

Monday, June 2, 2014

153/365 : I'm 27. You're 57. And the Truth is it's Not Okay.

Not okay that you're a carpenter.
Not okay that you want to write poems together.
Not okay that you're an inventor.
Not okay that you know better than to fuck me without feeding me.
Not okay for you to see me in all my emotional brilliance, and say,
"This--this is what I love about you, Rachael."

What am I supposed do with all my endless love for you?
What am I supposed to do?

Is it okay to simply stay?
My frizzy head in the nest of your chest?
My quick-jet mind building empires with all this potential?

What will I tell the grandchildren?
The ones who are not yours?
Who will I ever find to open this many of my doors?

Sunday, June 1, 2014

152/365 : Out Of Love

my bedroom is a bliss cave
my body is a bat
turning words upside down
spitting the shrill sound of facts:

2 sisters in India, gang-raped
hanged from a tree
6 college kids in Cali
murdered in a spree

gone gruesome  

my bedroom was a casket 
my body was a corpse
these words were stuck in the crevices
of my cervix and worse
my heart was shroud with nesting
where nobody could thrive
holes hung straight through the middle
and like bullets, i let lies
hit hit hit ply ply ply
gather me like dead juicy flesh
eat me like they aced the test

our bedroom is a disgrace
and our bodies wear dirty clothes
we're wrapped in stories of disrespect
and we're walking around like nobody knows
what it's like to have a mother
stand before a father 
spit anger in his face
say, "no more! i will not be erased!"
what it's like to have a father
who does not erase a mother
what it's like to have a mother
who insists on her power

i want to be a sister who can
fall into a brother
cry fear into his arms
ask only for the strong hold of kin
to over-win the intimidation
of someone trying to own me

i want to have a brother
who will not cower
in the face
of burlier men

i want to depend on burly men 
who understand
that their greatest power
is always in their kindness

i want to depend on myself
to share the shrill and shameful truth
that i do not feel safe here
in this family
that i have pretended for far too long

i need a home where we all know
that the walls will not be laced with the shadows of lust
where we love bigger than creating monsters 
out of a scarcity of trust
where there's enough kindness to stop and speak softness
into the places where we've hardened
felt rejected, or just too much

i need a home where sensitivity is not too much
where we can barrel over and ball 
for a thousand unwanted thrusts
where we can look at each other and crawl
back to the beginning, like we must

i need a home of generous men
generous with curiosity 
generous carrying their weight
generous by adding gentleness to the fate
of our good family

i need a home of brazen women
that will roar and teem 
and not tame their grief
out of fear or cynicism 
who will show up
hurt and humble
or wise and powerful
and say we, we will dance this trauma out

i need to hear the bloody truth
i need to see us clean it up, together
i need to taste something better than
avoidance, blame or shame
i need to feel us claiming what we are worthy to claim:
love, in the face of a genocide of spirit
love, in the face of a quieted epidemic
love, in the face of a man with a gun
love, in the face of everyone beginning to shout
love, in the face of our doubt that we are smart enough to figure it out
love that gets down on its knees and begs us to do better

better for our babies 
better for their babies
better for seven generations of babies to come
may we make them 
out of love