Hide & Seek ...

It took me 30 years, not 10,              to really start finding myself again:

        To drink my way                                            toward sobriety,

         To scream/snore my weekends                            toward balance,

          To impulse-buy my closet                                 toward a yard sale,

           To sugar/grease my mouth                                       toward a salad,

            To brag my way                                                    down to humility,

             To hate-rage forth                                                        my kindness,

             To lie-twist my seams                            into “I’m not your dream,”

            To slobber/tooth-clack                                       toward a fine kiss,

           To boob-job my chest                                     toward acceptance,

          To punch-kick the drywall                                  toward tender,

         To repeat-shout my views         into “I love how you think!”

        And gun-mount my towers                         to surrender.

                           It took me                                 permanent injuries

                  To myself, to friends,                                  to strangers…

            To forgive my own hands, and your hands, for life's—sting;

         To respect (more than fear)                         this world's dangers.

        To end smooth                                     

                                                                                             as skull bones

         And soft                                  

                                                                    as old leather,

           Complete             

                                       as a puzzle piece:

                  myself  

                             altogether.

After-glow ...

I'm so relaxed.

      There's nothing I need.

                   My senses awake;

                         My hunger asleep.

                           Shanti, shanti, shanti—

                                       Trees, birds, sky.

A shoot could grow from between my toes

             And drink from beneath my eyes.

                            To think,     I used to

                                          Want to cum—

     To hammer at flesh,                lose my

           Breath,                              fall numb.

When now                                  I love simply

Building                 this churning ball,

Seeing how high         I can swell my

Heart,                           before I fall:

     I claw                        my skin;

I caress                         and trace

                          My tingling   

              stomach,

 My exhaling 

             face;

I gasp through 

                   my fingers,

Wipe smooth my sweat,

           Then throat-moan 

        a rumble through my

      Ballooned belly/chest—

         To collapse, all spent;

          To awake, all peace;

                  To feel all here.

                 Where desire 

       has ceased.

Only to Live Again (song) ...

When I look at the sky, 

I think “Where have you been?

Have I met you before?”

 We die and we live again.

Somethings come from nothings 

(every shedded flesh in the world).

This space was a flower; 

now brown stems and petals curled—

           They'll bleed to tea inside the raindrops, maybe

           Spill out their minerals through grass and daisies,

           Or ride the dusty tracks up deer backs, pine sap—you-and-me:

           We'll wear their ash and breath their breath. Death made me.

On cold nights, I've knocked; 

The godly won't let us in:

Their fads are cliché—

and all things outside are “sin.”

So I laid blindly down—

so alive was the dark

With welcoming mouths, 

wide eyes, whispering feet. My heart...

           I shook my legs before the sweet ants flayed me,

           Hunted for starlight, felt the ground churn paisley,

           And realized these closed-in cabin fires had suckled my fear—

           The myth of 'ends.' Night cleans our bones; life starts here.

When I look at the stars. 

I think “Nothing is gone.”

What seemed like a phase-through-me, 

is an endless dawn:

Ancient, traded atoms 

building up inside a living thing.

I'm borrowed inside, 

and destined as offering.

My Pronoun ...

'He' is not good enough.

I've noticed in moments over the years.

          First when I saw my shell

                (“I don't even know how to be with her.”

                 “I'm kind of an avoidant friend.”

                 “I'm afraid to let anyone in.”)

          And friends taught me who I was

                (“I don't think you've ever been in love! Sorry.”

                 “Don't 'should' other people. Understand them.”

                 “You're really bad at taking compliments.”

                 “You're too kind. It's hurting you.”)

          Then I let the world break me open

                (“How do you live like this without drugs?”

                 “I love you, and every love is a stepping stone.”

                 “You seek emotionally unavailable women.”

                 “Who lets you go? You are magical.”)

          And then I felt myself in us

                (“How did you put up with me?”

                 “Because I'm grateful you exist.”)

Full of everyone.

“I” was never good enough; never

why I wanted to exist.

          “We” was why,

          “for us” a good reason,

          “ours” something worth keeping.

“How is he doing today?”

  I'd rather not be.

“How are we doing today?”

  We're smiling now—

How are you-with-me?

Fractal Promise (song) ...

{ Song => Here }

You don't have to say; I already know.

          You have stars for eyes. 

          Your spirit comes and goes.

I already said goodbye to the side of your face on a tightrope toward the sun;

          I barely had time to catch your breathless name, 

          packing up once it was gone.

So now I'm sorry for—

fogging up your glasses, and that

We had to stick your phone in a—

bag of desiccant packages; that

We got caught by the sprinklers, 

          lying in a grass field, 

                    staring at the moon.

          Don't have to say it ... 

          don't have to say it ...

But, if not for our clothes, I wouldn't trust my skin.

          Your breath dissolves my neck: 

          don't know where I begin—

Or what is time? We spent a year in ten days, a lifelong in a night.

          I felt your infant joy, 

          and dreamed our heads turned white.

So here's my ocean-frozen chest, 

and my shower warm.

Here are your watercolored journals 

and your pin-pricked arms.

We fell sideways 

          with our eyes fish-hooked, 

                    our brows bent with the truth.

          Don't have to say it ... 

          don't have to say it ... 

          but I love you too.

Your smile looked a little dim when you first saw my face tonight,

          Lit up with a giant chess set, 

          remembering ghosts in the neon lights.

"I drank so much of you it hurts," you said after a soft goodbye. So

          Take all the time-in-space you need; 

          I'd rather lose you than pull you from the sky.

                    (G) - (C) - (G) - - (D) - (C) - (Em) - -

                    (Am) - (G) - (C) - - (Am) - (C) - (Em) - -

We dressed up for this show. 

But tonight is not our life.

Don't have to see my face again, 

don't have to be my wife.

Just hold my hand 

          and be as awed as I am, 

                    while these strings fill up the room.

          Don't have to say it ... 

          don't have to say it ... 

          but I love you too.

You don't have to say. I already know.

          You have stars for eyes. 

          Your spirit comes and goes.

What's shade tonight, 

          in two weeks bright, 

                    and always beautiful? The moon …

          Don't have to say it ... 

          but I love you too.

She Reads Her Old Journals ...

I want to reach into the purple ink

of your old journals,

         up through the gooey pen tip

      biting the page, and say:

“You are amazing.

And surely don't know it—

          But I can taste

         Those words you were feeling,

     I am breathing the heat off your tongue.

          Say it again. How dad

         Told you to 'Wear boy's clothes'

     Because you were becoming, and he only saw young.

          Say it again. How the

         Beach is filled with boobs

     And the night with music, soft lips, sweet unknowns.

          Say it again. How being

         Tears-on-knees by your burnt hopes

    Became your warrior-paint, your love of self, your compass home.”

I could bla-bla-blah on a page

   My second-hand awe, aching

At the imprint of a thousand heartbeats, stuffed between these pages.

But I'd rather crumple-and-toss all that,

Just whisper out into your eyes:

“You could have made 

                    bombs from your pain—

                                      but you made this.”

You are a parade already ...

. ~ ~ ~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~ ~ ~ .

I hold the petri dish of my plastic bottle

Under the flow of green-smelling county water,

To clean with the bacteria colony that is my sponge.

Drove this bottle home in a particulate-peppered car,

From the infectious breath collective of my gym,

To fester on this spore-pocked closet shelf.

When will I just

explode, like a

mycelium spawn bag,

into a huddle of

white, or brown,

Yellow or red, purple

or black mushroom caps.

Someone says......“You already......are............more full of creatures.........than you will ever know..........and

if that fact makes you...........rather laugh than gasp..........then

.......eat all of life that......is in your grasp......and you will be.....

full as a Lion's Mane............bold as a Morel.....stout

as a King Trumpet....rising

through a pungent

rain.

Love and abuse ...

I know you love me, Honey badger.

           Because you try not to be angry.

           Because you try to stop yelling.

           Because you said sorry for backhanding me

While I was driving us home.

I know that you love me.

           Because you're patient with me.

And you tell me that if I communicate better,

And accept the blame, you'll immediately

Soften and leave me alone.

I know you love me.

           Because you cook meals for me.

           Because you try to say nicely

That I ruined the food again,

And I have horrible taste.

I know you love me.

           Because you still let me come back

After the second time you throw my phone at me.

And tell me you wish the guy you just fucked weren't married,

           Because you'd take him over me in a heartbeat.

After you spit in my face.

I suppose I deserve it.

I told you I went on a date, but I didn't say

She kissed me: you had to read it, going through my phone.

That must've been hard. I wish I weren't

So afraid of sharing with you.

And you say I deserve it,

For trying to keep you from grabbing my computer,

Before throwing my bag in the driveway,

After raising high, aiming, and heel-stomping my injured foot.

           Because I was the one 

who made you feel like you do.

Signs that you should shut up ...

“Hey – it's a compliment :) ”

Means it wasn't a GOOD compliment.

“Trust me, you'll love it”

Means YOU love it—just you.

“Come on, that's funny”

Means you're pushing me, and I'M not smiling.

“Really? You're kidding”

Means you're LAUGHING away my truth.

“I didn't mean it that way”

Means you didn't ASK “what might they hear me saying?”

“You're being too sensitive”

Means you're HURTING me; we're not just playing.

“Look, I said I'm sorry”

Means you don't see WHY you should be.

“Fine, I'll leave you alone then”

Means you already WEREN'T here with me.

Namaste ...

           I'm going to tell you some lies:

You have to be perfect,

all the time.

And if you're not really good at something, right away,

you clearly shouldn't do it; it's not meant for you – get outta the way.

If you think you could do it, but only with help,

forget it. You can't just ask someone for what you need.

No one really likes you, or wants good things for you.

You're not worth their time, because they're ahead and you're behind.

If someone likes you? They're either stupid or desperate.

So you can't trust anyone, no matter how smart or kind they seem.

And you definitely can't trust yourself, because you are

failing at being perfect – you are weighing down the team.

           And one last lie – 

        that none of the following is true:

                      That you were born whole, and you're learning how to use

                      the tool that is you—from your arms and eyes,

                      to your feelings and mind, to your

                      memories and dreams.

That how you hope to be liked—

           cared about and accepted,

           called in and connected,

           appreciated and respected—

is also everyone else's guiding light.

                      That people are invested in you thriving, if only because

                                 you're falling in the same holes they fell in once.

That the more people see you—

                                                   the real, half-lost half-found,

like-them life in your face—

      the more they will offer and ask

to share and to learn 

across that sensory space.

That the worse you are at something, the better you get

at understanding how it works—

           each slow step that you make,

      each detail you refine.

That—if you were born as perfect as your dreams—

You'd never try, 

never imagine, never grow,

never understand how to help another soul.

And you'd be the only, lonely one:

           bored and boring, 

      perfectly done,

           no skill to practice, 

      no challenging game

to play, 

      no fun laughing at yourself

           (or with anyone else 

   “I used to do it that way”) …

You'd just more and more

want to be imperfect,

as time went by.

How to say hello like a person ...

No one wants me to hear them:

understand the literal meanings

of the words they say.

And no one wants me to see them:

notice their stomach muscles

or proportional thighs.

And fucking NO one wants me to touch them:

shake their hand like it's checking off

number 32 of 88 in the factory line.

All of that is too distant: “I translate, I assess, I approve”

while looking—like a machinist—

through a checklist, for a flaw.

            *If I ever do forget,

            in the here-and-now,

            how to say “Hi”

            to another 'I,'

            Here's how:

Listen like every word invented ever is nonsense

    until we glue it into our life (

                                              mother's arms...warm...love...near;

                    sleeping...dark...gone...fear)

                                              where meaning grows in our

                                       bodies, first.

                                               Then in our voice.

Speak to make one simple move,

         to connect:

                               “Would you like a hand?”

                      “May I share

                                    what I've found?”

                   —my options offered;

              your gracious

                    choice.

How to be a better controlling bitch ...

If you really want to break me,

     Be kind to me first:

                          Making your voice such delicious joy

                          That I slow-breathe and relax.

If you really want to school me,

     Come learn about me first:

                          Getting so close to my mind, you'll

                          Answer just as I start to ask.

If you really want to re-shape me,

     Accept me as I am:

                          Lulling me into such soft self, your

                          Hands press directly into my raw soul.

If you really want to own me,

     Keep me well first:

                          Adding to my days such gifts and joy,

                          My love for you becomes a truth I can't control.

                                                   While a basic bitch bears down

                                                           On my beaten skin—

                                    Dragging flesh forward

                   Until its, or her own, demise—

             An alpha bitch breathes

                  Into my half-full lungs,

                                                  Singing so strongly

                                                                         That my mind's

                                                                                Melody attunes

                                                            As its 

                                                 own

                                Sounds 

                  arise.

Mourning is a blind fire ...

I remember when the pain came in,

Rising like a storm     from my knee.

Soon      I was cursing       

                                          everyone that I        

                                                            loved,

         And they           were—in turn—    cursing            

                                                                    me.

My knee never said—not a thing—

Nor cause-trailed back to the people I blamed.

Isn't that the worst? 

To feel what you hate,

And still fail to learn what it's named.

There are thirteen-hundred tendons,

And I only notice the two that tear.

I never really      take time

         to watch them         

                                       move,

Or                  thank them

                   for        being there.

The doctor calls this one                     

                                                            “left ACL”

             – but

That's like calling me                    

                                          “female,    29.”

I never named you, 

    tendon.                But I

miss you.    You       were mine.

And soon I'll have       a cadaver's white

Sinew stitched        where you were,    inside.

But I wish             you were there, right     now,

Whole in me— as I howl in my hobbled     stride:

“This is all           your fault! I hate you,     I hate you!

You don't care        about me! I don't            need you, 

                                         okay?”

                                                            I won't learn 

                                                         whose faces 

                                                          I make cry 

                                                        in the dark.

                                                          But I do 

                                                        feel you—

                                                   and by you 

                                                  I mean me—

                                                      anyway.

Were you thinking of giving up? ...

If you were dead,

I'd forget you after a while.

The way you moved, the words

you liked to use,        your sneeze,

your smile.

                         I definitely wouldn't

remember     all your best stories and

dreams,     the foods and feelings you

loved,    the lessons you tried sharing

with me.

               Because I never got those

the first time   around—and once

you were gone,   that's all lost

in your lightless      head.

Of course, you     can

always keep trying—

slow as I am,

                    still

I'll listen

              if you

tell me.

              It may

take some

                  time;

          good  thing

                you're not

                                dead.

The answer ...

Another knock at the door.

         The edge of a knuckle

         And beyond it, mystery.

                         I jump,       not                         expecting

                                  That      sound       to            come.

                                  I freeze,         not              knowing

                         What I        will         see.

                         I face a choice     as   I               hover

                                  Above this handle, keeping locked

                                  A thick-hinged   plane    of   wood.

                         I cannot both keep safe    from       what

                                  Might be 'bad',   out there,      and

         Welcome in joy       from           what

Might be good.

I could shout,                        “Who is there?”

         To reassure myself—

         But on    what           grounds                   believe

                         Anything from         a          faceless

                                  Voice, when     genuine sounds (

                                  Natural      as         mockingbird

                         Calls) so deftly,   

                                                     disarmingly 

                                                                         deceive.

And here,                                           

                                                           you might think,

         I leave                                the door         

                                                                          closed. 

         Turn my          back to

       The shadows                 outside,            

                                                                      mumble 

                               to myself “Who needs 'em.”

                                                But then I look at my stove's 

                                                                     locked-in light,

                                    blocked square by obstinate, 

                                          carbon-stained bricks

sucking in her bound brilliance each night—

To 'safety'; my fire's opposite.

           her counterpoint.

      her antithesis.

                                        Safety

                                                      is the antichrist 

                                                                    of Freedom.

“This doesn't count” ~ texts from a relationship not to stay in ... (Found Poem)

                          Be more cryptic about hanging out with me 

                       why don't you... 

                      how directly do I need to ask? 

I'm not gonna assume you're inviting me, 

especially after last night.

                        I was annoyed with you yes,

                     But you also left

I left because you didn't want me there - 

                     I felt blamed and attacked and irritated. 

                  Surprising I wouldn't want to keep feeling that way? 

             It's like you were just goading me:

                Unclearly explaining your ideas 

                and then blaming me for misunderstanding 

Maybe I should give you some space today - 

you're clearly a little O.D.'d on me.

            Leaving me alone doesn't fix things. They fester

              If you want to be written off, that's a great way to achieve it 

I am clearly fog-headed right now, yes? 

And you're expressing irritation with my poor communication, yes? 

So imagine how that's likely going to play out today, is all I'm saying

                                                              You put it on me AGAIN

                           Not “I'm still feeling I'll communicate badly.”

            Or any other thing you could say that relates to You rather than me 

          You are a shit apologizer. Period. I meant what I said. 

                           And I'd really like you to work on it

I’m just confirming back what you’re saying. 

YOU are irritated. I have been communicating fine 

with everyone else I’ve talked to.

                                      You never take responsibility. 

                 Also I was referring to your apology skills 

               not your general communication skills 

I am happy to take responsibility. 

I’m not happy to be barraged with intellectual challenges 

interspersed with insults and criticisms

           You melodramatically pontificate 

That’s ^ much more useful to say 

than calling me “Shitty” over and over

                        Don't put your self loathing on me 

                Don't put your "nobody wants me around" on me 

                  I don't fucking deserve it

Im saying you use the descriptor “shitty” with me regularly

That’s fact, not projection

                        Whatever. Maybe you're shitty regularly 

                   Why is that my fault 

                I put up with you

                   Regardless of how shitty I feel you're acting 

I have told you, many times: 

Saying that's not constructive. Not positive nor encouraging. 

Just an uncritical, useless, hurtful insult 

                        I don't always control my language

                I don't know what to tell you about that. I say things. 

            I try to be constructive but sometimes 

                I'm too frustrated 

And yet I’m held to the standard 

of tight, accurate, controlled communication

                                Ha.

                        You're a fool.

                     You say plenty that I'd rather you didn't. 

“Shitty” “Fool” “Asshole” 

in the last 5 minutes.

                                Yeah. I'm pissed off at you 

                           Also I said 'maybe.'

Yes. And you’re being unkind.

And you think it’s okay

And it’s not.

                                How should I convey how I feel better

                        I don't think you set any example for me—

                          Although you clearly think so.

Just don’t call me disparaging names all the time, 

and then hit me with “Don’t put your self loathing on me” - 

you’re doing all the loathing.

                            Condescendingly telling me 

                     "See how magnanimous I'm being right now rae? 

                Isn't this great? Unlike that time YOU ruined the wedding for me."

                  Fuck you. Just fuck you. Enjoy your life 

Okay. You’re call. 

This is why I wait for the invitation

                        Because you're a coward

                        I get it

Because I wouldn’t call you a coward.

                        No you'd just passive aggressively 

                        insult me in other ways 

I tell you directly what you do that bothers me.

                        Ha.

                        Keep on lying to yourself.

                        It's gotten you far in life so far hasn't it?

                        You've had such great relationships with women

                        Keep blaming me!

                        Cuz I'm the common denominator, aren't I?

Please stop texting me. 

what you’re writing is a lot of heavy put-down to take.

                        You think you communicate well. You don't. 

                        That's why people consistently don't get you 

                        even though you're relatively simple. Isn't that true?

                        I work really hard to understand you,

                        Unlike just about everyone else.

                        They look at surface-level josh. Whoopie. 

                        Give me some credit for the consistent work I put in with you.

                                You don't.

                        I'm just an unkind monster who insults you all the time.

You look inside me, and then throw it in my face in an angry barrage.

Not pleasant, not kind.

                        You're wrong

                        What do I throw in your face

Read your texts.

                        This doesn't count as anything other than me being angry at you

It hurts like it counts

                        And you refuse to back down. 

                        Refuse to apologize. 

                        Refuse to be nice. 

                        So it's gonna keep coming 

                                until you do.

                        You know how to make it stop 

                        You don't want to. 

                        You'd rather be stubborn. 

                I want you to see exactly how far it's getting you with me

                        Once you give in, you note how my behavior changes. 

                But you keep standing the ground that upset me 

                and this is what happens:

                        I escalate. 

                                Until you give in. 

                I give in too. Don't act like I don't. 

        And at the wedding I did actually give in. 

                        You twisted the facts so you could feel 

                                like you didn't ruin it for yourself 

                         but it's false. You lied. 

        You lied last night to me, 

                blamed me, condescended to me, 

                        and attacked me.

                        You never apologized. 

                        You left. 

   So this is where that gets you.