bones

At last true Winter sets in.

the end of the world

or something more Eternal

crushed beneath the soles of a fine line

called surrender.

walk the taut-pulled wire with

your eyes, both of them,

to the quiet fury of the moon

beneath the sun, often forgotten

her begrudged magic whispers of 

the reasons which you brand 

nonexistent.

destruction is simply but another

artwork, alive, 

the prize of Love

Love, you need not spit on

nor understand the shadows of 

Surrender to the death,

the purity of emptiness 

the knowing that we are all cages

housing the light 

of Nothing, everything 

rolled up in bags of bones.

there is no closure, here, in the marrow

suck out the crystallized cells,

tongue and teeth no pity,

feed on the essence of bereavement and

warm the skeleton that dances and cries so boldly

if only you'll allow it 

the bliss of Winter. 

Water

I awake to the sound of rain and the taste of dream lingering on my tongue,

Visions of leaping headfirst, breasts bared, into water

Submerging myself until I wash away the dehydration.

I am so thirsty, so hungry, so aching

and these mornings still

Finding myself digging my toes into the earth, 

Hoping to grow roots that crawl down to core

Steaming tea in hand, breathing the not so distant echo

of autumn's call to arms.

I am craving less deficiency in change, the shift to readiness, to feel

The water

Slide across each crevice of skin and into the deepest call of my being. 

Look back to see forward

Go out Wildly and Alone.

Eat figs slowly because each bite is more like Sex.

Getting older is a trick of fate, but being succulent is dancing in the face of danger; savoring the rain (sans clothing); do not fear throwing your head back and sending your voice through the wind. Tonight I walked through the trees and watched the crickets grow. Hold your own hand and remain bold despite the growing emptiness of the corners.

Faces of Intimacy.

Nobody tells us as little girls that we may fall in love and have moments of hating our beloved.

We build many walls in our goals of self-protection, but ultimately the walls create isolation. Break the walls down. Start simple --hug people more. Reach out when you need support -- don't be afraid to ask for more, or to appreciate what you have. Stop looking in the wrong places for fullness. Let people teach you about yourself; live the questions instead of screaming for answers.


Erotic Robot.

This is a woman unconsciously in search of herself.
This woman has sexual encounters because
(1) it is easier than saying no
(2) she is fulfilling someone's fantasies at the expense of her own
(3) to be polite
(4) get it over with so the man will just leave
(5) it gives her a false sense of satisfaction, of power - being desired is desirable

True succulence comes when the sensuous woman replaces the erotic robot.

 Succulence comes amongst spring rains and tree branches weighed heavily by wild pears, these plane rides and wedding kisses and fear shedding and un-brushed hair and sincere plunges in the river after shared fruit and joined laughter, barefoot exploration. In the early creep of sexy summer, there is succulence like charged violet skies electric with heat, with newness and necessity.

Marcello: Live positive vibrations, always.
Start with a cup of tea and end with remembering --
remembering a loved one now passed, a favorite primal smell, a holiday well-spent, an art brought to life, the odd power of a storm, what it's like to be most comfortable naked.

Fire welding

Temper me with your wilderness,
mold me into your hands
Speak loudly, forge and anvil
so that I may understand
 The ways which build your fires
when all eyes are turned away
So few loves could burn as brightly
nor compare
To such silent art you make.

A Puerh meditation

He only gets better with each pour,
fragrant and more flavor as the leaves steep
deeper, longer,
cultivated like no other,
such silken dogma
falls upon my eager tongue each time
I dare tip the cup.
With an intensity
and illumination
that increases the concentration of
delicacy,
nutrient-rich within the bold depths,
the medicinal nature of
Such surprising softness,
enlightened gaze, soft touch, 
Easy masculinity or
rugged sentimentality as the
illusive steam of lore invades my senses
slides into my dark depths
and fulfills,
builds a cell-woven golden age
I long to return to
day upon day.

Each of us takes tomorrow for granted. We visit the days and hours as if they are a luxury hotel, neglecting to soak up the brilliance of the earth and the opulence of the love that surrounds us, squeezing the orange for more juice until it bursts in our hands. We forget what it means to be full, because we tell ourselves we need something more, something better; as we strive to get by we forget that we are alive, we are enough, in this moment. 

the first firework spark i felt
brought you straight to mind,
hot and poignant, real yet fleeting.
a burst of something powerful yet delicate:
the commodity of beauty should be
a prerequisite to all things.

when recovery means washing yourself of
the grease of humanity or
collapsing inward into sleep
suddenly different lines of life become
very clear...
 drawn upon ragged scratch paper
and all starting from the same form of source -
 a point, a pinprick -
yet it is not light we are born from, but
darkness
and a familiar darkness to which
we will all return.

are we are so busy hunting for something we pretend to understand
streamlining the same stark landscape
that we rarely see one another
with the fire of clarity?
we rarely stop to scan the scenery
for soft bits of peeling birch,
snapshots of powdered moss and crumbled pebbles
so artful in
their decaying, vibrant splendor.

i can't seem to clear my throat of the madness
the sickness of yesteryear,
and in the wee early am on January 1st
i scrub off my makeup rough enough
to raw my cheeks -
rubbing 2011 from my face
and ignoring the endless ache of cold
creaking in my old bones beneath
the sparkle of celebratory war paint.
i have turned on the closet light for
the new months spilled ahead
but i have yet to give in and lick my fingers clean,
scoring the mess of months that pervade
my garden of organs and cells.

i cannot promise you the wholeness
of Eden because
i am not made of light,
but to me you remain a bright spark
of something real in this duplicity of time
when each hour is a knock on death's door
and we're all smashing down the walls attempting to
bare some lightweight joy
and make a clean free break.
the water in me will forgive the crevices their
flaws,
you only must unfold and open
your invisible cities with sincerity.

let emptiness be your cure and not
your ailment.
let wayward streets be damned by the
gorgeous dark wilderness of you contrasted to
the light of one smile,
your smile is the sun
and fallen folks like me, we need the sun.

one morning i will wake up
to your face planted right against my own,
and another morning i wake up
with another shot at life
is another good day indeed.