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(no subject) [Mar. 7th, 2017|10:45 pm]
In Granada

Like a band of stars splitting the sky,
a spray of blood from blunt impact against perfect white sheets.
The dappled-leaf patterns of color in your eyes -
ever focused and probing.
There is a flash of tension and then relief in your brow,
a glow of warmth where just under your skin, surely, hot coal
with grey ash and red embers washed your insides
burned you from within,
light leaking from those autumn points of color in your eyes -
your breath against the veil of sweat on my skin
melts all traces of a snowy exterior,
white giving way to blushing rose.
Your voice is half a purr, half relieved sigh,
and your shoulders lower you to press firmly against my chest,
for just a moment
until our clocks synchronize,
drumming in perfect unison,
stopping time.
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Imbolc 2017 [Feb. 1st, 2017|01:48 pm]
With Tea, I addressed the quarters:
Toasting to the South, I burnt my tongue;
To the East, felt the air around me and exhaled deeply;
To the North, pressed my feet into the ground and lengthened my spine;
To the West, wept.

We gather in community service, to center and reconnect our disparate parts. To be less alone in our experience of our bodies, our emotions, and our place in the wide world, accepting the personal as universal, and the universal as existing within ourselves.

In Ireland, on Imbolc - later turned "Candlemas" as Catholicism digested the people's traditions and Gods, villages would extinguish all of their flames, save a central bonfire, from which all of their lamps and hearths would be relit, and every flame in the community would stem from the same fire, would be the same fire. In celebration of winter easing its grip, and the slow but steady approach of light and spring, we clean together, make new brooms, banish the darkness that's crept into every corner of our minds, banish the ache of cold from our bodies, the slumber that's wrapped its arms around our ambition, and watch the earth attentively for the first signs of green growth struggling in the sun.

Today, we recreate the tradition of contributing parts of ourselves, honest offerings, to a central point from which we will all draw up again a sense of interconnectedness and community support, holding one another through winter's end. Rather than the casting off of light and reunion around a central bonfire, we bring with us the waters of the world, and gather around a well.

The waters we bring carry with them a part of ourselves and the spaces we inhabit:

* Physical spaces within our bodies, which reflect our health, our age, every sensation within the network of cells that holds our life, the water of our being, past present and future. The embodiment of the sum of all of our experiences. Our heartbeat.

* Emotional spaces within our psyche, the feelings, dreams, thoughts and ideas that compose who we are and how we relate to one another. The water which moves us to weep or to rage. The psychological response to all of our experiences. Our love.

* Physical and emotional spaces within the world, the wider context for everything we experience about our bodies and feelings as living beings in a living world. The places we have visited, the communities we have known, the mountains, oceans, and rivers we have seen, touched, and been moved by. The habitat within which we have all of our experiences. Our world.

The waters we contribute to the well in the center of our circle reflect one another's unique experiences, bodies, emotions, and place in the world. Bear witness without judgement. From the waters of our well, where we are both our own and universally connected, we will draw water up to replace that which we'd brought, released, and cleansed. As with a bonfire, with our well we rekindle our community, and ready ourselves for spring.
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Rinse, repeat, get better. [Dec. 26th, 2016|07:31 pm]
[Current Location |Riding the autonomic half-life down]
[mood |Fight or Flight or Fall to the Floor]
[music |Halou: Morsecode]

Echo: I love you.
Echo: I fear.
Echo: this nausea, this cacophonous heartbeat.
Echo: you're safe.
Echo: nothing has changed.
Echo: I love you.

not eloquentCollapse )
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Tunnel Vision [Nov. 24th, 2016|01:22 am]
The sunshine warmth of your fingers rests attentively along the grooves of my leather bound spine
an instrument you deftly play.
As you move
the sigh that escapes my cherry bitten lips
is the pitch of a bow pulling strings
- can you hear the violins?
aim true
and send your arrow on.
Take me high into your arms.

It strikes.

In that electric moment I know you
the sudden way stag knows huntsman,
blood rushing and pupils wild with the roundness of the world.
Eternity in a moment, with self-possessed gravity
and the edges of the world
go dark.
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For my Corvid [Nov. 16th, 2016|05:00 pm]
What liminal limerence wraps its vines and
untethers me from myself
All the invested balk at my irregularities,
my mind appears to be no steady market on a short timeline.
Distractible? Inevitable.
I circle around like the seasons and only the sort of
nature accustomed to ebbing and flowing tides
may make sense of it.
We are trained to think there is less of ourselves when there is more of
someone else.
We have learned to partition and rank experience: this is great because it is more,
this is lesser because there are many
- yet would you devalue any given day shared?
I traveled across the world for two weeks and poured
the shape of
into who I found there.
An affair that had no route to go, but by geography
pooled and evaporated.
It was a river never let out to sea, consumed whole by the dry earth
amidst all the cravings for rain a brittle desert body could beg for.
It was no less true for its ending.

And you
you want us not to end, or wane, or lessen or divide.
You would be my sea, and scorn my rivers
though the water is the same.

I will share with you the truth of our seasons as best as I know them
now seven years and 150 days in (today):
you are a constant current, the electricity in my pulse,
a bright and diligent star I sail ever toward.
I cannot, and have not ever, been able to look on that brightness continuously; there must be breath between our notes.
I have seen relationships suffocate by smothering flames with
every kind of attempt to guard them.
I have pined and waited and wanted,
kept up at night and furiously afraid that
was in this place.
If you're going to come here with me, we're both going to pine sometimes.
The wanting keeps the fire growing,
the uncertainty challenges us to grow, too.
Dynamism cannot play too closely with comfort,
I struggle with it, too.
That vital, impassioned epic of our love is the product of
countless storms weathered
and so many opportunities to extend
It's what makes us romantic,
it's what keeps us courting.
Focus on the desire that lives in your fear,
the yearning behind your fear,
on your dedication in the void, nostalgia in the dark,
and I promise to continue to do the same.
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You found me in my confessional. [Nov. 16th, 2016|01:22 am]
The Beginning of a Bedtime Story
[Alt: A Short Bedtime Story]

The scent of your skin is still on my hair,
(aged paper, earth, smoke, lavender, and longing)
catching me off guard in moments
just as you do
just as you have.
I could not have expected you, but like the inevitability of nightfall
I open eagerly, fearfully, at your touch.
Of course these desires give me concern -
how could you map the way under my skin so quickly unguided?
What meticulously concocted dark designs
carried you through my labyrinth
I remember
the winsome October mist,
the Spanish moss overhead,
and in an hour or so
you were through,
and I found myself
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Impulse and Accident [Mar. 30th, 2016|03:08 pm]
[Current Location |Uncertainty.]
[mood |very much alive]
[music |Hedningarna: Ölbackens Polska]

Impulse and accident;
the first taste of you - half proximity,
half timing.
We crave some deeper meaning writ in stars
or imagine this contact is the fruit of an unattainable
deliberatly perscribed clarity of mind -
a summoning ritual that paired us together
in immaculate romance
symmetrical and everlasting,
a triumph, a glass blade,
a cup of wine which never dries.
We imagine love is ordained
in a wild landscape of teeth & thorns
which promises naught but entropy.
We are entropy,
we are for entropy.

You were an impulse,
you were an accident,
and my taste for you like so many foods
is as fluctuating as the blood that courses
thick and pulled by monthly tides.
The moon will cast her sight on any creature that walks bellow.
You were not special, there was no design,
the catastrophic catacombs of thread and fate
are a spider's snare that tunnels on and on forever
and caves into itself
in the center of the world.

Do not lie. Cast off your superstition.
This is no less real for having cacophonous origins,
don't hold a perfect thing up imagining it is perfect
[like humans love to do],
and terrified yearn and howl at your pain that you might never
have such a clean design again.
We are unclean.
Spare the stars your hexes,
and fear not the unknowable odds of living.
I cannot love you any more.
I cannot love you any less.
There is no wit to blame.
There is only impulse
and accident.
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re·frain^2 [Feb. 12th, 2016|04:29 pm]

Without your warmth the world contorted. My own shadow departed where no light could bring it back to my skin, that careful edge where you end and I begin.

I am ready, wanting the whole of you: your anger and sadness and fear, your grace. The steadfast will so burdened by bad habits, undoing your better intentions when the quiet gnaws too near and the season chokes you. Your darting wit, your confidence and your sudden sinking self doubts.

I am ready, wanting the whole of you: your pointed determination and your release from expectations upon changing course. The stirring ambition alongside patience which tempers and transforms like a forge. Your hospitable compassion and territorial, defensive scrutiny, too. Your joy at giving, your admiration of others.

I am ready, wanting the whole of you: your mistakes and your reform, your quiet hours that stretch into day-dreaming, spent running through books and virtual architecture to occupy a restless mind before the warmth of bed and dull of morning.

I am ready, wanting the whole of you: The unbridled fire, spontaneous or schemed that pulls the richest fantasies up from my mind as though meticulously dredging the depths of an unknowably vast sea for wrecked wealth, for stories. We bask in adrenaline-steeped affairs poets wish for.

There is nothing left to build with but time, and we,

we survived - storm battered and capsized.

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Le Monde Parfait. [Jan. 20th, 2015|05:17 pm]
Oui, mon enfant - le monde parfait. Je sais.

Chalk will fill the air, it is gently falling snow caught in the evening sunlight. Soft creaking, the yeilding sounds of netting, of leather, of stressed metal trusses flexing, rope through a pulley, and the folding embrace of a cushioned mat will set precussion to the string-solo of legs whipping through the air, swooping at fierce velocity, push, pull, push, pull. Swing. Every breath, every sound, perfect. La repetition du cirque.

Warm sounds, hot skin that threatens to tear in two, adrenaline sharpened senses, the endorphin rush. The rig sounds like a mandolin, a flute, a stretched-leather drum. Push, pull, push, pull. Parfait.
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Works in Progress. Nov 5, 2014. [Nov. 5th, 2014|12:15 am]
On the relative perception of time:

Dearly departed friend,
I will see you in the past.

It was a companion of mine, very alive and very near me who jovially spoke his often-heard farewell:
I will see you in the future!
Unconventional perhaps to speak with such sure affirmation
- yet we hope, in every moment, that it is an accurate forecast.
What better to want for but to be reunited with a friend, after all?
A lover, a team-mate, tu familia-carnal.
I will [I am certain] see you in the future!
See you in the future! A dramatically more optimistic stance than my sister's favorite
unconventional farewell
(a habit she began in childhood which greatly unsettled our parents)
"Bye, don't die!" - more of a request than a blessing.
Don't die [and] I will see you in the future.

Yet, setting aside optimism or pessimism for a neutral playing field,
as the future is [for all appearences] unwritten,
and who are we to demand or wrangle it into predictable obedience,
no, there is no taming the future,
I will make a second, more certain proclimation:
I will see you in the past.

To my friends, family, and all loved who have departed,
I propose another jovial farewell and mean it with the same anticipation
with the same absurdist reverence and sincerity;
until we meet again,
and I will see you in the past.

On Daylight Savings:
Whose daylight are we saving motherfuckers?
Business men? Roosters? Day dwellers with early mornings and sad sad eyes. You do nothing for my daylight, the darkness leaks in the bottom of our boat ever more quickly and I am treading waves of shadow all the live long night. Winter creeps its shady fingers into my bohemian sloth-nest; no, it cannot make me a morning person.
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