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Snippets [Oct. 30th, 2017|01:14 am]
[Current Location |Shepherd’s Purse]
[mood |Purple Violet]
[music |Peach]

Trimmings from my notebook -

He had the quiet charm of an old and unusual library book, well loved and discovered by the community one at a time, intimate and unassuming and kind, it's treasured pages yellowed and marked with clever notes in faded handwriting. These interactions were extended to everyone, in good will, in a humble and warm way that didn't reach out for attention, but drew people in deeply, by happenstance, and that was just right.


The quiet, warm air had a buttery and indulgent quality, plump with potential and soft as a lover's arms, or a tropical temperate tide rising and falling in pace with the calm breath of the sea. Sliding out of dreams and into the whispering lucidity of a well rested afternoon the world was crisp and gentle, more like swimming than moving through full gravity.


I watched a van kill a pigeon, a thumping small firework of feathers, a simple and redundant computer program ending, shutting off code mid phrase, cluttering the pavement.
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Shh, shhh my heart, be still. [Jun. 30th, 2017|12:39 am]
the love I have for you is a bird
beating it's wings against my
ribcage filling with water.
It struggles for air as the sky is replaced by sea,
frantic for life.
Shedding feathers and grasping claws,
with all the strength adrenaline can purchase.
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Invitations [May. 8th, 2017|11:23 pm]
[Current Location |Show me your dreams.]

"Look at me,"
it is my soul that calls upon my name -
pulling focus from where our irises like windows in a resting state
let light in (they were calm as sunshine)
to all that vision in a sharpened beam pouring fountain deep into his;
my pupils flutter from the engagement.
The world vibrates.
I can feel music on my skin
like a prickling and warm wash of electricity,
all poppy petal soft around the edges of the bass.
I look through the open door to which I've been called
and there in his eyes he shows me a world of joy:
the first footsteps onto a firefly flooded fairground,
desert mountain ranges at dawn,
rope ladders that climb to the tops of circus tents,
cobblestone streets echoing with a foreign language,
thunderstorms and warm bedsheets,
a labyrinth of unfolding delights, memories, and fantasies winds and turns and opens quicker than consciousness,
until awareness of any edge exceeds my grasp.
I catch myself in half a moan,
an escaping smile, cheeks hot, weak in the knees,
oh. oh. oh.
and returning my expression immaculately
like still water returns moonlight in generous and effortless symmetry,
his voice is a purr
"Good girl."
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Breakup Song (v2) [Apr. 26th, 2017|02:38 pm]
When he tells me he loves me
he tells me with knives
and it's
all the way down.
When we ache, dipping down to drown for beauty, black water coaxing blue toes
stiff with chill
into that shifting center of the sea,
water wealthy with whispers,
of the damned or the dead -
goth boy show me your pain,
stretched and stitched with lamentations,
I'll hand you mine in a letter
and it
all the way down.
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View of the Lake [Apr. 18th, 2017|01:14 am]
I watch the way love layers over the years,
living a lifetime along the lake:
the sentimental places
we go for beauty
and go to again -
fresh eyed and first
each time rediscovering a sliver of wonder in the way the ripples of black lick up moonshine and droplets of stars,
bare bulbs on a spiderweb wire shoe-lacing together the ironwork lanterns and ringing in stray oaks.
The birds flocking home
to nature's lovemaking - hungry and forceful,
belligerent and sweet webbed feet and bobbing breasts, half-dreaming of coin-covered fish glinting in the cool algae.
See the dewey grass where I lost my pulse under his fingertips and kissed until we sunburned and locked our foreign languages together.
The inviting dock end with wood that creaks and pushes the grasping wet to-and-fro in small splashing enthusiastic greeting,
where after the masquerade he took me by the hand and pulled me into a clumsy waltz.
How the stillness of the black melted at the edges and stars seamlessly surrounded us, overhead and under foot in a perfect sphere.

Just as with each first kiss we rediscover the shape of our own intentions.
The tugging thread of nostalgia
Swept up and woven
Into the new seasons of an evolving tapestry.
Oh how love layers,
like rings in a tree.
Oh, irreplaceable, irresistible,
wrapping the heartwood with expanding skin,
Fresh blood,
new green.
I whisper I love you to the dark murky water,
And feel the pangs of a dozen missing persons,
a hundred nights and days -
Shapeless and nameless longing
That sinks to the bottom of the lake.
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First Nature [Apr. 14th, 2017|01:09 am]
You are kind to me in the strangest ways,
not only the grand gestures or painstakingly built little train tracks we learn to run our eager open palms along,
a lifelong game of

{Marco / call me}
{Polo / I come}

You are kind with the dance steps rehearsed and woven into our fairytales.
We trace poorly and constantly-edited instruction manuals,
the book of love
worn and torn and full of misspellings.

We eagerly offer ourselves in the footsteps of the teachings of poets and photographers, bedtime stories,
our parents and friends, past lovers, and pets.
All the ideas about romance, painstakingly collected in a disorganized library stack of screenplays and blueprints,
helpful reminders from the wide world.
Try this.
This is how you show someone your love.

[The love is intangible.
You cannot share it, only be consumed by it:
keep it in a little cup inside your chest
and drink and drink,
but never dry and never give a drop away.
I have tried to give my blood, yet it is no more love than moonlight.
Loving you may quench my thirst, but never yours.
The love we grow in another's image we cannot share; it courses through us like madness, fuels and finds its way around our insides, always tapping on the thinest parts of its capsule
like our eyes or fingertips.]

Yes, you paint those signs of affection, big and small,
combing and clawing palimpsest for all experiences now bent to new purpose,
wasting not a day of lessons learned in this urgent and joyful recital.
Every prior study was rehearsal for you;
we will learn to better ourselves through the other's grace.

Yet your love shows itself most startlingly where it could not be trained:
in the uncouth or over-eager, involuntary and compulsive -
you mind the steerage of your course with care,
but enthusiasm escapes where you could not
or would not
reign it in,
whispering sweetness in your sleep.
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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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