a new path

I would like to carve a new path through stone
Stone they haven’t blasted a tunnel through yet
I would like to carve a new path that wouldn’t be perfectly smooth
But there would be a sureness in the way forward
Not a slide but a slope
It would be too dark to look behind
Too dark to see the other side
But a solidity underneath, sand
no longer clinging
Bottoms of my feet flat against the red earth.


What would I be if I didn’t lose myself in you?
They say I’m supposed to start seeing myself through my own eyes.
You rub up against me and leave

It’s strange when I glimpse the being with my name
And recognize how much she’s aching, forget a pillow
I’ve given her gravel to sleep on and black mud to walk in
She doesn’t really know what it’s like not to

She’s been healing for so long and she’s also just begun.


Sometimes when the wrong color is on the wrong cap, I think about eating preschool lunch at the State Fair and the ex who overpopulates my dreams, I don’t want to be holding myself back, comparing sole-focused types or easily drunken types, my neither abyss leaves me drowsy for days and in between wildly alive, rarely satisfied, the good kid in me clarified, I chew through calm for something beating, it’s a rhythm only I’m good at repeating, trusting the things that slip away, and those that won’t unstuck, it’s hard to get off a ride when it’s fun, but when you throw up, whether you like it or not, you’re done, notified ending, I’m not sure I need the world to watch this transitioning digging for genuine in a sandbox.


When I was a child
in between the oozey stickiness
leaks and holey door screens
there was something sharp in my experiencing
a freshness, an unfolding
at the same time, everything was permeating into me
there was no shell for my soft body
I didn’t even know a shell was possible
So I shrunk away eating
a lot that wasn’t mine
some was beautiful
most made my belly ache
hard to trust that this would slip away
it was constant cycling
When I finally found those who gazed
at me with understanding
it was the unfolding
I could see more clearly
gentle dirt to walk on
tears fell
an embrace
a steady unwinding
I worked hard not to blur the lines
I’m still working
there is so much more space between my aches now
a bright ribbon unraveling, I’m ready to follow
believing the possibility of living widely
with fresh softness.

a redirection

Cruising down this lifeway
wondering if it’s possible not to go so fast
bouncy castles deflated now

i can see that ache inside of you

wondering how to do it right
i ask myself big questions
i give myself big answers
not an answer but a direction
taking further sweeps than before
i’m still humbled by my limitations
the fragility of the human condition
beats inside of me

some days I don’t feel solid enough

some days all I can do is take these harsh
colonial words
and try to make something

some days I am squashed into a wooden pew –
is this holy?

some days I feel like a stick burning
burning down to the bone
burning at the disrespect for the seasons
forest fires, floods
the darkness during day
the global warming
my belly wants to expand, to take it all in
to not think so much

it tugs at me so much

life exploding in layers, praying for a pace I can handle
love consistent and strong, lessons still learning
missed opportunities in conversation still, longing

it’s your pain that makes you beautiful

i wonder about these unrealized dreams
about the way that we tiptoe across the different levels
and what people do in their darker moments
i wonder about coping
and the particular qualities
that keep them trying

we are on fire
and yet we constantly work to stifle our own flames

what if we let ourselves expand
and redirected this water, sacred
to where it was needed.


What to do with the orange
You’ve left so long on your desk
For weeks it looked so fresh
I almost wanted to take it
And peal into the juicy

I’d eat away its loneliness
If it wasn’t for propriety
Now the skin a molted brown

Sweetness sucked out
There’s something about the neglect
That makes me want to shake things
Want to go into your office
And stroke it, poor thing
If it wasn’t for propriety

It’s not like I haven’t been leaving papers
Out to organize for months now.


a poem from March 2014 that has resonated with me recently 

At the base of the mountain is mud




the kind that seeps into my crevices and cracks

that builds forts under my finger nails

stamps into the soles of my feet

oozes down my neck

under my arms

across my body


far from smooth silt

this mud is sedimentary

this mud is dirty

this mud has history


Before I was always looking for water




ethereal in quality

water that would allow me to climb

water that would absolve me


I had banished the bath

as soon as I thought I was too old

to let my brother see my naked

my mother had always liked her water warm

and so I hunted for the hottest showers

not caring

about dry skin

a frustrated father

global warming


I had always drank my tea


not willing to wait

for the water to cool down

to acknowledge

that the burned tongue

was my tongue


and that I was always falling


but this time something tells me

that I could wash with dirt

that it was not about what I washed with

but the way I washed

in slow circles, gently

up my shins, around my thighs

that I could cup my elbows

massage my shoulders

run my fingers through long, tangled hair

that I could kneel with my knees tucked under

hearting beating, breasts pressed against the earth, mother

moves inside of me


I am no longer afraid of pain

I am no longer afraid of shame

I am no longer afraid of never


reaching the top

I no longer needed to climb

the mountain


I am the mountain.


I have work to do

I have dancing to do

I have loving to do


And it does not matter whether you

will be willing to kiss the mud

on my belly.



Part 1

These days the nights are long and somewhat stormy

I sleep with the window open

I acknowledge the things I’ve started that I may never finish

And fantasize about going back to sleep

I wrap myself in my loneliness

I find it comforting, almost

I’d like to learn how to ask for what I need

I know that I grasp too tightly

I know that so much lives inside that is still hiding

I want to be here for the small things

I cook the same food I always cook

And still ask people if things sound ok

And still wonder about canceling

And why people do it so often

And if I could do it more

I want to let the words flow through me

I think back to missed opportunities

And love crazy deep

I know that writing is the key

between life and life, life

I still fear inadequacy

Why am I never the right temperature?

What of all the things we prop ourselves up with?

What about when they fall through?

None of us are entirely drug free.

And I’m stunted again by a feeling of my own fragility

I don’t want to read you things I wrote long ago

I want to write breath into this moment

I want to stop taking things so seriously, so personally

I want to let myself flow with my being.

Every story, make believe or real, comes from somewhere.


Part 2

When are you coming home my dear?

I promise I will hold you and forgive

We are like twin mountains, sturdy

We can escape fear

I know that I can which means you can

I’m starting to understand things differently

Which means you will too, or already are.

Intentions do matter. And so does the desire to dance, I can do one thing at a time and I can heal. We can dance through this world together, spinning, not being afraid, I’ll catch you, and you’ll catch me, and we won’t even know that it was beautiful until much later.


I can eat gentleness into oblivion and wonder at the pace of death, and the way in which our bodies, minds are littered with real, and the way in which we only have now, and we must grip it, precious.

My body wants to eat, but doesn’t know what to eat, I am left swimming through another day, thinking I know what I’m doing

I forgot to call back, forgot to do the deed that needs to be done, forgot to be the next level of good person.

I start things, and lose track

Like love poems, like healing

I wonder how not to be broken, I’m glad that you are breaking my heart, and I think that we will probably come, hunger knowing

All of us forget so much, I just seem to forget more, and less, unearthing treasures

like when I walked along the river with my family and made up stories

I was good at getting in my head, I practiced it constantly as a child, so when the time came to be present, I didn’t know how. And now I hurt, and crave salty things.