Friday, February 17, 2017


it smells too clean here
take me to a home
somewhere where the earth
wears the scent
of my grandmothers' placentas

and wayward dogs
and yowling cats
are showering in exhaust

and love made out of nothing
fries over open fires

where music is perfume
with the musk of hibiscus
swelling in its loins

and the sun bakes stories
from the culverts
with the whispers of
the subterranean secrets
of the fermenting underground

and histories chatter
in the bare feet
of the boys who dance
with balls worn to the rough
like their future hearts
driven forever toward
their glory

let me smell the garbage
and love it too
as the sacrifice of sustenance
and memory

give me mangoes
and red earth

and sweat that glistens
beneath the stars

and oceans
that spray the sidewalk
with the temptation
of the adventures that it holds

let my heart not be so sanitized
as this world that carries
the void of poetry
in the lack of its cologne

Sunday, February 12, 2017


the courage for affinity
the heart for anarchy
where seeing is beauty
in alternate realities

if dreams are more than dreams
your path will cross mine there
somewhere east or west
north or south
where we have carried our regions
of joy
across borders
smuggled in our songs

the contraband of unlegislated love
traded in the dark parque
where music brings the light
of interconnection
that is meant
for the human to be human

and streets and continents
and oceans have been crossed
on passports that bear the stamps
of personal emancipation
from the re-evolution
of the natural state
by muses that dance
as much to love
as for the sake
of being loved

Tuesday, February 7, 2017


you and I
we know the truth
of the irony
in waiting on the system
to yield our share
of anarchy
when everything is all
self serve
even if they hide it
from our plates
because it's up to us to take
and up to us to make
our joy
and of course it isn't fair
that gluttony leaves
only skin and bones
the greedy still pick bare
but sometimes the only protest
we have left to give our fight
is the way we dance with our own light
and the laughter we won't surrender
from our hearts
to outsmart their every move
with a way to live our lives
as ours
and the fearlessness in the rebellion
of the anarchy
in how we love

Wednesday, February 1, 2017


we're not the enemies
of the state...
the state of natural being
don't colonize
our minds
with your lines of status quo
if you are quoting
from artificial power
cause now is time to listen
to the power in our hearts
where our ancestors are playing songs
so our descendants
will one day dance
to something more
than this white noise
of this unreality TV nation
because your alternative reality
does not matter
it holds no matter here
in this world of from the earth
and to the earth
infused with all the stars
where dictators don't dictate the scars
only just the wounds that are inflicted
and our anarchy
is in the way we heal
again for generation after generation
and the reality is
it's coded in our DNA
to be the patriots
of the state...
the natural state of being


Tuesday, January 31, 2017


I did not choose
the earth that was there
to greet me
as I exited the womb
nor the bullets nor the blood
nor the drought
nor the poison nor the walls

I did not choose the shadows
that met me with the introduction
of the light

the only dream I carried
with me to this world
was to have the room
for this heart
to just be free
to beat


Sunday, January 22, 2017


maybe there's a difference
between knowing the depth of reality
and opting not to play
and being weaned from the womb
straight onto whatever
makes you numb

like wearing sun glasses
in the middle of the night
doesn't hide the dark
nor make you forget
to bring your light

the way injecting glossy mags
and neon signs
keep some from ever waking up
to learn the truth of dark
and that we are here to shine


Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Crone's Dance


she shook her ass
no less than seven times
and with every flick of her hips
she created a star
her pelvis intoning inflections
birthing gyrating galaxies
hungry to be filled
with planetary forces
and the insatiation
of gravitational charge
all of this in the dark
to hide the truth
that she was not so sexless
as she had claimed
but a woman
who perspired worlds
between her thighs
invisible on the other side
where she folded quantumly
and disappeared
in the black hole
of their eyes

This woke me up from the first fifteen minutes of kinda deep sleep I got last night. Heard it and wrote it. For whatever reason.  And forgot it until I found it in my phone notes just now.

Saturday, January 14, 2017


I cross the desert
without knowing
if you are on the other side
without knowing
if I hold enough years
to barter for miles
for the dream of a quicksilver sun
dancing always from one horizon
toward the next

I wet my lips
with the thought of you
keep my skin from cracking
with the dressings
of your illumination
when you are made of silver
and silk
and I have become too much
this sand
and would not know how
to touch and cup you
if ever I reached oasis
where dream bubbles from the ground
to be tasted on the tongue

while my left hand
is Hamsa
its dexterity only for dream
inside of dream
my right is rough and blistered
from guiding too hard
with these reins
and it can only be the journey
for the journey's sake
without an end to reach
thirsting with the dream
of a destination that comes to seek
the one who seeks to find
to deliver its quicksilver love
as water in a cup 










Sunday, January 1, 2017


sometimes we forget
this place is a place of forgetting
too
because we are wanting
to remember
and we think that it's enough

and then when the movement starts
we don't always recognize
the rip has come
to carry us
too far out to sea
or if we do we fight
without the strength to overcome
and drown

sometimes remembering
means exiting out the side
of the path of most momentum
to wait for the natural movement
of the moon
to guide us back to shore

Saturday, December 31, 2016


the bells I ring tonight
are the beats of my own heart
and the fireworks
are the smile returned
to the colour of my eyes

a step out the door
a victory dance
and a celebration
not of good-bye
but a song of hello

and the breath of the extra second
a chance to make a sacred prayer
to gift back the borrowed breath
that got me through this year


Tuesday, December 27, 2016


rock
paper
scissors
it's all about
the upper hand
when everyone
just wants to touch
the feel of palm to palm
and even those who admit it
don't
for all the fear
of what we can't
control of what we'll each give up
if we dare for connection between the lines
I
to we
where I never
broke a single heart
where I was never stifled
and you were never cut or smashed
and nothing was ever a game it didn't want to be
rock
paper
scissors
where all that was wanted
was the warmth of fingertips to flesh
and caring not to hurt required no strategy at all

Dec 26- morning


he never visits
the same place twice
at least not as the man he was
unless he's with a childhood friend
and even then
where they're going and where they are
counts more than where they've been
and nostalgia is only paper wings
that fluttered once
to make the storm
with the when and where
lost in history
of neither consequence
nor of regard
with the importance of memories
for the making
of the ones they're going to be
and moments for the taking
like alchemists who've learned
there's nothing much
to worry
when the famines
also hold a feast
though sometimes it's OK
to take from the day
not the romanticism
of what it never was
but a little something
that warms the heart
like a coal plucked from a fire
of maybe long ago
to give a little heat
in laughter
to give a little spark
in dream


Saturday, December 24, 2016

12:45 Xmas Eve 2016


everyone's saying
that this was a terrible year
when really it's only
the truth uncovering itself
and information overload
and the baby boom
that's finally caught up
with us

and yeah the fascists
are visible again
and so many prophets
left to the other side
and the climate is starting
to kick some ass
and nobody gives a shit
when it's the brown babies
that do the dying

but 1929
was a terrible year
or 1942
or just about any year
in a long long time
if you live in Palestine

each year will be what it will
but it isn't the year
that makes it that
but rather
what are
we can blame the world
for oppression
but were we freedom
and while we cried
our tears for water
did we remember
we could hit
the pimps of Nestle
where it hurts

and while the heroes died
we have to ask ourselves
were we just dry humping
their ideas
or did we take those wisdoms
deep inside
to gestate an evolution
and are we prepared
to be our own unsung heroes
or just reality stars

if you rose every day
and did one thing
that was kind
if you loved with a broken heart
if you sang for the joy
of the light
if you planted something
to watch it grow
or dropped to your knees
to pray
for an outcome
you may never know
if you found yourself a little more
and learned to be a better friend
this was a good year

the challenges came
from one solar rotation
to the next
and we survived each one

go out into the snow
or sand or grass
and blow a kiss to a star
to give it a wish
in return
because all we needed
of this year
was to make it to this day
for this chance
to be the better world
to love harder
to shine brighter

and look it...
here we are




whoever she is
it does not matter
except that she will become
a little bit the you
I will meet someday

but nothing so big
as to conquer fate
when the gods have already
betrothed us
to synergize the evolution
they have dreamed
for each of us to find

my heart beats steady
my breath is calm
the stars need not be molested
by the baseness of my wishes
and desires

all I could want
is to grow and shine
and today is to do that
here inside myself
tomorrow holds somewhere
the dancing of the light

and whoever she is
that I am now...
it matters
when someday
she'll become
a little bit the me
that will meet you
beneath
the gods and stars





Thursday, December 22, 2016


when spring comes
you will not find me
a snow drop in the sea
I have drowned
we all know this is true
but I sank so low
my lungs evolved to gills
that breathed the water
and the ice
until the gills
evolved to wings
and I was born as fire
to hide against the sun
known only by my shadow here
where none of you can find
what's really me
except for in the safety
of only honest dreams
me...the traitor
and deserter of myself
but there was something left
that needed getting out
before it all was gone
so I sent it on ahead
maybe one day
a boy with an apple
or a man with a broken gun
or a poet with spiders
bursting from his lips
to dream the world anew
but probably an old man
with patience he can't afford
or a child
who hasn't learned to see
what's the missing part of me
or maybe just this woman
who was a snow drop after all
until she resurrected
and made her way to free
will find this shadow flower
growing near the shore
to take it in their hands
and only see
the promise that it holds
to bring the growth of light



I wonder
if more people drank
their coffee black
would Tim Horton's
and Starbucks
be so popular
because you have to taste
the truth
to know if what you desire
is really
what you like

as for me
I learned to take
my coffee black
not for any truth
but more because
I never wanted to depend
on what is
or is not on hand
to leave me vulnerable
in my relationship with joy
(and rations I have found
if you aren't too used
to what you're giving up
are always good to trade)

the trick is
to authentically enjoy
without
and not to do it
of some kind of misplaced
stoic drive

or to enjoy what good
there is on hand
as long as you don't have to use it
to sugar coat
the hard to swallow
truths
to deceive yourself
they're what you love















Wednesday, December 21, 2016


on the darkest day
I sent my red shoes
to the spirit realm
and burned the shame
of a world that says
you must or mustn't dance
when dancing's all
we're here to do
but only when we choose

because the vanity of rebellion
belongs to little girls
when women who are truly wild
wear blue
and those who feel
they owe their beauty
as a kind of sacrifice
can never sit a number out
with striving toward the vain
an obsession to be loved

but in the smoke that danced
I saw one vision
as the Hermit
the other le Bateleur
and so I knew there was an end
but a beginning also too
beyond the alchemy
I dare to let my waking self
know that I have dreamed

so on the shortest day
I set out bundled sage
to welcome back the light
and I danced not because
it is the lot
of girls beyond redemption
or because I could not stop
the desires that have led me oft astray

but for the light I carry in me
and the snow that lets things rest
while one dream shifts
into another
and a woman claims herself
by the music that she plays


The Secret Language of Crows




On the first day the light returned to the sky, a willow of a woman dipped a vessel into a stream. Expecting to be met only by her own reflection, she was startled to find, just below the water’s surface, a strange creature of a drowning man.
         She grabbed a hold of him, fighting against the weight of the current, and haluled him to the shore, where she stripped off his heavy cloak of feathers, and tossed it back in the water to be carried far away to the distant ocean.
         She built a birch bark fire, and dried the body of the strange man with her hair, then wrapped him in it, and suckled him at her breast. And, because she was a great nurturer he soon became strong, his own hair growing long and dark, until it fell to his waist. She took the many thick black strands of it in her hands and plaited it into two braids that hung over his shoulders. And as she made these braids, she wove into them the songs and the stories of her people, so that he could learn their language and always carry it with him.
To show his gratitude, the strange man made the kind and nurturing woman his wife. And because she was a normal woman with a normal woman’s wants, she made him vow to never speak of how he came to the river, either to her, or anyone else
But, often the strange man would walk out into to the deepest part of the woods where he would practice the secret language of Crows where no one else could hear it, just to remember the stories and the songs of his own people.
On one such day a lone Raven caught his notes on the wind. She held no memory of her own kind, but the song sounded familiar, as something she once knew well, but had now forgotten, and so she followed its calling. However, instead of taking her to another bird, the song drew her to a man.
“How is it you can speak my language?” she asked. “You’re a man.”
He turned from her and looked in the direction of his wife’s home, knowing he could not answer, and so he remained silent.
“Please,” asked the Raven, “It’s been so long, I no longer remember, and I want to remember.”
“All right,” said the man who spoke the language of Crows. I will talk with you, but don’t ask my secrets, for I have vowed never to speak them.”
The Raven burned with curiosity, but respected the man’s wishes just the same, and asked no more than to hear the words of her forgotten tongue.
With harsh throaty cries, the Crowman returned the stories of her people to her, and reminded her who and what she was, in the way only like-kind can after alienation has turned the spirit into something strange even to itself.
Day after day she met the Crowman in that same place in the forest to hear him unfold the tales she was hungry to retrieve. But as time turned by, more and more it was the man himself that drew her to come and listen, and not as much his stories. And this made her sad, because she was a Raven, and no matter how strange he might be, he was a man.
Still, the curiosity overcame her one day, so after he was finished sharing his story, she made to leave, but instead, flew by stealth from treetop to treetop, following him home. And there, the Raven watched as a beautiful willow of a woman, with kind eyes like gentle fires, stepped through the door and took the strange Crowman in her arms, kissing his forehead.
The raven could not stifle her pain and let out a jealous and guttural squawk.
Hearing her cry, the man turned around and flailed his arms at the raven. “Go away, you silly bird,” he said in the language of man. “Shoo. You have no business here.”
The Raven flew back through the woods, so heavy with the gravity of grief, she could barely maintain flight. Until she dropped from the sky crashing at the feet of a miner at work near the river.
“What have we here?” asked the miner, dropping his gold pan and picking the bird up roughly from the dirty shore. The Raven’s cries hurt his ears, and he dropped her again, to cup his hands over them. “Quiet!” he demanded, but the Raven could not stop. “Enough of that racket! Now, tell me what’s wrong?”
The Raven fell silent with shock, to realize that she could understand the miner’s words. Through her sobs she asked, “How is it you know the secret language of Crows?”
The miner released his ears and picked up the raven, more carefully this time. “I was once married to a raven, when I lived in the South where I come from. She taught me to speak your tongue. Now, what is the matter with you?”
“I love a man,” cried the Raven.
“That is not so unusual,” said the miner. “You’re not the first.”
“But, he already loves a woman.”
“Ah, I see,” said the miner. “That is also not a first. But, perhaps if you were a woman too, you could tempt him to your heart instead of hers.”
“But I am a Raven.”
“Yes, but I know how you may become a woman.”
The Raven’s eyes brightened with hope. “Please, tell me.”
“First, you must give me three of your feathers.”
The Raven plucked three of her feathers out with her beak and gave them to the miner.
“Good,” he said. “You must now find me a nugget of gold as large as the nail on my littlest finger. Bring it back to this spot tomorrow and I will tell you what to do next.”
The Raven, having an eye for shiny things, searched the river bed and after several hours found a nugget to bring the miner.
“Now,” said the miner, “you must give me three more feathers, before I tell you what you must do.”
The Raven plucked three more of her feathers and gave them to the miner.
“Good,” he said. “Now you must find me a nugget as big as the nail on my ring finger and bring it back here tomorrow.”
“But I have already given you six feather and a gold nugget,” she protested.
“Well…” said the miner turning to walk away from her, “you will be here tomorrow or you won’t. Depends on how bad you want it.”
The Raven returned the next day with a larger piece of gold, only to be asked for three more feathers, and an even larger piece of gold. Day after day it went on like this, but she was no closer to becoming a woman. She filled the miner’s pockets with nuggets, and stripped her hide bare, to no gain, until she had too few feathers to fly, and was left to hop through the woods to keep her meetings with the miner.
“You have done well,” said the miner at last, seeing that she could find him no more gold in her condition. “Before I reveal the final thing you must do, you must come inside my home.”
She followed him to his small cabin and went inside. “What now?” she asked.
“Ah, ah. First, you must give me three feathers.”
“But, they are the only ones I have left. Surely you could have compassion enough to leave them to me.”
“You won’t need them once you become a woman,” said the miner.
Reluctantly, she plucked her last three feathers and handed them to the miner.
The miner opened a large sturdy box and placed the three feathers along with the others she had given him. Then, he locked the box.
“What must I do now?” asked the Raven.
“Nothing,” the miner laughed. “I have waited a long time for another raven to take the place of my wife, and now I have found one. You are no longer able to fly, and I will never teach you how to walk like a woman, so you will stay here and be my wife and loneliness will never visit me again. Now,” he added cruelly, “don’t cry. Look, you have yourself a man.”
The Raven sobbed and pleaded, but the miner had a cold and selfish heart and took no pity on her. Instead, he grabbed her by her throat and snipped the bottom part of her tongue so she could no longer speak the language of Crows. “I am tired of speaking your words. Now, you must speak the language of man,” he told her. But she refused to utter a word.
The miner had been raised in a large and noisy city and as the snows settled in, the isolation and darkness burrowed into the man’s cold heart. He pined for bright lights and loud conversation. The Raven however, was used to isolation and did not fear the dark, as she was a daughter of the North. And so she took her fate of her imprisonment in stride, while she watched the miner pace, growing agitated at every creak the wind played on the old boards of his cabin.
“Speak!” he commanded the Raven, “this silence is driving me mad!” But still she was silent. “Speak, or I will kill you,” he threatened. And still, she showed no sign of fright, believing that in truth, death would be better than captivity. “What must I do to make you speak?”
The Raven pointed to the wooden box and held up three fingers. The miner could take no more silence, so he drew the key from his pocket, opened the box and handed her three feathers.
“I will tell you a story of what happened to the light, this long cold darkness,” she promised. “I will tell it, as it was told to me by the man I loved.” She sat before the fire and waited a long time before she began, unsure she could trust her tongue to continue speaking in this foreign language. “A greedy man, much like you, stole the light from the universe and locked it inside a box, like the one you keep my feathers in, and then he locked that box inside another box, and another and another and another. He locked it in so many boxes, he could no longer remember how many there were, and then he hid the box.”
The miner leaned forward to hear more, “Well...”
But the Raven was again silent. He cocked a hand to smack her, but she did not cower from it and offered no more words. Instead, she pointed again to the box and raised three fingers.
“No,” said the miner and he went outside to check if there was light enough for him to resume prospecting. There was only darkness.
After several days the silence began to gnaw at his sense of ease again, and he feared the light might not ever return again. He asked the Raven to tell him more of the story, of what happened to the light, but she only shook her head and held up three fingers.
“All right,” the miner conceded and took the key from his pocket, opened the box, and handed her three more of her feathers.
“This greedy man,” she began, “had a daughter he loved more than almost anything...anything that is but the light of the universe which he held captive. A raven who knew that the greedy man held the light, saw the daughter and devised a plan to use her to get the light for himself.
When the daughter went to the river to drink, he disguised himself as a pine needle and entered her drinking vessel. Unknowingly, she swallowed him deep inside of her.”
Again, the Raven fell silent.
“Speak! Speak!” shouted the miner, but she would say no more. She held her lips together and raised three fingers.
The miner turned his back to her and went to check, once more, for the return of the light.
After many more days had passed, the miner came to the Raven with three feathers in his hands. He accepted them and continued her tale.
“The daughter grew large and fat and knew not why, until she gave birth to a son that the greedy old man loved even more than the light he held inside the boxes. But the grandson cried constantly. His wails were unceasing, until the man could stand no more and asked him what would make him happy. ‘Oh Grandfather,’ said the raven who lived in the boy, ‘please, give me your boxes.’ The greedy old man scolded the boy and refused, but as the crying went on without end, the grandfather eventually relented and gave the boy the first of the boxes. Unsatisfied, the boy continued to cry, and little by little, the greedy man gave his grandson box after box, until at last he had handed over the final one, which contained all the light of the world.”
The miner was on the edge of his chair by now and begging for more, but his Raven wife fell silent and would not speak.
“Damn you!” he said, throwing his chair at her. “Speak!”
Still, she refused, again holding up three fingers.
The miner cursed her and went outside to look for the smallest glint of sun to illuminate his pan. There was none. Slowly, he lost hope, and despair set in. So he took three more feathers from the box.
“Fine,” she said, taking them. I will tell you more. “When the grandson received the last of the boxes, the trickster raven leapt from his throat and swallowed the light from inside the last box, then escaped into the sky.” And then she spoke no more.
The miner knew by now what his captive wife’s silence is meant. He looked out his window and saw that the light had not yet returned to the sky and grew anxious. “More! I must know more,” he said. But, the Raven shook her head and raised three fingers.
Defeated, the miner took the key from his pocket and withdrew the last three feathers and handed them to the Raven.
“Well,” she continued, “an eagle saw that the trickster raven held the light of the world inside of him, and so he pursued him through the sky. He swooped down on him, causing him to crash against a mountain. The impact forced the trickster raven to cough some of the light from his belly, which bounced off the neighboring mountains and landed in the sky as the specks of stars you see. But the trickster raven would not give up the rest of the light so easily, and again he took flight. As he did, the eagle dove hard into him and he was forced to release a larger chunk, which floated up to become the moon you see at your sill.”
The miner looked to these things out his window and felt assured.
“Finally, the eagle caught the raven in his talons and shook him hard, until the remainder of the light was shaken from his beak and took its place as the sun. The raven broke free of the eagle, but was so injured; he crashed into a river below.”
            She laughed. “But you are a silly fool, just like the greedy old man. This happened many, many years ago. If you were not from the South and so new to this place, you would know that this time, the light is only hibernating like the bears. It wakes in time, if you give it time. Perhaps tomorrow it will open its eye a spell. And now,” she proclaimed triumphantly, “I have earned my feathers back.”
The miner spat on his floor. “Yes, but what can you do with a handful of feathers? Because that is all they are. A handful of feathers. Just as giving them away could not make you a true woman, holding them between your hands can not return you to your former self. You will always be stuck between.”
The Raven was not finished with her plan, however. Later, after the miner had filled his guts with whiskey and beans, and slept too soundly to wake, she found a needle and thread amongst his things and worked quickly to sew the feathers into a shawl, which she wrapped around her shoulders to protect her from the harsh elements outside, and then stumbled out into the seemingly eternal night.
Reaching from branch to branch and trunk to trunk, she made her way toward the strange Crowman’s house, learning to walk with the partial gate of a woman and the part glide part hop of a bird.
When she finally found the Crowman and Willow-woman’s home, she wearily knocked at the door.
“What are you doing here, and what has happened to you?” the Crowman asked her in the secret language they shared.
“I was captured by a miner, and imprisoned as his wife. He has left me trapped between two forms. Please, tell me you can share the knowledge to help me return to the body of a raven,” she begged in the language of man.
“Why do you speak this way?” he asked her, again as a Crow.
She pointed to where the miner had slit beneath her tongue. The strange man kissed her in that place where she had been injured, whispering a prayer against the wound.
The Crowman’s wife came up behind him and took her husband by the shoulder. “Who is this and why do you speak the secret language of Crows?” she asked angrily. She reached for the man’s face and held it firmly between her hands. Looking into his eyes, she saw for the first time that they were the black orbs of a corvid. “I’ve been tricked!” she cried, her own kind eyes turning hard with hurt and shame. She threw her husband into the snow bank and slammed the door shut.
“But wait!” pleaded the strange man. “It is you who tossed my feathers back into the river and refused to see me as I have always been. It was you who made me promise not to tell you who I really was. And,” he said with his voice cracking, “it was your believing eyes that made me a man and I have I loved you for it. It was your hair that concealed me from the eagle. Your breast suckled me and gave me new life. I was always grateful for it.  Please, open the door.”
A strong wind rose up and the snow began to whip and lash around the Crowman and the Raven. Still, the Willow-wife had no pity to take her husband back in, though he shivered violently in the snow bank where he lay. “You,” he said, looking to the Raven, “why did you come here?”
The Raven knelt beside the man, and taking off her cloak of feathers, wrapped him in it. “I loved you when I thought you were a Corvid like me,” she said, as her naked flesh began to freeze. “I loved you when I saw you as a man. And still, I love you now that I know you are even more as I than I could have imagined. I would love you if you knew no form at all.”
The strange Crowman looked now to the door that had been closed to him. He knew it would never open again, and he wept as much for the love his wife had withdrawn for him, as he did for the love he could no longer have for her. From his throat rose a mourning song in the language of man. As he sang it, he invited cold into the empty cavern of his heart, and his limbs began stiffen.
The Raven remembered the song of hatching now, but could no longer sing it for her cut tongue, so instead, she let the beats of it rise from her heart...and really, the hatching song was always a heartbeat song.
 The Crowman let his song fade to listen to hers. He reached up and pulled the Raven close to him so he could better hear the beginning song of Corvids. It was a song he knew, and so as they huddled together under the cloak of her feathers, he taught her how to sing it again, their voices generating enough warmth to keep them both alive.
 As the winds died and the sun awoke from its slumber, two Corvids evaporated from their half-human bodies to dance up into the lights, their spirits as eternal as all that belongs to one sky—belonging to no one and nothing, but each of them hatchlings of the light.    


The End

Tuesday, December 20, 2016


in the darkest hour
comes the return
of the light
when your world has crumbled in
on the vacuum of itself
and there is nowhere left
to go
and imagination has lost
so much remembrance
for the meaning
of warmth and shine

that's exactly when it comes

because turning points
will always feel like endings
if you keep looking back
and the Phoenix is at its coldest
and most compressed
before the shell is cracked
and it is greeted by the day
though somedays
the darkest dark
will come
and the stars
will leave you abandoned
in the night
in the company of wolves

but that's exactly when it comes

and the universe
returns compassion
to the ones who keep on
holding on
for them it brings the gift of light
to rekindle dying fires
and while the eyes
no longer remember
how to not be blind
against the growing
of illumination
they will learn again
to see
because when there is nothing left
the imagination can perceive

that's exactly when it comes









Monday, December 19, 2016


for the times
you anchored my heart
to this place
when I thought
each molecule
would make its escape
into somewhere
where nothing has been

when you held the candle
against the wind
of the tornado
the night the light went out
and the dark fell in

for laughter
that spray painted
the sky with stars
and smiles that rose the sun

for the nightmares
defeated by dreams
and the lost and found
and lost again
you found

for the way
the compass needle
is forever drawn
no matter which way
it is I face

let me send
this gratitude
for the days
you brought the fire
to thaw the frozen
from where it turned
to ice

and give you
love and also light
and what dances now
by its own breath
to make you prayers
of magic
for the miracle
of your heart












when our love got too big
with nowhere to go
it tore a hole in itself
because it could not stop
expanding the way
it needed to
and now it runs out of itself
while I am trying to catch
every drop
with a bucket made of holes
the way phantoms hold
with what they are not
or hold the counter
of what needs to be held
but at least it is out there
somewhere refusing to die
and growing just as large
as it can find the room
to grow
and there's something to be said
for resilience like that


Sunday, December 18, 2016

To Ever Dream Eternal: Or, Let There Always Be One More Impossible Dream to Make Possible...just one more


let the sky remain
too high to reach
keep the mystery for the stars

every time I stand on tip toes
raise the ceiling
just beyond
my fingertips
beyond the too easy
too easy to take for granted

do not let me play
with constellations
but save them
for the places
only my imagination
can ever find

let the clouds fall on my tongue
to dissolve into the light
I carry in my veins
and to my heart
but do not let me pick
a one with greed
like apples plucked from trees

leave the sky one eternity
beyond my dreams
so I will never run out of wonder
or know the limits
of just how high
the flight of magic
can lift my soul

my dreams can dream me
to the heavens
and dream themselves to true
but these feet must never lose
the space to always dance

and the promise
of somewhere that is left
and waiting
to compel me to dream again
beyond the just beyond

Wednesday, December 14, 2016


when we never learn
how to accept
the mystery of the unseen
with our egos whining
like children 
in grocery store lines
sometimes we give them
the empty of what we make up
just to keep them quiet
and then we tell ourselves
those temporary fixes of stories
are truths
and believe those truths so much
when the facts contradict
the assumption in innocent lies
we have told ourselves
we mistake reality
with what is false

maybe the ego needs to learn
it can't always get
what it wants
this life is a mystery
and each of us a story
yet to unfold
and the truth can only be seen
when we recognize
how we've filled in the blanks
so full to the brim
we have left no space
for reality to enter
without having lies
spill out of the cup

Tuesday, December 13, 2016


sometimes
it's necessary to hide
like when energies come knocking
that operate in negatives
like helicopters in the heart
that promise to take you high
but amputate the stars
from the skies of your dreams

sometimes
it's necessary to hide
so when they ask if you are home
you lie and say you're not
or introduce them
to the self you aren't
dressed in a hungry guard dog clothes
who is ready for the bite

sometimes
it is necessary to hide
because that is how you keep
the softness of your heart
because if the right energy
ever comes along
it's good to have something
sweet and tender
left to share

and sometimes
it is necessary to hide
because scars are part us too
but too many get like heavy blinds
or bars
that block out or in the light
and the light is us forever
while the scars are only now

sometimes
it is necessary to hide
because the world can be cruel
and if you don't choose
what to hold back
it will leave you
with nothing left to hold
hiding beneath the dark
of your amputated sky
behind the prison
of your scars
so that if anyone ever comes
there'll be no stars left to find
and the authentic
of everything you are
will be only ashes and craters
wearing a mask
instead of light and love
and the tenderness of shine


Monday, December 12, 2016


some scratch the paint
to see your truth
and of those
some will tell you
who you are
and of those
there will be some
who agitate and scrape
to tell you who you
ought to be

the artist's world
must be titanium gates
to audiences
who take assumptions
as souvenirs

the truth of the artist
really only comes to life
in its magic and its breath
for the ones who come
to question
who it is
they are themselves

Friday, December 9, 2016


I didn't wait for you
to find you again
when I am walking
toward you
unearthing you
continuing this journey
with every breath
my reason to want to leave
and my strength
to go on
my sacrifice of alone
that has shown me
I am never alone
so that I am not waiting
but walking with you
and through you
and toward you
as it has always been
as it will always be
and forever is not
this lost of now
but the finding found
beyond the veil
and the illusions
reality constructs
of time

Thursday, December 8, 2016


I glided through the day
on the frozen tears
of the morning
(you know it's the warmest
that freezes the first)
and nobody knew it at all
but maybe you
who has not seen
the way I can hide
a dying heart
inside my smile

and in that
and in this
I have learned
what it means
to let it all go
scaring myself
with the emptiness
of the void
but more so
with what remains
and is eternal beyond
what the mind
can comfortably know

that some things
can be so deep
and still never learn to fly
when I can't stop myself
from piling the what happened then
and the what never did
on the wings of what tomorrow
had hoped it could do

I wanted to be like a child
with a violin and a bow
not yet making music
but learning with practice
and try
but it all went out of tune
the way it seems to now

every mistake
a wrong I can't right
defeated when the song
won't leave my head
and the notes remain sour
and elusive each time

so I am a skater
carrying the weight
of this person I've become
but have never known
with only this heart that still beats
and these eyes that cry
for the light of the stars
my foreign fingers
will never reach
with the limbs of the light
embedded in me

only my tears carry
the dexterity
to find the steps to the dance
of the way this song jumps
lonely and disjointed
from its unrosinned strings

I wanted to give
something it's wings
or at least my half to give
but today the cold carries
the echo of what happened
the day before this
coming back at me
from the other side
of one day after tomorrow

and I just keep learning
to glide
with these tears
to keep me warm
flowing as fast
as each of them freeze

Wednesday, December 7, 2016


I am
a little too much
fire

there is no bridge
that I can cross
without it falling
before I reach
the other side

but all I can do
is burn

I am fire
and if I let
these flames go out
I have nothing
of this world
but the anonymous ashes
I leave behind

maybe someday comes
some kinda water
that can cross an ocean
blind and unwavering
in its dreams
like a current
that does not dilute
as it passes through the halls
of the pantheon
of the sea

like some kinda
mighty water
that doesn't need
to fear what flames
are apt to do

but me
I am not the sea
I am this fire
that cannot cross a bridge
but must wait here
with its thirst 

and still
it has to burn



does the sunrise
ever hurt your eyes
when it catches you
from the wrong side
of the day

and have you ever
fallen in love
with the poetry of crimson
left on your knees
from sliding sideways
into luck

do you sometimes know
even when you say
you don't
especially
to yourself

and do those knowings
ever turn to secrets
that brand you as a ghost
among the sleeping
yet alive

have you ever
found yourself
only because
you walked contrary
to the way
of the maps

carrying
ancient talismans
like diamond rings
to remind you
you have never been
a pawn of the gods
but more
a consequence
of the stars

and have you stood
on mountains
and felt in over your head
beneath those stars
yet as a fish
who never wants
to find the shore

has your fortune
ever been made
of conjuring gold
not for the sake of wealth
but for the apprenticeship
of the transmutation
of resilience
in a spell

have songs played
in your ears
on stations from
other realms
while you shape shifted
into what could be seen
and the things that could not

if you have ever heard
these questions
without me
writing them here

then to find the answers
I seek
to these
and the questions
I dare not to ask
maybe
I have only to listen
to find truth
myself

Friday, December 2, 2016


we all just want
to find a better way
in a world where
the good guys lost
and nobody knows
because the guys who won
are the heroes
they celebrate
with textbooks
and holidays

and some of us
protest with aspirations
of martyrdom
and others as gurus
and none of that
is gonna get it right

when the martyrs absorb
all the hurts around them
and then congratulate the ego
on its capacity for resilience
and how well they've learned
to revel in the suffering
of dying for another's sins

and the gurus build
their temple walls
that allow no criticism
to dare to penetrate
forsaking mirrors
in the name of mental health
proclaiming imperfect perfection
as a short cut
that passes by
the mutual in the evolution

but when the martyrs
see beyond the punishment
of the mirror
through the illusions
and the tricks
an image of projection
is bound to play
with the spirit and its truth

and the gurus
accept that what is seen
by others
is also part their truth
and zen is not to say
the masters have it figured out
and all the contradictors
best fall on their knees

when the martyrs
stand firm
in their knowing
tempering humiliation
with calling for respect
and the gurus offer empathy
from the heart
as quickly as lessons
fall from their mouths

that's when hearts uncover
and each piece fits into each
and those of us just trying
to make it day to day
find the synergy
in the cosmic
of the one
to overcome
the martyrs and the gurus
who brought us to this state


Saturday, November 26, 2016


revolution
is a one eyed horse
who thinks he sees
the all
and follows only
what he sees
unable to perceive
the circle
for the slightest changing
of the ground

if you want an evolution
you have to open
both your eyes
and follow the path
beyond what those eyes see

you can drop your shit
in the circumference of a pattern
revolving like a carousel
that keeps the people riding
for the promise of the token
of a brass ring
they are never meant to reach

or you can set out
to find
what lies beyond the hills
of how far we have dreamed

but to see the path ahead
you must open
the blinded eye
that can see the evil
in the good
and recognize the saint
was part a sinner too

you cannot turn your ass
only to the black
and your strong eye
to the white
because the path of evolution
is a twisting trail
within the spectrum
of the greys


Friday, November 25, 2016


I was just a girl
when I found out
the hard way
that I belonged
to no one

but somewhere
between the images
of fatigues and cigars
came the rising
of the power in a voice
I could not understand
that whispered just beneath
in my own alien
and native tongue
that I could belong
to the people
still

and then it became my truth
and the only dream
I had to ration
to get me by
so that every step
connected back to that one path

I am no longer a girl
and somewhere
I got lost
so that I stopped
belonging
even to myself

and if you can't stand
for yourself
you can't stand
for anyone

you told me that

when all my inspirations
and heroes
are stepping over
to the other side
and the clock has come
to strike
the now or never time

we are the prayers
our ancestors have sent
cloaked in the wishes
of our own children's hearts
and carried over
into this world

if not us
then who

we are the poets now
and the ones
who must decid
the measure and the weight
of what we'll contribute
to the ongoing
of the evolution

and it all begins
when we claim back our voice
and learn to understand
that we belong to everything

and it isn't in redemption
but through the sacred
of connection
that we stand our strongest
when we can remember
we were all born
to this place
belonging not only to
but also of
the people


Sunday, November 20, 2016


my heart retreats again
from this reality
defeated as something
that waited too long
to breathe
not knowing it was stillborn
before it reached
to meet the light

there is only a hollow now--
a dark and unceremonious
cavern of memorial
for what
cannot be remembered
anyway

and somewhere in a dream
the ghost of the heart
dances
with the ghost of optimism
that followed
on its heels

once the flower
that waited too long
to drink
until its mouth
shrivelled closed
and it could drink no more

now the lips that lick
the shine of stars
and drink the dew
perspired from the moon

somewhere in a dream
where how to love
need never be forgot
as unnecessary to it all
as how to drink
or breathe
and yet everything
that birthed the light
of Creation into life 








I didn't set out
looking for the answers
when I have always known
the the world
rests in delicate spin
on the axis
and the precipice
of the questions
that we each must ask

do not paint for me
landscapes and portraits
gilded in the simplicity
the romantic plaster
over the texture
of the truth

but baptize me in
the bitter waters
that flow with mud
and too much wine

and submerge me
to drowning
in the questions
that have stolen
your peaceful nights
and wakened you
to dream
nocturnal and burning
beneath the stars

bury the illusion
of the manipulations
that have been conjured
of the tricks
my mind can make

and let them sprout up
from the seeds
of something
humble that grew
from dark

bearing the fruit
that only makes me hungry
for more questions
to the questions sowed
by all that has been asked

when my life
should be a lover
that leaves me
naked and seduced
back to the only answer

which is

what I came to ask






dance
when it's time
to dance in the snow

there were nights
when the crickets
made symphonies
and nights when the leaves
whispered poetry
as they sailed
to their death

but look
how the streetlight
makes falling stars
of every flake

and before the feet
a fresh canvass
where the language
of movement
is paint

and destiny is a thing
that will be hidden
by other tracks
and one day melt away

but the dance
will dance itself
far from that place
before it is muddied
and loses the quality 
of the crisp in the soft

and all that will matter
of the moment
the sky snowed stars
was how we danced
for the contribution it made
to where the dance
is danced in the now




Thursday, November 17, 2016


the flag
is a spotless sin
hiding her crimes
parading as the sacred virgin
who infects the population
with the vd
of her pristine
and fascist pride

rallying men beneath
her skirts
just to watch them
kill the men
beneath another

when the blood of Sand Creek
can tell you
where the stains are hid
and that her faithfulness
is a lie

while she whispers
her excuses
to blinded lovers
that they should rip
the children
from the earth
even as they suckle there
so she can find the room
to spread her fattening ass

while Africa starves out
waiting for the circumference
of her berth
to bring the peace
she promised

and those without her favour
or a lover to call their own
are chased from one whore
to another
trying to find the mother
who will take them in
their children drowning
on her doorstep
for the illusion
they came from
some arbitrary
and disfavoured womb
that takes the credit
for Creation and the Source

and yet it is a crime
to burn
what scolded Nagasaki
to the ground

what has turned
the children in the holy land
to ash

what erased the memory
of civilizations
in the name of gold

a piece of cloth
woven in genocide
and greed
and decorated
with the entrails
of all that freedom
is at heart

what is sacred is
and what is not
must call on wars
to protect
the illusion
that it is not
a greedy 
and jealous
whore



Tuesday, November 15, 2016


you're like a penny
I carry in my mouth
waiting for a rainy day
something that keeps me
tongue tied
but it's a perfect day
to be batshit crazy
so why the hell
let reality
fuck with the dream
I don't live here
and I don't live there
I just sorta migrate
in between
like children who lose
their home
never know
a home again
but only plateaus
that they can explore
and when they are older
they learn to forgo
the necessity
of taking food
to hold the hope
of the nourishment of luck
between their teeth

Monday, November 14, 2016


sometimes in the fog
there is sensing
that something sacred lost
has taken form
yet irretrievable still
across the bridge
too narrow
for anything but song
and light
to pass

and dream gets left
to dream
yet wide awake
and ever nocturnal
in the heart
and silence mutes itself
with patient observation
that erupts only
as the star
that sometimes falls
to fall in love with wish
or the sea that hides its cry
in the song the waves have sung
for the one that crashed

I have adored you
these centuries
never as the muse
that is grateful
to the canvass
but on the other side
of things
the ghost of shadow
more than the paint
the hand might one day
bring to life

I have loved you
as the inspiration
I have drawn to breathe
with the fragrance of you
always spilling from my lungs
in these only words
that maybe
will find their way
across
the bridge
I cannot cross



Sunday, November 13, 2016


talk about building walls
well the most ancient
one there is
is the human shield
the system makes
of the entitled
and disillusioned class
so that we gotta fight our way
up through their parades
to get to where the problem is

angry white aggression
with a bad case
of mistaken identity
for the oppressor
and the oppressed
because it's just too easy
to kick the cat
or beat the wife
or raid the displaced
wintering in tents
for their crime
of stealing the air
that waves some
pseudo-democratic flag

rallies against blacks
or rallies for LNG
or rah-rah with Wahoo
like colour or culture
makes anyone inhuman
and global markets
and world resource collapse
are really on the heads
of anyone asking
for a little water
that isn't wrapped
in plastic first
but anyway
back to the game

and the nationalist wall 
just gets thicker
the us and the them
them with their fists
and us with our arms open wide
and across the divide
they say we aren't
evolved enough
to make a choice
because love always
looks like a handicap
to the wounded
instead of the cure

and history tells us
what happens
when we take on the wall
where new leaders
so often emerge
from our ranks
leaving the us
to be absorbed
as our own human shields
for their new found elite

so let the poets
up to the front
because the only chance
we've got
is to absorb the them
into the us
to turn fists
to open hands
and not let open hands
close into fists

darkness never extinguished
a single light
but light has always
paled the dark
even as a pinhole
in the sky

there are cracks
in every wall
let them build it
and we will disarm
brick by brick with light
until nothing but illumination
stands between us
and the architects

if they can exploit
a human shield
from the wrong dreams
gone wrong
we can rebuild the hoop
with right dreams
gone right







Saturday, November 12, 2016

These Emotions Will Not Be Assimilating Today


the river of apologies
has run dry
my eyes are mutated
with cataracts
from too many Hallmark cards
decked in Gandhi glitter
and some kind of
Dali Lama wisdom on the side
packaged like a latte
made with the same appropriation
that makes a third world
become a trend

give me Steinbeck
or Bukowski
but let me feel
this disillusionment
like a train wreck
on Tobacco Road
at five in the afternoon

if you take away
my depth of dark
you extinguish
all my stars
with neon light

I have nothing left
I can be sorry for
and no more shame
for shame

we have to see
the impossibility
left us in despair
to understand
the miracle
when it arrives

when how does anyone
truly love themselves
and think this is OK
to expose the spirit to

and still
has anyone ever
really known their soul
only to miss the gifts
in every day

I am sad
because I love

this disappointment
wears me
hooding both my eyes
and yet
I do not forget the beauty
of what is naked
underneath
it all