Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Heal Thyself?

The fact of the matter is, we all try to heal ourselves.
You are gauze, he is tape, she is stitches...
we take. we take. sadly.

But (and here we've come round again) we bleed out, and need attention.
It hurts to be the healer
It hurts to be the sick
and we've all been our share of both.

So empathy will be our bandage...and a modicum of mercy.

I have been the child with the cancerous childhood. I still attempt the surgical removal of every tumor. I have no blade. I grab your hand and poise it to slice. It's just the way of things. But I love you no less for it.

(comment to a post)

Friday, August 26, 2011


I laid it in the sun
perhaps to watch it fade, or to highlight it...
I'm never sure
but I clip it to the post in the yard every day
watch the light do a slow roll across our faces
in no damn hurry at all.

It seems as vivid as ever
all that weather, yet still saturated with the hues of love and denial

I think the color releases only in pace with my eyes
and when they see their last
the sun bleached photo will take flight
a graveside dove.

The Collector

I think one of the greatest things we do for each other "in here" is witness. Without judgment or even opinion at times, we witness each other in the minutia that gets missed. So much goes on between our ears, the unspoken growth and death that our fingers scream about on the page. We witness these things and press their petals into our scrapbooks. It's important to be so heard, and collected.

(blog post response)

Thursday, August 18, 2011

To Capture

How do you fold and package anything?
I cannot.
Whatever I capture still has life in it,
trailing vines that leech out from the corners and curl about
as foreigners with cameras around their necks.

There is no containing such a flash. I wish there were.
And then I don't.


The Quickening
could be a novel, a movie, a psalm, a proverb.
It is as ancient as Adam and as quivering as Eve.
It is the light that draws our wing and burns our breath.

Ah...the quickening.
It is our life, and our death.

Monday, August 15, 2011


The scent of absolution.
Such a dainty thing.
We sniff like dogs, thinking it fragrant like NEED, like steak.
And with our nose to the ground, we miss the delicant waft that came like a moth
beneath the light of our search.

Now I wait for it to come back around,
yet knowing I need only ask.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Musical Exorcism

I am picking up the guitar again.
My arms and fingers remember it like the weight and shape of my babies.
And I think to myself,
if I could write a lyric and a tune,
have them flow out from my levied equator,
I could exorcise things

Friday, August 5, 2011

As It Happened....

We made love
red heat under my skin
like a boil, a welt, coming to surface with a sting
the pange of regret, and the oh so fucking awareness
it wasn't real

But we gorged on each other
and I spread my legs to you
the width of you, and us, and wider still
as if I could not open enough
and it never was...was it?

But your name was in my hair
scritching out a memo of our deed on the pillow
where I lay naked, moon light bathed
because you would have wanted it so

And on the last wave
we floated away
as if we ever had.