I'd like to be able to write again, but the universe is turning too slow in the wrong direction.
My heart drips instead of duh-dums
And my breath slips.

Rhyming sticks to the top of my mouth catching grains of rhythm as I regurgitate yesterday's thoughts.

I haven't been able to write lately, not because I am a bumbling busy body, but because time is frozen, I'm cemented and dissolving into the tasteless air.
Everything is too colourful lately, too... anything for me to understand.

Maybe I should start reading again, go back to painting stale blue skeleton hands with not enough paint.

Maybe that's my problem... There's not enough paint in my life.

I don't want the future obsession
it's an illness, a dis-ease of the soul !
I want the intimacy of now, to play the cards still in my hand!
The cosy nook of this moment is plenty, an offering from on high!

So here was the crux -
              in my silent way
I envied my sister  
The-Would-Be-Me
for being able to allow the future to
come as it would.
Until I became her.

I live the life of moments, delicate like a hummingbirds wings
with eyes they look perpetual,

I exist as an enigma of spirit, this world is so harsh
these ways of living so cutting
in defense
calling on my warrior is not always the best course of action
sometimes it's my lover that must be the witness to the moment.

If I wasn't so old, I'd struggle to exist under the weight of earth even more so
the gravity of actions is mighty
the tipping scale is small

To support a being who sees with the eyes of spirit
in a world led by the blind
takes a wicked team

for them, I am so truly grateful
all those corporeal or otherwise
my love for you
is deep and vast

We blaze this trail together -
What would the accomplishment be if I were to cross the line alone?

I picture them in a balmy hallway,
far-corner huddled; quietly, urgently
comparing their notes on ways I have loved.

They'll laugh at lame jokes and avoid eye contact,
each surprised by their own awkwardness.
One of them will quip the term
'eskimo brother'
and immediately wish he hadn't.
The rest will kindly ignore it.
The moment will pass.

They will slowly shed their discomfort.
They will remove their coats.
Sweat will bloom at collars
and trace knotty bumps of spine before
pooling into the space between
boxers and belt.

They won't openly discuss the
strange comradery
that accompanies the lazy river evenings spent drifting down the same mind-
but the tension pulling across
each of their jaws
will announce loud and clear
how frustrating it has
been to be cropped,
tucked in, paper fortune teller folded
and wrapped up into someone else’s idea of poetry.


Casually
then all at once,
they will get started.
Printed pages will uncoil from backpacks,
phones will emerge from pockets
and fingers slightly shaking
will chase the letters
of my name through search engines.

My sticky poems will fan out across floorboards.
They will lower their bodies carefully, not quite kneeling,
(and without mention of the bad knees they happen to share.)
They'll hover above each piece of evidence
and their eyes will crash along titles and memories-
they'll read with raised
eyebrows and pretend as if
they don't already know
each poem, each quick dig, by heart.

When they start claiming
and denying pieces
they will do so lightly
and without judgment.
'This piece is about you and the dry, delicate
tissue-shell of skin
she held out for you after you told
her to shed.
But this piece- this piece is about me
and the messy ointment
that ruined her clothes and
stained her blankets.
A doctor instructed she
apply the ointment to her hands
twice a day to treat
the burns my silence left
across her arms and throat.'

They will share a bit of rage,
A bit of regret.
A bit of shame, perhaps.
They will either miss me intensely
or not at all.
They will either own up
to the poems they begat
or begin refuting.
They don’t want any of
this chilly weight on their soul.
I understand.

They didn’t sign up for this, I know that.
They didn’t set out to rock me,
nor to dig down deep and get to my China.
I was happy to share, to whisper and recite blurry
morning confessions and epiphanies.
I was right behind them running toward the sand dunes,
waving a shovel and pail.
But I can’t feel bad either.
You all must have known:

If you happen to fall for a girl
who writes you must realize
that every smile you put on her face,
every stray hair you’ve pushed back from her eyes,
and quick habit she starts to crave
is fair game.

If a girl who writes happens to fall for you too--
forget it.
You will find echoes of the way your souls fit and fought
together until she has nothing left to feel on the subject;
(and you must be well aware
she's tidal, her feelings are icecaps,
they are melting but will trickle fresh
and renewed for centuries to come.)

Say, heart, that was a shock

that was a shock to the system that got nervous

some never recover but we do, we can , we are -

Say, heart... that was unexpected and violent
air plane crashes and dead body smells
sandalwood roses and milk sweets

Say, Heart
that was a new kind of feeling
England in the countryside and hedgehogs squished to pavements
Swimming after fogged up bus rides
and Bob Marley in the white Golf.

Say, Heart that was pretty cool
watching the London Eye go up on telly
then seeing it outside
then a school with swapsies and teachers checking to see if you ate
and a sister waiting in the chair next to me

Say, Heart
11 schools later
aren't you glad we saw them all?

Say, Heart
how many times did we crack before we broke open?
and I whispered that we'd be ok as long as we kept moving
and now we know that clinging to moments is what makes the pain worse..

Say, Heart
I feel you beating now after so many times searching for a pulse and finding something else there instead.

the oozing of generational lies
and slaps that turned green
along with the screams and I feel that we are all screaming
we are all screaming
silently
into the blankets on frosty january morns or into our 10th cup of tea to drown out the cold

into our tiger teddybears or elephants stiched in pink,
perhaps it'll be our CD's that reminded us of home, when we're on a far off continent where pain lurks around us and the children are crying at the top of the stairs
and kidney failure is just round the corner but how could we know?

That glass shower doors were yet to be smashed and police cars were yet to have left and guitars were yet to have been bartered
your love for a 6 stringed instrument that is a sacred therapy

And Say,
Heart
we were told that staying silent was proper
and the sound of our voice too loud

children should be seen and not heard
emotions are weak and blood or lust is front page news


Say, Heart what do you make of that?
No wonder those eyes are twitching just slightly ,
and the nervous system never really calmed down,
the setting of the perfect storm
to rain mystic myriads of inner dimensional travel
because yes, ultimetly it's my greatest teacher

but
trauma doesn't just fade.

Trauma doesn't just fade.

Trauma doesn't just fade
until we let it, wadda say heart?


Say it Heart....
Say it Heart....
let it out, sweet, dear Heart..
Say it..... Heart.

I am a medicine unto myself
from the earth I rise
bringing down the airy heights
living side by side
inside I am alive
in me life breathes!

I beat feet
to the rhythm
that lives within silence,
where all begins.