Power from my Toes

for truly I am better when I repress you.
we come and we go
you came and I went
I let you go
again and again
sometimes I can breathe you out from my socks full body and
mostly you're never there at all,
but tonight the melancholic sounds
have a way of bringing you to mind
and all I can do is swallow you down
lest you swallow me whole again.

yes okay I'm being dramatic with my words
but they sound so rich like this don't they?
and hey I'm not afraid to face the feels 
'cause they're the real deal
so digest them how you'd like,

for my love for you is better swallowed, 
because I've felt that lust is hella fun but a bit sticky at times
and I've seen at times that love is blind so now I see with my gut
the visceral message it's real 
that truly I am better when I repress you.
and when I avoid texting you.

no I'm not as tragic as this sounds,
this is where I write you out to cleanse you out.
others might relate and regardless it's my
repression released on screen.

no no I'm not as tragic as this seems
it's just that love is powerful
and I need to reserve some power 
for myself now.

that and I've learned to like the nice ones,
we laugh and keep it real.
love sits right in balance.

just like my gut
it's feeling pretty fucking fine these days.

*breathes out from toes*

I Saw Time in Her Laughter Ringing

those moments when you recognize time
when the memories are vivid in the same place many moons ago
where you see your age
in the smell of a place.

when your mind's eye walks the halls,
tastes the temperature of the rooms 
that taught you how to pray
by playing fruit salad with snotty kids
and buying a red squire strat 
just so he might fall in love with you
before you figure out self-confidence,
a thought to be forgiven,
but lordy what does it mean to love?

when the laughter returns from yesteryear, a dirty word you said made her laugh in that elevator you'd hide in during the service - harmonies and prayers for your soul muffled beyond the doors - sitting on it's floor long enough for the lights to forget you were there and shroud you in darkness - only your breathing sounds and stifled maturation reminding you of one another's company.
when you see time in the face of the same friend.
her laughter still ringing with all it has seen,
the sound hasn't changed but it's a little more rich.
I hear it in time.
a comfort in the ages.

when you see time.
and it makes you stop.
or wish you could.

words allowed

why are artists gifted with the art that they are?

why was i gifted with 
words 
words i never asked for
words that come in to and out of me 
with the same need to breathe?


why was i gifted with 
words
words written down or
words in the air seen
by no one but me?

perhaps because 
they are quiet
they are safe
which i need sometimes.

but.

now 
i need the unsafety of my 
words
aloud.

why?

perhaps because
my gift is making me grow.

it's not always how you want it but it's there, and it's good.

Where I Wait, Pub Confessions, and Every Single Cup of Coffee

I've been thinking on sacred spaces
at a bus stop
where I find myself, again.

And again I check out
my privilege at the cash register,
counting dimes for carrots and coffee
I'll make last the next week
two weeks till next cheque...
the ritual of healthy and addiction,
the ritual of the contradiction 
of the fake middle class...
Cry Me a River I know,
and sing it with me,
the ritual of Pop
and the burning up the dance floor
where we are free, where we let go,
sacred.

I've been talking of sacred spaces
in the places of the profane,
picking apart our sin with indulgence,
counting our cents
with the sense of the wise,
the common,
around the table where we meet
or the holy ground where we lay facing the stars,
awake in the night we've been taught to fear.

I've been thinking on sacred spaces
at a bus stop
where I find myself, again.
Again at the alter of the in-between.

Let's sing the songs of where we puke,
and where we clean up.
Paint the paintings of alarm clocks calling us too soon to rise,
photoshop in the blemishes.
Confessions of pub bathrooms,
the honesty of highs and the lows,
record the thoughts of escape.
Write me the sonnets of boredom
and the haikus of exhaustion
when only a few words left can be whispered.
Sculpt me a statue of her menstrual body
stretching for healing, resting from chaos, resisting.
Present me an Oscar for hiding my anxiety,
and reward him a Grammy for the ring of his laughter despite it all.
Teach our children our checking accounts and credit card statement realities,
question the beliefs of our parents
and listen to the wisdom of their faults
and pray for something to pray for.
Feed me snacks from the dumpster
a communion of feasting on garbage
symbolism of us.
Every single cup of coffee
and whatever the fuck is happening around it...
Every time fuck is used,
sacred.
Read me the parables of today,
sacred.

I've been thinking on sacred spaces
at a bus stop
where I find myself,
again
where I wait,
and wait,
and wait,
to go.

The Normals Come Out

Perfume of fried onions
taste of carrots
hint of vanilla and beeswax,
this body houses a life.

Where body blue and factory girl meet
I become grey,
become white,
become blue,
become the heron
she always has been.
This body houses a life.

When all the normals come out 
of the woodwork
come out of the closet,
and gather under the arches of zion to dance,
released awake in the night
together till day,
this body houses a life.

It's hard to remember
with a head full of poems
and missing those I'd rather not miss
but beautiful is the sound of mine,
this body houses a life.

(*cannot claim this awesome photo as mine*)