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*)

Call Me A Millennial

"Lost,"
you called me.
I fought back.

A double life in more than two ways,
shoulders from the weight,
from the climb to nowhere of my
I-can-do-anything dreams
to the unknown,
a symbol
for life in transit.
Another sunset a different pillow
another sunrise a different direction.
some call it wonder lost
some call it wander lust
I wonder and I wander
in lost
in love.

To be tired is in vogue
a racing heart is the way of the world,
so why not chase the pulse
and follow the firing of my neurons,
enlightened by new pathways,
stronger when they're followed,
a pattern of the untraceable
a system of change swifter than we evolve.
A culture of the mutt that I am
searching for the past
unraveling the future
resting when I realize breaks are resistance,
pausing is counterculture,
and I want to be different sometimes.
Lost is found.

Call me a millennial.
Love me or leave me,
because I've learned that 
love stays
     before it's time,
     or when it's time to.
I don't always have a say
so I might as well go with the flow
while carving my way,
call me a millennial.
Call me for what I am
and I'll resist your label -
a gift to my generation -
wanting to be known while rejecting it.
Call me for what I am.
"Lost."
I cringe. I cry. I smirk...
"Lost..."

I put roots down and found home
until I awoke to my branches as metaphor,
and the trees reminded me
that my feet weren't meant
to stay stuck in the mud trying to grow,
so I moved, move to find power
not in the depth of my footprint
but in what the ground where I step whispers to me about that place
where we meet where my feet dance here or there,
settling is not nature, but being 
earthy and elemental yes!
I am a nester and a nestee and nests move with the seasons -
redefine lost.

Lost is where our eyes are open,
because there they have to be.
Lost is where we pay attention.
Lost is where we find us.
Lost is where we find self.
Lost is where we hold on.
Lost is where we let go.
Lost is where we reach out.
Lost is where we reach in.
Lost is where religion loosens.
Lost is where the mystery is the magic we need.
Lost in me,
I am found.

"Lost,"
you called me.
I fought back
Because I have a secret,
lost is found.
Call me a millennial.

Now,
another sunset a different pillow,
hold me.

Growing Pains

all this shadow,
addicting.

the abyss,
a freedom in the ride of feeling
on the edge of pushing fear.
emotion junkie.

my shadow side
indulged. by you.

where i find you
we exist in the dark
meaningless,
here i meet you.

zero fucks given,
a lie told every time we do...
in between sips of wine, twist of fate
facing our faces
and our fears.

primal divinity of our
nature and our nurture
meaningless miracles...
let's wrestle
through it.

honest in the the glow of
honey candles
and a string of lights...
love in a moment
trying to contain the blood
but heart bleeding past the brain
onto the pages of morning light...
love in a moment
something more but now
is all there is.
a moment of shadow.

a season shared
shadow seasons
seasons end, right?

shadow side,
exploring
exposed to the light.
let me look in your corners
let me know the child inside
the fears, the soul's secrets
the core in honest

the illuminating dark
all this shadow
repression released reveals.
we, we play. in the abyss we've been told to resist
we, the fire lit. exposed in the dance of contrast
we, the shadows. little fires, they are warm.
me, my growing pain.

seasons end, right?

me, my growing pain.

Honest I Am

Learning that I'll be missed
in a room where I dreamed many dreams.
Eyes closed
and now I fly awake
over the cities.
Mapping time in moments
swooping in and out
of memories
on the street corners
in the intimate rooms
in my living classrooms
in so many ladiesrooms
from my bird's eye
I recall all of your eyes
up close behind my eyelids.

Nine years and fourth months
 - half of my living memory - 
of eyes and cheers and sing-a-longs,
cafe chats and wine philosophy,
and heavy hearts and so much hummous,
gone in a 45 minute stretch down the 401,
along the silhouettes of trees
that witness me,
ever faithful
I am grateful...
Their roots teach me 
what commitment looks like
and their leaves teach me
the lessons of seasons when they whisper
"It's time to fly,
the sun has shifted
and so will be
the place you land,
but there again you'll stand.
You were made to move
and made to rest
so when you can,
move
rest
move
rest
you'll know when,
when you learn to listen
to the seasons."

Ears open,
eyes open.
And honestly 
I feel all the feels.
And honestly
every fiber of my bones,
the earth walking around,
is full of 
where I pressed my barefoot print on
Victoria Park island,
the graveyard where I ran,
the sunrise over the rails,
waking up in so many arms, warm,
and where my heart beats now
eyes open...
in a room where I dream new dreams, awake
to the dream of now,
thank you for all
you shared with me.

Honestly
I've learned that I make a mark
and that time moves.
You are a real dream.
And I am.