how time slips through these hands...moving with the internal flow...how brutal the friction can be...how warm my hands become....

dark i sit
with hands
     carving a bowl
                          holding\chest
digging dark soil
       mouth filling with thick spit
lips seeping

                              moist air of solstice

darkness chatters like compounding bone\shifts
    beastlings drooling  

tasting it. tensing root.

     sipping in(to) darkness

exhaling  bounty

ocean of needs, steady yourself
a listening rock, a sway of attention
what direction do you flow

set the timer for 15 minutes
curl into a cave, a space for one

step into the noise, steady yourself
it is only the beginning of infinite
accountability

steady yourself, the feeling
will pass

set the timer

You held the cup for me.
While a woman held my face
The biting comments about your obedience didn’t faze you.
I didn’t ask you to hold the cup.

You asked me a simple question.
I answered by putting my hands around your face.
I received what I wanted.
I didn’t ask you to ask.

You tipped your hat at our eye contact.
I smiled.
You smiled.
I didn’t ask you to look my way.  

Thought trouble followed me
Feminine whims of perfume overflow
The space between these moments.
I didn’t ask for scent.

I only carry it.

Time’s long fingers have worshiped
Round the gentle spot

Where you sit in my mind…so

Still.

Grounded vibrancy of ethereal compassion.

Striating. Colors…of sweet earth, you are.

Aromatic deliciousness thickens as you sit at my thought

Table.

Honey softening my world.
Feeding me
…with time’s long fingers.

Driving to you means
Deep, dark, dirt backroads
That smell like a late night
Bonfire party

The smell clinging to my hair

A lone party goer wearing his mask, losing his way

Driving to you means
Still, white, holy churches built
Before we claimed freedom

Houses standing perfectly

With eyes ablaze

Driving to you means
Letting the music quiet

And arriving

Home.

Tall grass not yet touched by
dew observe.
Longing to reach the unforbidden.
To glide between atmospheres without
stopping to breathe.
As if that breath will steal what
cannot be stolen.

Hoping their presence will not
break the silence they find absolute.

Pickpocket the sky they will like a field
mouse with a crumb of
salted *******.

They shall not judge
what cannot be touched.
Just praise and absorb.

For what cannot be touched by
lavender hands can be felt by a rose soul.

Skin radiating window light,
waking dreamscape

How different my internal
heat records

Reading to me the way
of my body

I sit quietly in the dark
Listening to the early morning
settle itself in your chest.

And the bird song
that joins in with your
breathing.

Just add water/I feel unbridled creativity and make urban-forest soup in the shower/ My hair a carrier of woodpapercardboard particles/ On for the ride/ Just add steam/ Open the hair follicles and allow the woodland compounds to mixmashstirandpour the soup into my hands/ A vessel directed at olfactory desire/ Just add a body

I was born fast and moving in the back of a bus 8 ½ miles outside of New Orleans. I was not noticed until my ***** cries wafted to the front of the bus, heard by a 50-year-old transvestite named Is-he-dora trying to homestead in Kentucky. She put me her manicured under arm and carried me off.  You see, mom pulled up her ******* quick, smoothed out her cardigan, and popped a Quaalude before the driver could realize she climbed out of the emergency back exit.  

My first drink was bourbon through a ******. I teethed raw leather, the heel of an old boot, and a mannequin who was named Dolly. She only wore red satin and peacock feathers. The gals only bathed her in sesame oil with almonds floating in the jar. She smelled of mom. My school was on the laps of the people in the back of racetrack stables. I take my learning fast paced with a side of jockey.

I took to the streets half paved by the beats. Cassidy may have had the road, but I had the words. I was thrown out of every Mormon congregation south of the Mason-Dixon. I made it to New York in a bathtub in the base of a pick up truck for the purposes of shoplifting for fun and profit. I vogued my way through Harlem, and at night I slept with Dolly’s sister in the bedding section of bloomies.

Here I am. Right in front of you. Can you see me? Can you smell me? Can you feel me?

black moss, early morning
smoke egressing an open window
leaving behind a forest of desert trees

phantasma collecting in the shadows
of the eastern suns first hours

like a cowboy returning home late

it is everywhere, it is everywhere

it is okay to believe in magic

naked
in the heat and sweat
we champion the morning

dream elder: "you pack well, yankee. simple. I understand why you picked this spot. It's because time and movement are right here."

-- he points to where the sun is hitting the wood floor next to the bed --

i forgive the moon
for she does not know
the vastness of the ocean

mushrooms to the finger dance


throw **** in the street and change locks....happy 1öö you old ****

                                           im just a vagabond searching for a sweetheart
at sears

Visualize the way you want to see the world.

Send your quantum particles out and watch what happens.

You are fundamentally a witch.

If my body was a mountain, how would you begin your exploration?
Would it start with your hands running fingertips over the different surfaces – smooth, soft, rounded – understanding the terrain…Or a deep inhale - one that would leave a subtle smoky taste in your mouth. Would my skin provide a map for you, or would you blindly travel me in the dark? Would you sit awhile, close your eyes, listen to the sound…or take my earthly warmth firmly… If my body was a mountain, would you want to explore?

The grey fox barks
every evening, echoing
the perimeter of its
territory.

The red fox cozies up
next to the brook house
making a friend with the
inhabitant inside.

The black bear sits
its frumpy *** on the
porch of a new homestead.

The trees bend towards the
Earth. Reminding each creature
of its transient position.

Shifting to sight, the clouds,
a mountain passage road.

It runs alongside the sweet smell
of New York City coffee and early
morning mishaps.

What to make of the noticed world
after Chroma conducts his sunrise?

Girls in smeared make-up sitting
at the McDonalds. Construction Workers'
cigarettes slowly building the
mountain skyline.

Roots in the urban gravel wake the din
slowly. The clouds shuffle along, the
road quiet for another day.

How still you sat//your face toward the sun//your belly exposed

Feline intuition//dipping into the cool water// but step you will not

Monks feed your fine belly//your lustrous coat

Water sings//with the breath of the trees//sensing bliss

bring attention back to the body:

1, 2...breath

          3,4...distant din

                  5,6...5,6...

7,8...bring attention back to the body, now

                           9, 10...

the shadow puppets line up
behind my eyes

the badger smoothly strolls
on two legs

the opossum moves
claws first

the raven hops
corner to corner

a place of childish whimsy
of jagged, jointed movement

      a stage of handless puppeteers

not so much a dream but
a backlit brain

setting up the stage
quickly

a dry run
                         curtains up

break a leg

as this comes together

        i promise to not pour out the tea leaves
                                                          ­           soaking in your cup

                 but i will read the story they tell

Tuesday:

Wolfchild Brings the Rain

A bucket full of storm clouds

with swimming lightning poles

Wire hair pointing which way to go

Panting between the thunderclaps

Howling at the covered moon

instead of working,
let's drink coffee early,
dress up to show how
grand we are, and then
dance the Charleston
down Lexington

what swallowing silence
a warm cup holds

in a space, a time and place
beyond reaching, beyond
satisfaction

handle your place gently

invite your containment

to sit

w(om)an
the
   world
sound

wo(man)
  wo-rried
    wo-eful
      wo-r-ship
     ­   wo-unded

w(oman)
                   o-man
o-men

       womyn

(om)

a new thought is swimming
inside my cranium fishbowl

I see the colors swirling like
little koi in a man made pond

I am not allowed to touch

Should I slam my head against the
table?

Should I let the liquid spread?

or

should I quietly balance

locating my center of gravity

they say there is no use
crying over spilled...

you hoard a tiny moon
in your mouth

i put my mouth around
yours

and howl

a gentler world is possible

open your hands

It is morning. I glance up at the sky
I nod to her, acknowledging that she
knows the weather better than I

Our duels are unforgiving
She is graceful in her delivery
And I am left shoveling up the remains

Her coldness no match for my warmth,
my skilled hand. I create a path, boots
Weighted against the latticed snow

I remind her that though she has
a power to wield, I have my own

Perseverance.

You sit in a line, I see you
Each with a different hair style,
unkempt, yet perfectly thought out

You weep raw wounded tears
For me, for yourself, for your beloveds
Like a piqued adult, I sense your worry
The worry that you are not crying well-enough,
puffy-enough, make-up-smeared-enough

But it is raw, enough
It is from a newly formed depth,
a mark that will leave a mark, which
will leave a mark, maybe

And you will sing from it
You will dance from it
You will use it as both sword
and shield for the rest of your
life, maybe

But it is raw and it stings
and it wails, oh god does it
wail and scratch and burn

But I see you,
In a line, with your
hair unkempt,
holding each other close