I sit
at the
center of
one worm-
holed world,
wanting to
wave words like
"young" and
"skinny" at
women who
would want to
hear them and
I wonder,
with Williams
in my ears,
"What did I do
to deserve this?
Am I happy?"
Hair curls
down from
crown to
third eye to
throat to
heart and
I wince as
my solar
plexus sings
Celtic chants and
its songs
radiate out in
waves of
"oohhmm."
If you've
already heard
of me,
that makes
one of us;
I'm driving a
mint-condition
hand-made
bus powered by
thunder claps and
electric jazz melodies
into the
cosmic sea
to meet up
with Pluto and
make myself
his mistress.
Chain me to
the baobab
trees of your
perceptions and
I will claw my
way to the
mountainous flat
tops of your mind,
laying my limbs
out like wet
laundry in
silent soliloquy
dedicated to
your soul
finding a
use for
the word
"free."
Your ice cream
cone dreams
may start to
melt deliciously
but forgo your fear
and lap them up,
then abandon
the drops for
want of
fresh fruit and
cool, cool water.
Be cool,
baby,
let the otter
make the
moonlit path to
paradise and
mount your raft
to ride it only
twice in
one life.
Keep your
eyes peeled
and put the
carrot skins
in the compost.
You are the
one you need
most.

Old soul connects to
foreign body, moving
beautiful and dutiful
nutrients from point a
to point b; in this human
body cell sits centuries of
shaking table ornaments and
a quivering sense of gratitude as
orange meets purple meets blue.
Good morning lovely!
You are the sun beaming magnificent.
You have a gift that
you must keep secret
until it whispers its way through you.
You will sooner than later
break in two and
create a path of solar systems.
I have the energy of
an uncrushed coffee bean
singing praises to its mother.
Oh, thank you dear giver!
For I see the light
reverberating out of my
wrist bones and
showing the silence which
accoutrement best fits.
I am wearing me in the latest fall fashion,
how nice!
I am vibrating toothpick nonsense,
I am sweet potato princess,
hinged on old selifes
taken in bad lighting.
Old cells in a
new body, flimsy and throwaway.
How do you balance?
Can I be four, five, and a billion twenty three?
I am a built-up web of contradictions
flirting each other into oblivion.
Lips hinge on every last smoked cigarette,
******* cancer down;
beautiful, dutiful disease
having its way slowly but surely with the universe.
Did you ask first?
She is a magnificent mistress who
deserves at least the tenderness
of a question.
You can do better, darling,
than a flicked eyebrow upwards and
the rolling thoughts of "Me, me, me,"
on repeat in endless sequence.
Can't you see the patterns,
the exquisite dance between
embroidery and thin willow wisps of thread?
Each one of you is
countless stitch marks,
beautiful patchwork crescents
calling out "Who is your maker?"
from the quilted cosmos.
I will catch my breath from its endless throwing,
and I will sell my soul to a constant want for knowing.