Oh that we were not creatures
Sometimes so in tune with our world.
My stomach is telling me
That something must happen today.

Camel crush cigarettes
Put them in a fancy box
No, I’m too poor to buy them
But if you pass’em
Then I won’t say no.

People say that it’s unclean
That you’re unclean
That they’re unclean
You smell like a hotel room
And it’s comforting.

Camel crush cigarettes
Your hugs speak of the habit
No, take your precious smoke break
**** it clean to dust
Barreling into death.

People say that it’s unwise
That you’re unwise
That they’re unwise
You smell like drunken Saturdays
And it’s delicious.

Camel crush cigarettes
I’ve never felt addiction
No, I don’t think that I could
It’s a scarlet dreamland
With one-way tickets.

People say that it’s unkind
to lungs and mind
They’re right, I find.
But you look like abandon
And it’s inviting.

Camel crush cigarettes
I’ve never loved a smoker
No, I’d always been too proper
But if you tasted like that
I wouldn’t mind a bite.

People say that you’re catering
To your un-ease
With a disease.
You feel like contradiction,
And I’m depraved.

I never cared much for car talk,
But when he speaks, I'm intrigued,
And I don't know why.

Most men speak in tones that imply
I don't know anything,
Can't understand simple machines,
Have never seen an engine block,
And just want to watch as they talk.
But he is genuinely fascinated
With systems and forces,
And wants to share.
His passion consumes me,
And I listen, hoping to learn.

On switchbacking forest roads,
Over potholed washboard,
By steep cliff dropoffs,
My head swims with emergency "what ifs"
But not with him.
He flies over loose gravel
And I squeal with euphoric trust and delight.
He drives twice the posted speed,
And I find myself shamelessly sunk
Into a wet seat.
He pumps the brakes
And I'm bowing to the king,
Brazenly hoping that someday
He'll flip a carnal handbrake turn,
Wondering if he cares enough to show off,
Seduced like so many before me
By oil, rubber, and gasoline.

They're such shiny chemicals:
Dopamine, Norepinephrine, Phenylethylamine.
Life shimmers,
and each day is painted with purpose
When dosed with such potency.

I would like to believe that love,
The long-lasting kind,
The one you're supposed to want,
The one that settles you,
Where you grow old and spend Wednesday evenings answering emails and rewatching some old baking show in ***** sweats
Is enough to keep life interesting.
But chemistry doesn't always work that way.

My path might dictate some other measure of wholeness,
And more than one type of love,
And more than a couched lookalike storybook ending.
My path may require
Risk, Adventure, Longing,
Questioning, Exploration, Pain,
Brilliant platonic wildfires,
Intellectual dalliances,
And unrequited amorosity.
In short, my path may require some trailblazing.

But this precious neural spark
In my body
That keeps me in love with love
Is mine to keep
For as long as it continues to shine.

Serotonin
Stepping out into the sun
(To capture and convert UVs),
The navigator leads the run
And takes the charge of "where-to-be".

Endorphins
Breathing hard, all discord numb!
A high like never felt before
Feels so much like the liquid hum
Of sharing two, or three, (or four?)

Oxytocin
Splitting sides, we barely gasp,
Dreams afire burst forth and rush,
Time and praise are gifts we clasp,
We shudder-skip when fingers brush.

Dopamine
Rewarding sights come to the tough
And forming memories is my art.
Just sharing heights is sweet enough,
But anticipation rules my heart.

Break the stale night -
You twinkle in and out of my life
Tasting like San Francisco.

It's as if we're climbing
over mountains,
except by some cruel trick
we trek along the fault line
rather than across
and as we crest each painful saddle
there is no choice
but to slide back down the other side,
blistered, limping, starved,
and carrying too much weight,
hoping the next peak
will be the last.

Except,
it's nothing like climbing mountains,
for at least in the mountains
I can breathe.

Tiptoe timidly,
oh my tongue.
Speak not the words
That toe on your tip.
Swallow the surplus,
you swift little thing,
And mind that these slivers
Are given to slip.
Forget your fidgeting,
Fingers of mine.
Flee from the keystrokes
You’re fighting to flip.
Quiet your queries,
Your qualms, and questions.
Kith care not for clinging,
Nor for your quips.

I wonder if you know
how often I pass
that church door where we kissed
(and kissed, and kissed)

Or how I'd desecrate
a thousand more
just to do it again
(and again, and again).

It feels now like a deal with the devil,
and too good, it lasted as long as one would.
For rapturous blasphemy, for ludicrous bliss,
I sold all my fears for just one shot at this.

I wonder if you know
that we are our own devils,
that nothing's contracted
that can't be redacted

That we spin our own fates
and can re-thread our revels -
Did you know? But you must,
(you must, you must.)

Yet I'm sure that you won't
and that all that we built
is crumbling, returning,
To dust, to dust.

Men shielded their eyes from her effulgence,
Heat rippling across the valley
Cascading into cool mists -
That was how the tempest began.
Each naive stride and stroke
Raking chain reactions through the fields,
Winds picking up speed
She began to dance.
That was when she noticed the chill.
Her arms opened wide to beckon her sisters,
The sea,
And they ran to her,
Changing her,
Lending her
Their powerful wings.
Cyclopsian, she rose above,
First drizzles, then droves, and deluge.
Shiver, shiver, shake,
Drops sprayed and furled
Across the innocent
Wreaking havoc
From moon to covered moon
Until she'd spent it all.
Heat, chill, water, light, wind,
All gone.
Spent.
To trudge up the mountain
Searching for radiance once more.

Gotta get out
Get away
Run away
"I'm running out..."
Running out of time
Out of patience
Get me out!
Out of here
Hear the blood
Blood rushing in ears
Ears full of volume
Volume in decibels
Decibels drown out thoughts
I'm drowning in thoughts
Thoughts that chain
Changes in motion
Emotional changes
Change of pace
Change of scenery
Change of heart
Gotta get out
Take me out

A string plucked:
Soft, supple, pliant, auriferous,
Full-bodied.
Vibrations traveling in determined waves
Fill the chambers
Joyfully cascading down walls,
Ringing down halls,
The symphony crescendos and falls.
A string brushed:
Gasps, sings, tender, melodious,
Wanton.
Whispers traveling in hopeful skips
Dance on air
Lasciviously over-pleased
To be teased
And so subtly eased.
The string un-plucked:
Grows cold
Anticipates
Grows rusty
Wants for just one touch
Grows restless
Sits in silence
Oppressive silence
Until it snaps.

The first mist you meet
You'll meet the guardians of the river,
The second mist you meet
You'll meet the clouds from oceans far,
The third mist you meet
Be prepared to meet your maker
For the final mist may send you
Back to river, or to star.

Up north
The ravens are well-fed
Proud and bossy
Tail feathers two feet long.
Up north
The cougars are muscled
Prowling through yards
House cats go missing
Up north
The game grow bigger
Towering, stoic
Against beasts larger still.
Up north
The people are farther
I finally feel
That I'm plausible prey.

Simplicity is not often with me,
For I am constantly spinning myself
Into a labyrinthine web of words.
(It's a problem - the spinner in my head
Cranks out WAY too much thoughtful thread.)
But I know how pointless it is to live this short life
without openly sharing my truths,
So, full of ambition,
I endlessly aspire to keep the door open
To this messy box.
So I wade through the mess
Collecting anchoring chords,
Endeavoring to weave them
Into an elegant and refined tapestry,
Ready to be presented to you.
One that says,
"Ever see the sun as the star it is, hanging in the sky?"
"Imagine giant glaciers bowling over these plains,"
"What's stopping us from staying out all night?"
or
"Let me list all the ways you are a beacon to my spirit",
"Please tell me about everything you love,"
"I look forward to these moments with you every other moment."

But that's always, like, way too much.

In the summer,
Hands in soil,
Bodies covered in dirt,
Running barefoot,
Camping in grass,
Rolling in mud,
Smoke in our hair,
Dust in our socks,
Tasting the Earth,
Juice dripping down chins,
Flowers in hands,
Rolling down hills,
Resting in roots.
In the fall,
Rain in our hair,
Rain in our clothes,
Rain on our skin,
Rain carries filthy rivulets
To the drain.

Sweltering delirium
I want to unwrap my skin
This fervor consumes me.
On the prow of this boat
I gaze into the terminator
Dividing open air and rain.
A stoked frenzy
I want to flush this flush
In numbing chill.
A temporary calm in me
As the temperature drops
But this fever has less chance of breaking
Than the clouds.

Head turns
Eyes gleam
Brows raise
Lips press
Mouth curls
Head shakes
Eyes roll
Meeting yours
With a mischievous grin
And a glance too long
That seeks to meet,
No, submerge itself in,
And possibly dive the depths of
Yours.
My perpetual smirk,
My curious simper,
My amused beaming,
Must all seem customary now,
But in truth,
the eyes I give you
Are seen by very few.

I have learned how not
To deal with fury -
From my mother,
My father,
And so on,
And so forth.
I have learned what inside
I don't want to be.
Left untamped
I would be fire.
Left unexamined,
I would own my rage.
Instead, I turn it over -
Laugh-crying at some,
Numbing at others,
Until I've far surpassed fury
And settled in even rockier
Despair.
I shake at injustices too great
And I heave my sobs
Into a furious ocean
Of everyone else's.
Better to quietly, privately drown
Than actually burn it all down
As would my mother,
My father,
And so on,
And so forth.

We don't have to walk far
Under the cover of canopy
To find exposure.
Once outside the city,
Outside the usual framework,
Outside the boundaries of polite necessity,
We can truly breathe.
On the trail
I bathe in dust
And my hands converse with trees
When asking for support.
Nursing logs remind us
Where we stand
In an ancient cycle,
And we can confess anything.
Stripped down to our bare humanity.
It's the intimacy
I used to chase in pillow-talk,
But without the dance.
The trail is always a soul's journey,
Whether solo or shared.

We want to tear in -
To taste all the juices
Knowing that now,
All too soon, we could lose this.
We want to drink
All the things in this world
And never
Stop to breathe.
For the wheel
Takes and it gives
Some things will die
While others still live
When the day
Gives way to new day
We're afraid what we love
Might all fall away.
Still, the world demands
That we must let go
And let the deep rivers
In motion all flow
Dropping our leaves
Going back to our roots
Re-evaluating
What we know to be true.
Stop to breathe.
Before the next bite,
Stop to breathe.

Above all
I thank the stars
For the gift of wayfinding.

Above it all
I gaze higher still
Or to the sunlit valleys below
To find my way.

The gift of terrifying awe as Orion's belt peers through the trees, bringing South.
The gift of sure confidence as I point the Dippers out to others, bringing North.
The gift of guesswork as we discover behind which peak the sun will rise, bringing East.
The gift of inevitable hush that descends along with her, bringing West.

The gift of heavy elements
Composing all
And my body
And these eyes
That were also made for
Reading maps,
Reading signs,
Reading animal sigils.

Above all
I thank the stars
For teaching me
To be less blind
And to find My Self
In the world.

I have a hard time with differentiation
Between getting coffee
  And let's demolish 3 bottles of wine!
Between getting inspired
  And let's spend holidays seeing the country in a van!
Between getting butterflies
  And let's kiss on the face right now!

Surely,
There must be spectrums I can bisect
  Splitting
   Platonic Love from Romantic
   Sensory from Sensual
   And Casual from Committed
But they are not immediately apparent to me.

Regardless of type
All ships must be properly cared for,
So I will patch the holes
Man the sails,
And try not to rock the boats
Too terribly hard.

Click clack
Heels down long pavements
Mean business.
A bystander excuses himself
From my way.
Take a seat and
Squickety squeak
Leather up legs
Crossing on
Leather up legs.
I'm endlessly amused
Biting my lip,
Silently cajoling,
"Oh, is this your thing?"

The year gets later,
The air grows colder,
The pack gets heavier,
The trails grow longer,
The hours get earlier,
The elevation gets higher,
The minutes pass faster,
The friendships grow powerful.
My heart grows stronger
With each summit.

We burn like meteors:
Hot, fast, and bright
Screaming through the atmosphere
Hearts afire, souls alight
Each trip
One small skip for heart,
One giant leap for meteorite.

But there are two inevitabilities:
Time, and with it, gravity.

We break apart
Losing light
We extinguish
Losing sight
But after it's over -
After you're gone
I'm still
Euphoric.
High.

Replays shooting through my mind -
I'm starting to suffocate on oxygen.

Then I desperately search
For a laugh, or a sound,
Hoping a new voyage
Soon will be found
Grasping at wind
All the way down
Just a stone in thin air
Plummeting to the ground.

Nothing fancy
Just little stuff.
Using our real voices
Not the shallow mockery
To sing in the car.
Confessing our crushes
Honestly and gleefully
Dreaming and scheming.
Shoving our cold feet
Under each others' warm butts
With ice cream and SNL.
Nobody's perfect
(Least of all us)
But we certainly have our moments.

I have let my inbox fill,
Let my hair grow long,
And moved the cup that collected my life
That constantly ranneth over
Spilling drops to the ground
To the side temporarily
So a deeper vessel could be found.
But I'm not worried -
I'll be around.

Storytime: I have long worn this body as a mask, pinning my cravings on the easily dismissible "primal urges" shared collectively. And though I revel in the smooth, lithe curves and motions of ***, it is my mind that is racing. My climactic tears have always sprung from a deeper well of sensation than the physical.

The buoyancy and depth of my spirit is directly proportional to the clarity and frequency of my Aha! Moments, and the duration and spells of radical trust and honesty shared in body and in soul. These laser beams of clarity or steady washes of electric buzzing seem the only true reason to be conscious of life at all.

I always wish to be worshipping at the altar of the stars, whatever form they manifest themselves in. A view, a meal, a lesson, a conversation, a work of art, or a companion. I feel love as less the solid, quantifiable particle, and more the ethereal wave of euphoric wonder, pulling like gravity. In a reason-less world, this is the best one to exist.

I want to share, "I Wonder You," with the humans that amplify the buzz of this wavelength. I want to go without the stretches in between where I must disguise the stirrings within where I feel the minutes of my life slipping away.

Crafting scissors
Gardening shears
A pizza roller
Instruments of humble vivisection
I wield, I rend, I create.
Needles and pins,
Nimble and thin,
I pierce, I pull, I close.
With measured patience
I choose my weapons:
Ink, passion, time, and wit.
An armory of precision and gut.
Boulders bruise but roll away,
Fire burns, but I'm already ablaze,
Arrows lodge shallow or all fall short,
But the cold?
It slices.
The draining thought:
Is this the end of my creation -
Is there no more?
I slowly bleed out.

I was louder once.
A beast with a need to feast,
but now I tamp my rampages.
One too many times I leapt
Over and through the fire
Bounding and barreling
Obnoxiously snarling as I caught
my dreams between my jaws and ripped,
To find their warmth evaporating,
my **** growing cold and sticky
as it would dribble and dry,
sweet and cracked down my breast and forearms.
I learned to pace. To release. To settle.
Not to take too many shots, coax, tease, or purr.
Not to bite, howl, or grin.
Not to get too cozy when I stargaze, tell embarrassing drinking stories, or speak my impressing words.
Not to stand on tables,
Not to shout out of car windows,
Not to dance like the drunken Maynads.
And I am quieter for it.
More intact.
Less alive.
I miss that wild beast.
I feel her gnawing at the cracks in my skin
begging me to don the wolf coat.
And some nights,
When the moon is right
I do.
And if I'm not careful,
Fastidiously luring and caging her
with promises of "next time"
until I've re-sewn my skin
I'm afraid that she'll eclipse me,
Careening through the night
And never returning.
I along with her
Never to return.

Do not expect a linear path
Nor a strictly circular one
Though you meander one foot to the next
In cyclical, somewhat predictable rhythms.
Do not expect clouds to behave,
Mountains to hold,
Or branches to grow.
Do not expect bridges to stand the test
of time that even trees cannot.
Do not expect your golden shot today
to hold your interest next go round the wheel.
Do not expect a clear and simple reward.
Rather, take what you can,
Whenever you can,
Drink it in,
Make it a part of you
For the next go round.

Silent, unexpected ripples
As the first flakes softly alight on the lake,
A crisp inhale with eyes closed
Followed by a joyous vaporization of cloud.
When vision flutters back into focus,
A spectacle ever-more lovely than the last.
The muffled crunching around the trail,
near-muted chattering of chipmunks,
windy flurries whistling then growing placid,
the softened screech of a hawk
subdued now to an awed whisper -
Mounting and falling like a Debussy.
Clearer and more humbly triumphant
than cathedral bells.

This suite - this bright panorama
Shows me to the brink of an elation within
And brushes my crystalline spirit.
It sings and I overflow -
Light pours drop by rapturous drop
From each eye.

You will know, you'll feel the change,
That calls on parts of you most strange,
And through the wooded halls, you'll pass,
To gather for Its ancient mass.

The fallen towers' decaying bark,
Will harbor haunts of growing dark,
The slime will sweat, the crawlers teem,
You will not wake, this is no dream.

Descending into rotting cold,
You'll hear Its voices, deep and old,
And when their song has chilled your bone,
You'll know that you are not alone.

The path will dim and fall to end,
The soil below, itself shall rend,
The wyrm within shall rise without,
With blackened fur and horned snout.

And surely as the lichens gnaw,
It opens up its snarling maw,
The void beyond the smiling tooth,
Revealing long-forgotten truth.

Dear Ghost,

Would it be easier for you
if I ignored you,
blocked you, hid you,
and came back later
after an 'appropriate' amount of time?
Or is it easier if I stay,
patient and persistent,
occasionally dropping my two-cent
invitations, heart, and laughter,
gently
(repeatedly)
reminding you
that in spite of everything
I still give a ****?

I ask
because I do not know,
just as I can not ascertain
whether to hope or to mourn.
I hypothesize that neither
will improve this situation,
but I agonize over which
might make it worse.
Your input on the matter
would be greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,
Lost in Limbo.

It comes in the morning, now -
That heavy vapor of gloom
That spreads like water-soaked ink
That stirs the gut to quiver.
Once a night traveler
Content to sit on my lungs
and whisper toxic reminders
of mortality,
This demon endemic to life
has taken a new schedule,
and with it, a new voice,
and new pairs of woes and clothes.
It reminds me, now,
of my world like molasses,
jolly people I have been,
and joy I've destroyed,
tempting me with a heart of ice
I could use to replace my own,
and make this song go away.
It is my job then, to refuse.
"No."
I must climb out of bed
And wield a sword of summer
For one more day.

So many things to say to so many people
So many things that I’ll never say
At the end of the day it’s just me and myself
Lying naked on my bed
Fingernails longing for something they can’t touch
And doing their best to quench their thirst for life
And I’m dragging my toes along the bed-sheets
Squirming with the words unsaid.
And maybe I won’t let them spill
Because I’m afraid of the havoc they’ll wreak,
But maybe it’s because you wouldn’t listen
And you wouldn’t respond
And they would lay to waste and writhe and shatter
And crumble like a burning paper’s living soul
Left to clutter my mind
Like “This is all your fault. So pick it up.”
Even this will fall into a corner and be swept away
Because that’s what happens to the words I decide to say.

As Baudelaire said:
"Be always drunk,
on wine, poetry, virtue"
or what-have-you.
And after sobering
from aurelian dawns
and whiskey-drenched stars,
I find solace in tipsiness
on irreverent magic eyes
from the bottom of a margarita
or a paint-stained enigma
from behind a glass of red.
Slowly, carefully, languidly,
Quietly.
Flirting with possibilities
of being drunk once more.

Drunk girl wants a cigarette
To re-taste the ash of past regret.
Drunk girl wants to straddle you
And kiss you 'til your lips turn blue.
Drunk girl must relieve her chest
And languidly expose each breast.
Drunk girl wants to cut footloose;
The mundane knots now form a noose.

Sober girl doesn't have the time.
Sober girl is much too grown.
Sober girl is married to years,
Married to plans,
Married to age,
Married, married, married.

But staying sober
Is so hard to do
Yes, liquor is quicker,
But drinking's not the only way yo
Get drunk off of you.

It's the fourteen-minute, fifty-two-second
Electric Ladyland ultra-slow cut
Of Jimi Hendrix's Voodoo Chile,
And with each hot, languid, aching riff,
My lips
Press and Praise,
Taste and Tease,
Catch and Release,
Wildly and methodically
Covering every square inch
Of your jawline,
earlobe,
collarbone,
and down.
The mesmerizing jangle
of electric rock *****
Chains us,
Entrances us,
Drugs us,
Leads us,
And there is nothing in this world
But your scent,
my lips,
your shiver,
my breath,
and our hands.
I swear, the moon turns a fire red,
And we're a pitched electric flame.
Play that song and tell me
That you can't imagine the same.

What are these bands around your wrists
These frayed stories that barely cling?
And what are these enchantments held
That cradle your touch between each ring?
And what is this ancient writing here
That’s inked from shops of yester-year?
Is there a relic about you yet
That makes your brackish past run clear?

What is that place your eye seeks out
When your steady gaze is aether-bound?
And what steep truths have you traversed
To gather poise as you have found?
What shadows passing now have stayed
And fears upon tanned shoulder weighed?
Can mysteries be unraveled here
That in your piercing focus played?

Oh wandering mystery mountain man,
Oh sweet conundrum of my dreams,
Oh distant altruistic love,
Oh ponderer of whispering streams,
Wherefore do the stars yet speak
So I can hear their secret calls,
But ever in their praises keep
Your hidden name in cosmic halls?
Yes, to my ears they murmur deep
The stain-ed truths of earth and sky
But never leaks that hopeful peep;
Verisimilitude is shy.

Forever my enigma: you.
The heavens sagely made it so.
For I have solved the their secrets through,
But so much in you left to know.

Eyes meet
In the corner coffee stall
Flint and tinder
All this time
Hello there!
Scrambling
Words all tumble
Scintillating
Knocking tables
Metal legs airborne
Clawing madly
Un-crisping collars
Found you
On the garnet cushions
Back to life
Imagination spinning
Staring at me
Whoops
Having daydreams
Once again.

Hear here:
https://soundcloud.com/nataliejcopeland/fine-rough-first-mix*

I'm fine
  I'm fine
    My heart's on fire
      But I'm fine
No ****
  No wine
    No need for that stuff
      Cause I'm fine

The words on the radio
Don't touch me like they used to
Not a single song out there
Sounds right or rings true

I'm chill
  I'm fine
    Growing colder
      On the vine
The leaves
  They turn in time
    And I'm turning too
      Cause I'm fine

I wish I could capture a sunbeam's warmth
Before the autumn days
But just like the summer in your smile
This too will fade away

I'm fine
  Not sure what I'll do but I'm fine
    This heart beats slower now
      But it's fine, oh it's fine
I'll try
  To coastline
    Try to glow up
      Til I grow up
        And I show up
          Truly fine.

Bitter anger and confusion
like vinegar
won't stop love from flowing.
They are both liquid
coursing together
through the great channels
carved by passion.
When dammed,
these too overflow.
I must, somehow, create culverts
and new places to go.

All of my targeted ads remember
that we wanted to go to Iceland
in winter
to see the Aurora Borealis,

and they bombard me relentlessly
as if marketing in memories.

This instance is not unique.

It seems
no matter how many buttons I push
in attempts to subdue
these bright incursions,

I can't mute you completely.

I have faced down
the existential anguish
that drives lovers
to padlock themselves within.
I have woven blankets
to warm my cold shoulders
when I tumble
through the abyss.
I have created
Reason, Religion, and Reverence
out of Absurdity and Stardust.
I will always be
more desirous of desire
than secure with security,
more comforted by wonder
than wondrous of comfort,
and more of the romantic than the realist,
though neither is whole
without the foil.