In the talklamakan
There floats a face of
The buddha
Haunting its blood soaked sands
Hoping to give them peace.
Peace.

For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”

“just because”
that’s the best excuse you got girl?

cause be-ing
just
is a **** good one

way back in March
wrote a declaration^ to all those just
beginning with an iota of courage and
a good story telling
way of seeing and the
secret sauce-way
to spin my imagination in
my eye sockets
with their well words,
for I am a drinker of
the beaujolais firsts of the new grapes
of young poets

words welling springing from between
the oohs and ahs and the damns -
I wish I had wrote that...

so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to
fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more?
so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you,
and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out
that were so far from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts?

and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?

use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,”
“whistle me like a stray dog following,”
for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits”
requires, for this old scribbler is now:

“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to crack the whip over her head if
ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when
the whole of it
is all that actually matters.”

so write with that window light on and
wheat fields that can be reenvisioned as the gray-blue sea
from which I crawled out of croaking...
to read you rightly

6/25/18
10:25PM

Okay, I did it, I had to drive
a smouldering stake in his eye
screaming he lashed out

and in the panic, he couldn't see
with his other eye either
That was it, a good story

that I liked to tell, but
apparently, it's not good enough
for the sailors of today

who have seen skulls
in the Mount Etna caves
with a large hole in the middle

One-eyed giants died there
worthy of a hero
like me, they say

but I do know
that they were elephants
one-trunked quadrupeds

What is the matter with people
that they rather believe in fantasies
than in true, hard life?

The old ways
of being afraid
are beaten in and comfortable;
like weathered, old leather boots.

Yesterday, unaware,
I put them on when I stepped down from bed.
My stomach burned and rebelled at breakfast -
a desperate attempt at a sensitive SOS
from my omnipotent body too often unheard...
I limped to work alongside my lovely partner
through the cool, verdant summer air
but the cat had my tongue
and I dragged my heavy feet.

Later the fear was exposed naked
as untrue, unnecessary, a farce
- as the spinster its always been -
and what did it?

I showed up imperfect
and vulnerable and present
to the very place I felt an imposter.
I felt power and love - life -
surge through my flowing blood,
my eyes clear to meet those around me,
body light and and leaning on the ***** of my feet,
and the armor around my heart failed
with warm wholeness seeping in,
(that feeling children know, and grandma too)
and I realized
I'd taken those boots off.

This morning I'm taking note.
Today I'll try to walk the world
with bare feet.

We can not force other's interests,
or
lead one's hand to journey across a book,
The galaxy of written accounts that go from heartbreak to triumphs,
that can line the walls of a simple room.
Leading us down the path of our own interest,
Something that we should hold sacred.
A thirst for knowledge,
Though not just to be lead,
But of our own understanding.
One could get lost and never be found and still, they could not read every ink-stained page.
Every individual writes a story, some choose blood over ink,
To let the world know of their passage through time.

“Let’s stay like this”, I said while holding his hand while walking on the street with no one’s around but us. I looked up while watching the two birds sitting together on the top of the roof  thinking what’s in their mind while watching us holding hands together. And they flew. Glad they could fly together without worrying too much. I’m not waiting for any respond for I know he was unsure by the way he loosens his grip on my hand.

And yet he answered, “Sure.” I looked at him but he’s still facing forward. He never looked at me but he just smiled. He then tighten his grip and that made me know that he meant that.

Welcome to a land that is not.
Don masks and play pretend.
Characters are outfits to be tried on and shared,
merry heroes until the end

Off to steal glory from the world
and etch their names in the legends to come.
Every impossible tale of beating the odds
and pray doesn't roll you a one.

There's an old rundown street
Where Bentley and Copeland road meet.
The pavement is pretty worn and cracked,
Even the weeds avoid there to grow
If a ball rolls down it, the kids turn back
Afraid they might be trapped in that unknown.
There's houses on each side with numbers
Left to wonder who put them up
A rumor spread they'll never tear them down,
Just one day blown away in the dust.

Isn't it funny that we judge a horror movie
For walking into darkness, given the choices,
I bet you'd do the same,
Curiosity starting to build in your brain.
Ok, let's take a walk.

With a step and a slap on the ground
The air seems more still here, every sound amplified.
Every window tinted as the sun shines
But just as every hair starts to stand straight
Your stomach jumps making your head feel weak.
It's mid-day but somehow feels late
You may realize, it's just like every other street.