cackle hack drab dog
outer  to the flames of the campfire
                                                cracklin­g

The wild woman, she is cyclical.
The wild woman, she is seasonal.
The wild woman, she is tidal.
The wild woman honours her seasons of being.
She rests in both body and mind when her bones and spirit command it.
The wild woman yields to the gift of her own emotional wisdom.
She is as mutable and unpredictable as a tropical storm
The wild woman is both hibernating bear and flitting hummingbird.
She is springs flush and she is volcanic eruptions.
She is the crones wisdom after the maidens mistakes
She is all the stories of all the ancestors stored in the library of her bones.
Through her they will be heard
.

It was a wonder to be in the wild
without the pains and naivete of youth

Then I remembered life was
being like a fly stuck in glass,
back-and-forth between the calm
and the longing afterward.
Feeling undone,
when you return from those highlands to a settlement
More of an agreement than a home
To keep you hushed, keep you in line

We learn to smile with our lips peeled back,
half-feral, half-forgotten,
daughters of flesh and teeth,
tasting the world as it tears through us—

The earth calls us by name,
whispering whorls and wants like lullabies,
beckoning hearts that never knew mercy,
braiding hair with thorns and boughs.

We answer in hunger,
all iron and salt, thirst and thistle,
skin pulling tight over gnarled roots and longing,
nerves quivering like a candle burning at both ends.

We sharpen ourselves on what remains—
cracked knuckles, raw knees,
holding the ache like a birthright,
swallowing each bruise,
never begging, only bleeding.

the girl
gauzy dress
tattered and torn
running
breathless through brambles
reaches a river
pursued
panting
she must cross it
take a step into
freezing water
numbing bones
shaking shivering
pale skin and blue lips
trip
and
fall
hands go forward
trying to catch
whatever is left of yourself
but pieces crumble and scatter
on the mossy rocks
sharper than they
look
dogs barking
men yelling
filthy
hunting
they will be here soon
so get up
because there is no more time
to lie here
and wish you were home
the girl
who was maybe once loved
is now drowning
face down
in frigid murky water
the only company in death
is those who persecute her
as her pale body
begins to rot
even god
starts to
forget
about her
first
her hands
then
her face
then
her hair
until there is
nothing
left
so that when the dogs
frothing lips
raised fur
and the men
shouting voices
savage thoughts
arrive
the girl is gone
nothing left of her but a
whisper of wind
the scent of sandalwood
and strawberries
and ****
and summer days
long forgotten
but now remembered by those
who never knew them
maybe god didnt forget her
maybe he saved her

A wild rose is a lasting thing
Growing amongst the ruins
Full of life despite neglect
And you know the place one blooms

A wild rose is a pretty thing
To decorate your room
All pink and leafy splendor
To cheer away the gloom

A wild rose is a thorny thing
Its vines tear you apart
You can’t grasp it directly
Work gently towards the heart

Push aside its catching strands
Leave the petals strewn
Take the freshest flowers
For more will blossom soon

A wild rose is a stubborn thing
You may plant it if you dare
Take a cutting from its base
But make your choice with care

For a wild rose is a feral thing
You can’t charm it to your will
Forever spreading beauty
Is its nature to fulfill

i am a storm
in a world
that fears the rain
and lightning
and thunder

i dance on the edge
of moonlight and starshine
where wild hearts
whisper secrets
in my ear

you will tell me
to calm my chaos
to tame my spirit
i am 'too much'

but i am a wildfire
spreading through fields
of ordinary being

i do not fit
into neat little boxes
or follow
their straight lines

i am the echo
in the silence
of the vast universe and
the untamed breath
in the quiet night

i am wild
not because i must be
but because i am
and that
is enough

Polite conversation, versation

passive voice of conversare,
literally "to turn round with,"

run along with, become
associated within determined

pleas… many askings
if it please the crown,
with mastering mind's mission

per
usual suspicion, sneaking from
under stood stones been up holding

all we are allowed to learn by law of sin.

For we are in the only atmosphere in ever,
now, where we are acidifiable in base time,

converted using sublimation, suggesting,

sub certain chthonic sense, a shiver,
a quake in fracking joined terranes, uplifted

as the staked plains in Texas,
and the Mogollon Rim, in Arizona, as seen
using augmented eyes, we wise, we see

we have seen farther than any actual doer,
of the process, form and function as a one off,

once through the wringer, then stretched
on real tenter's hooks to dry and bleach,
to sun bright white, crystaline face stretching

feeling joker urge, make a
mind chuckle, think it through to a what if,
in no time at all,
imagine all we know is, was
not made as we may think we might
have, in essence, in us, as we think
we might have the exact same key
fit the exact same lock on instants,

timeless instants we may play