This my body paint
expression of Human

I paint it public
and expect nothing

this is who we all are;
jumping out a fire

the Northern girl who
is not afraid to wade into the shallow
end of the pond with turtles
fishes ***** and ****

who is she this red haired
laureate who writes unafraid
of spiderwebs adorning her head.

Who is she , tell me true,
is she the lichens of my memory
the moss of my fallen side?

Who may she write of,
when the wolves bay at night
and her silvery visions
overcome me.

when my pen skips
a dippy dame the piles of dishes
in the sink,
I hate the beer running out
and all the flies invading my house,
I hate having to wake up and go
to work hungover with ink stains on my chin
and breath of demons, I hate, and
light green walls my landlord needs to let
me paint a mural, of Bathseba and the holy land
on my walls.

what I needed for seven years
after I broke the mirror was
not electricity, not a word from
my kinfolks, not water or
a dry place to sleep.
Food and cigarettes were
needed but gave way if
they got in the way
of me getting high.
All I needed then was another
imagining I was getting high.
As I peeped through foil curtains
and waited impatiently when
the buzz wore off for the next hit to knock
on my door. I am surprised
now by how I ever made it here,
looking back at how I was
a total mess. How a few good people
saw me as potentially good.
I don't know how they and me made it
through.

waves crash and pound the
hard earth till it softens

soft caress of the mysterious moon
and the vast ocean

Dry your eyes,
Little girl.
Don't let them in.
They're only words.

There, now. There.
It's just a tear.
A raindrop from your  
Atmosphere.

I promise you
Clear skies again.
Brush off your knees.
Arise again.

Dry your eyes,
My little friend.
More things begin
Where others end.

So stand and shine
Despite their words.
They envy you.
Of course it hurts.

The terrorists are winning,
The poets are leaving
Their bodies in the sand.
It's an Exodus from captivity,
And they'll wander
Looking for a home.
We need a prophet,
A staff to crack the stones
So words flow untroubled
Onto the desert floor.