Saturday, October 2, 2010

Playing in the GoGo Cafe: all poetry is renshi

If just now
I hunted for love,
then my poetry would flare up brilliantly,
its soul would die.
Jūkichi Yagi

I spent way too long tonight trying to find poems set free to roam on the internet by Shuntarō Tanikawa.  Instead I came across this beautiful find. Kumamoto Renshi 2010

I think reading works influence my own words, and I am traveling in a game of renshi at all the times.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

sketch: superheroes on a smoke break

We take turns going out for smokes
inhaling our humanity
between the crazy
spilling out from the rafters.
Our job is to offer
salves to soothe the breaking mind
while we build a language to release
the knotted ropes strangling thoughts.
None of us profess
to be sane in a world that insists
it’s in love with anything mad,
that would be considered an oxymoron in this profession,
though there are certainly
many who should have given up their proverbial white coats
for the allegory of the straight jacket
instead of taking out their own madness on the world –
this would be considered a wolf in sheep’s clothing in this profession.
Our humanness gets lost in the job,
and every time we find ourselves projected into superhero,
our capes unfurling in the hot air blowing around us.
So many want us to save them
from the villains time can’t forget
or be a witness to their own antagonist
searching for a certificate that makes them unaccountable,
completely unaware in the end,
no matter how they insist,
this is a power only they can take on. So,
between the cracks in time when things look closer to fine,
we take turns going out for smokes,
exhaling our secret identity
completely aware
we do not intend to save the world,
but only help the world save itself.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Happy Autumnal Days!

Happy Fall! Let’s skip and tumble through autumn’s days, play in the fading light and soak up our reflections in the gray sky puddles. Let us listen to the crackling leaves, before they descend into the worn ground, blowing in the chilling air and preparing for winter's icy layer - that fertile formula for spring's catharsis. Though the sky gets dark and the air scold's, I am excited to see the growing candle lights on porches hooking the crooked teeth of jack-o-lanterns and the welcoming glow in the cracks of windowsills from the warmer home.  Autumn prepares us for those hibernating dreams of spring when we forget why it’s so damn cold. Heh. Happy Fall, everybody!

Saturday, September 11, 2010

in my kitchen

In my kitchen a pot begins to boil right about now, now being the moment when the trees begin to undress of its summer attire while the people begin to layer up on theirs. It is a not so special pot. It’s black and dented to an awkward oval shape; it was picked for that very reason, since no lid would have it for a home due to its bulbous predicament and being a person who uses what she has, it seemed appropriate to reallocate this odd-pot-out for the task of maintaining the witches brew. The witches brew isn’t something magical either. It is not a refined potion nor all powerful nor even omnipresent for that matter. It doesn’t help me to see into the future or curse a few malcontented thoughts that linger with an insult. It is not something passed down through the generations for me to proclaim novelty either. It simply is a boiling pot of water with a few herbs and spices to scent the air. Every year, the concoction changes to the mood – maybe a little more cinnamon, a little less nutmeg; a random bunch of spearmint left over from the autumnal lamb and sometimes I add a dollop of sandalwood oil. It serves two purposes mostly – to keep the drying air moist for the wintering months and to keep me breathing in deep while the daylight dies a little more each day.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Getting Excited for Fall

This entry says it all:

Prickly fingers touching orange blossoms

Well, at least its a good place to start. I love autumn and the harvest this year is going to be awesome!

Thursday, July 22, 2010

sketchbook: out of order

I am waiting for last shift’s coworker to finish typing up the day, so mine can begin. Its already an hour and half into my time and I pick at my anxiety, this peeled edge of sticky thought, that doesn’t like it when my routine is disturbed. Work first, write next. I am sifting through pages and pages of poety searching for inspiration while I wait and come no closer to finding it amongst a sea of poems then I do getting my time on the other computer. The other computer, where my tardy coworker sits is where I process the paperwork for the next day. It could be done on this computer, but then I can only do half of the shift notes since said coworker isn’t done with his half. I send out a gusty wind of frustration at my bangs that have grown over my eyes, sigh outloud, while my coworker goes “I know, I know. I’m running behind.” Its kind of funny haha, or maybe its just not, here I am so thrown off by the simpliest change in my routine. I am rainman eager to count the box of toothpicks if it will give my brain some reprieve from this rediculous anxiety. Work first, write next. I thought I could waste my time wisely searching for well written prose on  road trips, sea voyages, or some kind of journey of the soul traveling alone between horizons. Still my Asperger's flares and I cannot get past the fact that I have done no real work on the overnight. Work first, write next. Should I just do half the paperwork to relieve this itchy goody twoshoes stepping all over my mood? Or perhaps I will simply read more prose while my scurrying thoughts finally seccumb to the idea that tonight I write first, work next.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

What did the ghost say to the bee?

Morning begins with a letter stamped on the day - a friend 123 days new marrow fed and free from leukemia.  Friend, also known as boss, can't make it to festival. Healing suckles time and life retires to the smaller rooms for some rest. The pink booth will miss her on the land, I think to this self as I become  aware of this quiet legend orbiting my sphere, or rather I orbit around her.  Boss, also known as round robin, had a way of collecting what she loved best - music set free to fly on stage and she enjoyed every minute at service to the song.

Boss interviewed me for the warehouse.  This puddle wet kid just trying to get closer to music who had no clue how to pack a box, did not get the job. Instead Boss called me back to interview for the bookkeeping assistant job, gave me a second chance with numbers. As I count the years by and bye, that expedition into accounting leads me back to this day. Even New York started the day I stepped into that job with Bubble Bee Z, the new warehouse peep, sitting next to me in her kelt emailing me the answer "Boo Bee". I knew I'd be smiling for the rest of this job, working for boss while she listened to music. 

Exiting out of the email, I sip my coffee and turn the page into the noisy hum of this apartment. Resting my words while I prepare to head out onto the streets - midwest mitten playing with snap shots of the Big A.  Friend helped me to get to my today. Friend gave me a chance to spread my wings and fly with all these songs forming the world and though she won't be at festival, I will for her, round robin Boss.

Here's to the healing process.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

sketchbook: joyn'n in

poetry...the subtle wind chime of zephyr lost to the percussion between rain and earth. the shoreline soothing roaring waves of the big sea, while feet sing arpeggios to the sand; our laughter slips sail into breeze. poetry...the soul speaking, singing, breathing,
                                                                     believing in her tongue.

& for you?

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Moon Swings & Rants

Charles Burkowski wasn’t the poet of the human condition but the alcoholic’s condition:

The world is too busy genuflecting to the HD television. We dream of lithium and gold while the gaping ozone begins to boil the blood of grandmother oozing from her gaping wounds bleeding the seas into its last rites. We begin to dream of the apocalypse saving us from ourselves. No one is inoculated. No Signet ring will be worn to differentiate the winners from the sinners. G-d no longer intends to discriminate. The fool believes they will be saved from our ancestor’s follies while this next generation keeps the traditions of beatnik ideals and yuppie wet dreams alive and well. Why are our poets too busy writing about self inflicted love and diagnosis inherited from our family’s bad choices, weak character breeding new generations of victims. Doesn’t anyone want to model transparency and ownership?

Baby doll, if you can’t survive a day with a few bad feelings, how do you think you’re going to survive this next revolution – which will not be televised because Mamma E. knows the first way to bring us to our knees is by stomping on the boob screens via our power source – the black gold that made it to shore. While we search for the tourniquet to choke the flow, grandmother knows we have passed the line of salvation. She waits for the next thunderbolt to strike our Babeling towers of hypocrisy. Are we really likening ourselves to G-d when we fucked it up so bad? I am not a poet caught up in the guise of Cassandra spewing the obvious at the deaf throngs; too busy masturbating to Niche’s mirror. I AM Simply a woman about to bleed herself and too tired of the rhetoric thrown at me day-to-day-to-day that begs me to say, to want to scream – how are we not accountable to each other, to our Mother Earth, to the third parties orbiting around our gravitational fields if only by default? Why is it everybody else’s fault but our own? Why is the American Dream the only thing sacred?

~Just cranky tonight. I like the images, if not the misdirection in frustrations.
Maybe I should also point out, I am one of those poets who write about self inflicted love. ;). ~gg

Saturday, June 12, 2010

sketchbook: Capitol Mit Pride

I walk into door, the beat already pushing soul to move differently, greeted with kind familiarity in hugs and hello. Friends flash by in carnival fanfare flowing in music and liquor. Strangers hug the corners of my current moving through this sea. Pride, hook ups, dates, friends, straight folk who saw a party but didnt know, lovers, dancers - this ocean of gaiety spinning with me. I came here to get wrapped up in the dance. I don't bring a pack of smokes with me. I just dance. Sometimes I go outside for fresh air. Me and the bouncer chat about sex, gyrls, and smoking. Rather, we talk about her gyrls and my not smoking.  Someone at the bar turned 30, this beautiful fairy of a lass and she tells me "30 means letting go of people who you don't have time for". Really? I look around and see her x behind us. Ahhh. We are silly things trying to make sense of our emotional plains called people. I ask myself, what does 30 mean to me?  My internal dialogue snaps back "I don't know, I'll report back at 40. I came here to dance."

Friday, June 11, 2010

The Next Step is to Dance

Regarding my relationship to my addictions like smoking:

My words here feel stunted because I cannot face myself.  The first person we lie to is our self when we choose to lie to the other.  History repeats the unheard lesson - a liar who lies for you, will lie to you.  Therefore, when I lie for myself, I am capable of lying to myself.  I've seen a thousand stories that back this up.  heh, Lying is a special tool, it can be used appropriately, but too few of us take the time to know when it actually is warranted and when its simply the easiest thing to do. In theory, as we learn to grow in our own emotions and build a dialogue to express them, lying falls to the wayside for honesty and here we can discern the tool and the defence mechanism*.  I say in theory because this process is rare in my society. How many people lie to their bosses, lie for a fuck, lie about their addictions and the reasons for them, lie about how they might be responsible for their own and/or others misery (which is most often the case), lie to a partner, lie lie lie about something irrelevant for such a calculated tool. 

The more we lie for others, for our self, the harder it is to actually see the truth under the epidermis of the psyche. The more we rely on lies to expedite our choices, the harder it actually is to see the authentic truth hidden behind them. I write this because I feel like I have been doing much self lying to avoid truths too hard to face.  I don't like this at all.  Especially since I don't buy that everyone lies, so why not do it.  Blah blah blah.  Rather then relying on the lie to get me through anything, I'd rather learn how to have an honest dialogue with this self.  It is possible. 

It is possible. 

Just a thought, a challenge, a moment of letting the walls fall away.  I am feeding myself bullSh!t and calling it caviar. This is my first step to facing my truth.

*I  find the first thing folks do when discussing lying is to point out all the valid, if not extreme and unrealistic times when lying can be appropriate. So rather then get lost in the self debate about the whether the complete truth or a lie is more warranted, I will yield that lying is a tool that can be used in our social systems to negotiate our social systems.  With that said, I would argue before anyone can truly report which time is a helpful tool, one must also acknowledge its unhealthy mechanisms.  I don't buy into the idea that certain lies which are so prevelant in our society are valid. I say this because our society denounces emotions, particularly the uncomfortable ones like anxiety, shame, guilt, sadness, and grief WHICH isn't helping any of us, so just because society wants to go jump off the bridge doesn't mean it was a bright idea. I can tell my coworkers the truth about a moment without qualm or lies, and it is hearable yet candid. Once I learned the tools of conflict resolution - lying was the emotionally underdeveloped malnourished thing to do in the situation. When I stopped relying on it, it was no longer the healthiest choose in my grab bag of tools.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Found: one random thought

My temple calls to me.
The rain baptises my skin,
fleshy form, my skeleton
the infrastructure
that holds these temple walls strong.
Can you not hear the chants?
Do you not see the light
and silhouette

Thursday, May 6, 2010

sketchbook: quicky b4 I head out.

Sweltering funk of the city rises with sunrise.
Steaming thoughts of aspirations slip off
the neck of my lover
and then quiet preparation for the day.
NYC, I love you babe, even if you got nothing on Detroit.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Just In Case: In Rambles & Rants

I wanted to note my neighbor does have chickens and a rooster, though it is "illegal" to posses within the city limits. The rooster has made it into my dreams because apparently a rooster crowing alarm at dawn sends my dreaming brain begging for a interpretation.  This rooster has also made it into my heart.  Why? Certainly not for the annoyance of a neighborhood cock waking me up before I want to, but because there is comfort in having chickens around. 

I think it goes back to growing up without much money and my parents had to rely on the garden and killing deer to feed our family one winter.  Not all of us growing up bobbing around the poverty line want governmental assistance.  I do believe we are just as rare though as a CEO who doesn't think he is entitled to government bail out (for f#$king up the job) or the upper beau monde who couldn't possibly imagine they ARE NOT entitled to everything their hearts' desire.  I digress into a rant.  Anywho, I grew up relying on myself first. Gardens are kept to feed us. Farmers are paid next to feed them. Hunting was a tool to feed the family too, not a fun sport so little Billie can get his pic with an 8 point buck.  Only after the garden runs dry does one ask for food stamps*. These were things you never let society try and bullsh!t you out of knowing how to do.  I dare say, there is something empowering about growing your own food before relying on governmental assistance. Still, I've been in the place and time when I was grateful for the protein, and I will do the same for my children in the event I bobble around that poverty line again some day.  One never knows and believe you me, it can happen to anyone.  With that said, this is why the chickens are awesomeness.  I live in the Capitol of the Mit. We are a part of the rusted motor vehicle alleyway in America; the Mecca for most of the homeless in this bankrupted State; and the number of folks on Food Stamps here grows daily (which isn't necessarily correlated to homelessness).  My neighbor has the right idea.  You know, just in case. 

*Not everyone has access to land nor a fair advantage to Urban GardeningGuerrilla Gardening, or Community Gardening. I say this because I know my family was privileged to have a constant home to live in and even here I have an advantage that can breed entitlement.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

sketchbook: Babel On...

...the dream dreaming me
Reality bottle necked dicerning sometime around sunrise when the cock crowed the waking of the day. It was my understanding that we gave up the cock-a-doodle-doo for R@dio shack snoozes and left the farmer at the city gates, churning up fields across the way from the new sub division somewhere far away from here. I rose from my bed and fed this meager head of mine with Socartes and Quaker Outmeal because I wanted to know if we settled on what defined a table anyway. Lady GaGa played in the background telling me all about her games of telephone and bad romances. Massive exodus began by noon. Two camps stampeding out the door of my head trying to get the fuck out of the mundane. The uptight heirophants who believe right action leads to righteous living and the fallen angels who boast their wingspans even though they’ve long since been grounded by their spirits. I take a wasted ass angel to the side and say, “that’s not you flying, a$$ hole, it’s the vicodin”. I light up a cigarette and sing moral incontenence to the morally righteous cluck of my tongue. I decide to brush off the angel and the devil who wants to weigh down these sholders. I don’t care about their glory story. Both are just trying to rack up the numbers for a new toaster, I tell myself, and I set to redefine everything. I am struck by the internal clock of that damn rooster living in the inner city with me. He’s so precise, I find I can’t get away from his time bombs laid throughout the day. Someone really should set him on vibrate, maybe one beep and stop with the a-doodle-doo all together.

Saturday, April 24, 2010


朝、日光の私を目覚めさせなさいか。 窓を渡って達し、私のまつげで吹くか。私を5つのより多くの分のあなたの暖かさでカールすることを許可しなさいか。

Wake me up in the morning, sunlight?

Reach across the windowsill and blow on my eyelashes?
Let me curl up in your warmth for 5 more minutes?

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

sketchbook: untangling thoughts

I sweep through the day or rather the day sweeps through me as time flows faster then my thoughts these days. Busy piles up in the corners, as I try and untangle this wind chime that fell on the ground. It clinks and clanks in resistance to me unbinding the strings as though all they wanted was just to be wrapped around each other. I uncoil the same sentiment lifting chime after chime apart. Clink. Clink. Clink. I remind my projection that the bamboo still holds all those strings together, so they can be more then knots. Untangled, they sing. 

Friday, April 9, 2010

sketchbook: interlude

Loitering conversations
Chitter chatter
White noise making
Sentences while I
String together my first thoughts.
The landscape for the day:
Dry clouds pushing dark
Then sunlight flushing
golden dismal
into G-d rays
crowning the colors
of this stormy spring
day growing warmer.

Apparently better then others. Stress the peak of pitch in everyone’s voices except my own.  Cooperatively living! I suckle my coffee cup while I gaze the room, grazing on the momentary landscape of peace. I could so get over stimulated here. Thank goodyness I grew up in a household of five people trying to negotiate each other and our moods. Selective hearing – a fine tuned attribute – keeps my mood a flowing story between the late groggy rise and my attempt to write today.  I feel patient. 

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Reminder: Taking a Few at the Moment

Take A Minute – K’naan

And any man who knows a thing knows
He knows not a damn, damn thing at all
And every time I felt the hurt
And I felt the givin' gettin' me up off the wall

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze

How did Mandela get the will to surpass the everyday
When injustice had him caged and trapped in every way?
How did Gandhi ever withstand the hunger strikes and all?
Didn't do it to gain power or money if I recall

It's to give, I guess, I'll pass it on
Mother thinks it'll lift the stress of Babylon
Mother knows, my mother she suffered blows
I don't know how we survived such violent episodes

I was so worried and hurt to see you bleed
But as soon as you came out the hospital you gave me sweets
Yeah, they try to take you from me
But you still only gave 'em some prayers and sympathy

Dear mama, you helped me write this
By showing me to give is priceless
And any man who knows a thing knows
He knows not a damn, damn thing at all
And every time I felt the hurt
And I felt the givin' gettin' me up off the wall

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze

All I can say is the worst is over now
We can serve the hard times, divorce, it's over now
They try to keep us out but they doors is open now
My nigga, Akon is gettin' awards and covers now

This is K'naan and still reppin' the S
Comin' out of Mogadishu and still draped in the mess

And no matter how we strong, homie
It ain't easy comin' out of where we from, homie
And that's the reason why, I could never play for me
Tell 'em the truth is what my dead homies told me

Ooh yeah, I take inspiration from the most heinous of situations
Creating medication out my own tribulations

Dear Africa, you helped me write this
By showing me to give is priceless
And any man who knows a thing knows
He knows not a damn, damn thing at all
And every time I felt the hurt
And I felt the givin' gettin' me up off the wall

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
Nothing is perfect man, that's what the world is
All I know is I'm enjoying today

You know 'cause it isn't every day that you get to give

And any man who knows a thing knows
He knows not a damn, damn thing at all
And every time I felt the hurt
And I felt the givin' gettin' me up off the wall

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze

I got nothin' to complain about
You know where I'm from
You know where I'ma last, so
You know I was flyin' high

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze

[ K'naan Lyrics are found on ]

Friday, April 2, 2010


I begin where I left off. One day in front of the other. Step by step I walk through my house, cleaning corners of the dust that lingers there. I wash the curtains in the bathroom. I take out the garbage. My heart reminds my head; sometimes we find symmetry playing opposites you and I. So the mind focuses on the task while the heart sits on the couch, curled into a fetal ball, shedding loss in sweaty layers like a breaking fever. She sometimes skips and smiles and sings because she, the heart, carries the intuition. While stepping outside to take a drag off my cigarette, head turns to heart and says, come outside, take a break with me, I’ll hold you in the sunlight.  Heart digs the sentiment and we step outside. 

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Day blushes warm under the bright sun.

The only thing raining today is me.
Short spurts of down pours,
cascading across my landscape like Noah's flood
and then suddenly as soon as the storm
cracks a thunderous beginning, it ends.
Residuals stain the cheeks like dry river beds.
I could follow the water to its origin,
up the stream through the airy sky at
the base of the iceberg where it all began.
I don't want to though. I simply know
I am the only thing raining today.

Monday, March 22, 2010

sketchbook: slipping into skin

We step into ourselves, 
slipping skin above the thigh, 
wrapping the fibers of our muscles 
into the sleeve of our arms; 
we clasp the bellybutton 
and adjust our breast into a comfortable form. 

Saturday, March 20, 2010

sketchbook: spring equinox

Huddling under hoody. I wade gingerly in the cold chill to the day. Hehe. Spring, she casts a white glow illuminating everything. The shadows hide behind broomstick propped in the corner.  Balance swaggers between conversations loitering on porch steps.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Small Town Home Town

I drove through the dark of night once to return there. Car barreling into the dusty parking lot, I came for the soul reason to see women like me in the dance hall of the American Legion.  I grew up under those sh!ngles, wrapped my thighs around the impo+en+ barrel of the stripped out tank perched by the road. I hugged the adrenaline pumping memory, watching women grind hips together right where my brother and I once twirled hand in hand to my Dad’s band playing on a Friday night. In summers it was corn on the cob caught in the corner of cheeks and Sundays were reserved for brunch with Grandma after church.  And for one night, it was ordering a drink and slipping my hands around the hips of don't ask don't tell women dancing under the American Flag of the American Legion.


Saturday, March 13, 2010

A roommate of mine had this list on her wall and I have found myself using it as my guide in this life. Notice it does not say don't do, but what one should do...I like.

The Ten Commandments:
1.Treat the Earth and all that dwell therein with respect
2. Remain close to the Great Spirit
3. Show great respect for your fellow beings
4. Work together for the benefit of all kind
5. Give assistance and kindness wherever needed
6. Do what you know to be right
7. Look after the well-being of Mind and Body
8. Dedicate a share of your efforts to the greater Good
9. Be truthful and honest at all times
10. Take full responsibility for your actions

Saturday, March 6, 2010

sketchbook: awakening

Eyes closed, sunlight’s breath lingers across the eye lashes and warms these listening ears receiving the moving landscape's reception.  A stuttering start etched caverns in the icy canvas, not breaking, transforming ice into vibrations awakening the air with molecules singing. A hum drips in the ear of water flowing. Mother Nature never carries unnecessary baggage.  

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Enjoying a fortified hello from my gyrlfriend. :)

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

sketchbook: winter commute

I trudge through snow with my ducklings on. The wind giggles against the flap of my hat. Rosey cheeks blush a pretty pink grinning with the wind’s sentiment. Sunshine in the tundra breaks through the chasm of clouds hunkering above us for days now. I admit it makes it easier, that snow glow winter light. Winter in Capitol Mit, a commuter nonetheless, I’m taking a hike every time I go outside. Mr. So-So & Grad Students What Not, don’t shovel; add onto that piles of snow plowed from the road, by the time I take a right to the Bodego, I’ve climbed a few crest or two of snow heaps.  It’s actually quiet exciting. Patches of ice rinks cross the path & I’m sliding through my day.  I try not to protest against winter and remember to play.

I trudge through snow
my ducklings on.
The wind giggles    against
the flap of my hat.
Rosey cheeks
blush a pretty pink
grinning with the         wind’s sentiment.
Sunshine in the tundra       breaks
through the chasm of clouds
hunkering for days now.      I admit
it makes it easier,
that snow glow winter light.
Winter in Capitol Mit,
a commuter nonetheless,
I’m taking a hike          every time
I go outside.
Mr. So-So & Grad Students What Not,
don’t shovel;
add onto that piles of
snow plowed from the road,
 by the time
        I take a right to the Bodego,
I’ve climbed a few crest or two of snow heaps. 
It’s actually quiet exciting.
Patches of ice rinks
cross the path
& I’m sliding       through      my day. 
I try not to protest            winter
and remember to play.  

Monday, February 15, 2010

sleepy drained brain

Late night blurs the thoughts and I struggle with the needle to thread these words together. The eye to eye depth lost the perception in this minute hole of opportunity. Misgauging the heft of this string, I snag the tip of thought, unraveling its intricate weave. I suck this tip against tongue hoping it will come, but am left with the threadless needle insisting it just needs to be put back in the treen.

Friday, February 12, 2010

My Ancestors Walk With Me

Winter returns with her beautiful grace.  It’s the interim between her and spring.  The birds begin to sing the morning rise again and the geese have already returned.  I like to watch the season roll in and out, particularly when they entwine like a lover in the nook of the arm.  Winter is still as cold as ever, but hints of spring bring promises that soon winter will relinquish her breath for that warm exhaling relief of spring.  And spring knows she needs winter to do her job. She doesn’t demand to be seen as better or prettier, she simply participates in this pearled string that Mother Nature has given us.  Without winter, spring cannot bloom; without spring summer cannot grow; without summer autumn cannot compost the nutrients for winter to blanket with crystalline water for Spring to feed the seeds all over again.  

I mark the seasons like my grandmother did or at least, what I remember of her.  How powerful was her grace that though I lost my grandmother at 6years old, I still try and bring a part of her into my understanding.  I mark the seasons and learn from them for my grandmother.  

Thursday, February 11, 2010

I am not a Buddha Sitting on a Lotus Flower

I am not a Buddha sitting on a lotus flower swimming in the quiet reverie of Dharma. I stumble sometimes with my own disillusionments. There are days when I doubt the compass of the sun while I trip over my own direction. Here I am flawed and imperfect. I’ll never be queen ballerina but I dance anyway. My breasts are real and swell and shrink with the salt water tides. I thrive for spontaneity while avoiding impulsivity because there is a difference. I do not rise from my bed for the same reason every day. Sometimes I make up the reasons as I go. Coffee is a great fall back when I know no other reason to wake up. I believe though there are a thousand ways to love, how I love is as selective as who I love. Though I participate in universal love, it takes practice and the ability to step outside the plumped up feathers of self-identity. I am the fool who tries to practice. I sometimes fear Western culture is the genocide of our minds. I am pragmatic with reason and passionate with emotion, but I try to not let my heart justify manipulation nor allow the mind stagnation. I like being in the middle of the road on age – because I am closer to the person I thought I'd be in college. It is true, 30 is the new twenty. There is room here to breathe. My friends are as vast as my interest. I know that even at my “age” what I know hasn’t been learned by everyone yet. Age is irrelevant to experience and not all experiences are weighted the same on this learning curve. I admit I’m behind. I’d rather take on a mountain then take on a mistress/adultery. I’d prefer lots of sex over the convent of living. I’d like to wait with healthy sensuality then leap at everything my heart desires because sometimes it wants old habits disguised in a love. I practice masturbation as catharsis. I sometimes spend way too long arguing with the hierophant in my head. I read sutras but sometimes don’t understand them. I remembered ‘Dukkha’ means suffering solely because the phenotics of the word reminds me of poop.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

wicked tired

working the midnight shift and wicked tired with a capitol Yawn. creative juices have been limited to the paintbrush ap on my computer. i believe it is official. i am brain dead. time of death, 6:03 am.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

para vivir

We pander the thoughts of ourselves, offering up some resemblance of what dances in our heads. We stagger and glide, sledding down the slopes of understanding. We trudge and skip up those same hills and mountains. We all have voices bantering away in our heads as our hearts plunk at the chords of our own providence.  We are the story tellers who bare the exposure of our days in the retelling of significance.  I wouldn’t say I am indentured to this craft, but it does strum in every cell of me, and I wake up every morning, if only to show up and be present for it.  

Friday, February 5, 2010

sketchbook: calling directions

Here I go, carrying this self forward, step by step, subtle jaunt dancing, stomping, fumbling and floating asunder.  Here I am. Little ole me, strumming the chords of life, living, being…We certainly learn as we apply, don’t we? Aaah, I breathe in all the strength of me, settling hip into the flowing currents and speak truth to the sky, here I am!  I call to my weather vane; she bounces on her pointy stick and twirls like a pinwheel, we float side by side. Here I am.  I hold this asunder with patience while the current drifts us by.

Here I go,
carrying this self forward,
step by step,
subtle jaunt dancing,
fumbling and floating asunder. 
Here I am.
Little ole me
strumming the chords of life,
We certainly learn as we apply,
don’t we?
I breathe in all the strength of me,
settling hip into
the flowing currents
speak truth to the sky,
here I am! 
I call to my weather vane;
she bounces on her pointy stick
and twirls like a pinwheel,
we float side by side.
Here I am. 
I hold this asunder
with patience
while the current drifts us by. 

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Interview with a Mit Smoker

So you’ve been smoking for a while now?

Internal Dialogue:
Yep, since the Spring of my 18th year when my heartstruck offered me one. I had dreams about smoking before this. The temptation. The inhaling. Probably because I spent my whole life with a smoker…got the itch way before I ever had one. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t my Mother’s fault. I took the first hit. I knew better. I also knew I wanted a taboo to rebel against my current understanding of things and how I did love my heartstruck. So, yeah, I’ve been smoking for a minute or two.  It wasn’t much at first and I was able to quit in the summers.

How many times have you tried to quit?

Internal Dialogue:
What do those packets say, ‘Never stop quitting’. So, I’m gonna say once. I tried once and haven’t stopped trying.  

Sounds like you want to quit smoking?

Internal Dialogue:

What are the precipitating reasons for quitting?

Internal Dialogue:
Ah, now that’s a question. To be honest, if honesty is ever anything I never gave you, that is certainly a complicated answer.  I could say because smoking is smelly, because people don’t like me smoking, because its unhealthy….yadda yadda yadda.  But the truth is, there is a part of me that doesn’t buy into that. Its smelly? Have you ever smelled a silent fart of a vegetarian?! If smelly was a good enough reason alone to quit something we’d all have to eat fartless foods.  And as for people who don’t like me smoking, well I’ve found in my life time there is always something somebody else doesn’t like about me.  My g-d, how I remember my childhood when that group of kids beat me because I protected that nerdy kid from getting his glasses broke.  Told me I was a faggot lover and proceeded to try and shame me for speaking outside the crowd’s way. It’s hard to react to people not liking something about me after that.  

Unhealthy? Yes. Exactly the reason. I want to quit so I can breathe. I want to climb a mountain.  I want to do it on my 70th birth year too, so I need to repair so I can get there.  It’s a silly dream, I know, but I figure it will give me the rush I need to handle the next 30 years after.  I have a date with a time capsule on my hundredth birthday, buried near the library of my home town.  It wasn’t buried by me.  It was buried when I was born by random people at that time. I was born in 1976, so its just coincidence there is a capsule waiting to be open. I figure I got a good chance to open it since the competition will probably have died off and I’ve always been so damn curious what’s in that box!

What do you think about the new Mit law where you cannot smoke in any public space outside or in?

Internal Dialogue:
Well to be honest I’m not going to participate in civil disobedience on this one. I should! I believe full heartedly in civil disobedience when laws are oppressive in nature. Don’t get me wrong, I think all public spaces should be smoke free.  As a smoker, I need to remember those dreams I had before I started smoking.  I knew how to inhale long before I ever did.  2nd hand smoke kills.  

If you agree with the law, why do you question it then?

Internal Dialogue:
Its simple, take out smoking and add homo, black, poor, white, Chicano, rich, dogs, beautiful people, ugly or fat…whatever. Pick something close to your heart and imagine a world that dictates it cannot be there AT ALL because they don’t agree with it.  I shutter at laws that confine and bind in such absolute terms.  You see, Oppression is such a precarious thing, it doesn’t give a flying fuck who it oppresses, just that its tools are re-instilled to do so.  

So what is your solution?

Internal Dialogue:
For what?

How do we stop smokers from killing themselves?

Internal Dialogue:
We don’t.

Why won’t you participate in civil disobedience then?

Internal Dialogue:
I have bigger things to resist in this nation.  I don’t want it to get lost in the diatribes of smoking.  I do have to say though, its going to be nice to not be reminded of cigarettes every time I go outside.  Still it sucks to be reminded that it’s so easy for our society to create laws to suppress rather then laws to transcend the people.  Ah, but this isn’t an interview on that. It’s about smoking and I’ve done that.  Excuse me; I want to go smoke while I still can.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Playing in the GoGo Café

quote of the day:
"“We need to decide that we will not go to war, whatever reason is conjured up by the politicians or the media, because war in our time is always indiscriminate, a war against innocents, a war against children”"
~Howard Zinn

in house poets:
Little Fish by Maya Stein
American Sentence in Bed by Rethabile Masilo
Siren Short TallLong Tall & Middle Tall by the Walking Man

on the walls:
Todd Hiddo

Cheers Bob Noorda

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

So it is and so it shall be.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Drop by Drop: I Miss you, Mouse.

Scrubbed my face, drinking the coffee, and trying to put words down for this late rise.  I’ve wanted a “Time Out” day to linger among the dirty laundry and dishes.  To be quiet with myself and listen to the blood drops between chamber beats.  While wrapping the wet hair in the towel, I realized that grief still lingers there and this sudden sense of gratefulness came over me.  I’ve always lived by the precept that grief is a reflection of how much we care and to let ourselves feel it through, honors those who left.  Yadda yadda yadda.

My friend Mouse was an important person to me. We haven’t seen each other since high school. In High School, we were alphabetically connected in advisory class. We shared our lives on periphery of existence making each other laugh before heading out into our separate spheres.  About a year ago, we connected on the fb and continued our relationship. Adding wit and insight to the random status updates. Mouse had a tendency to repost my prose and poetry and I love him for this.

I suspected he was heading into his downward spiral. His post had a labile nature and we all understood he was spending time with a 1/5th of grief. I wasn’t on myface when he suddenly broke and decided to head out.  Thoughts still linger with what I could have done if I had been reading his posts.  My license stipulates assistance when I suspect harm against self or others. There is comfort in legal obligation when in the personal realm it’s hard to know when to step in. I know if I had been present, I would have stepped in. This is the hard part of grief because as his friend, I wanted the opportunity to step in and “ap him” to a hospital for 72 hour observation – to allow professionals to work with him on different options.  So he could dry out and have a clear head for the choice, if he still wanted to kill himself.

What’s done is done. This plot hook in my narrative has no place to go. Mouse killed himself. Others did try to step in to no avail. I wonder when I will pick up this thread in my story that feels unresolved. I am angry at him too without judgment and appreciate anger in the grief process.  I do know this has influenced me working harder with the clients I have regarding S/I. 

And then there is the choice in the matter. I believe death is a choice for some and would never try and take it away. Mouse made that choice, despite others trying to support him through different options.  So, I put down the little hook in my head that wants to linger in the “what ifs”. I accept then that I am left with the sadness, confusion, anger, and hope that I feel in this bag called grief. 

My days are good right now. Life has never felt so simple, pure and whole. My love, my friends, my family, and even my coworkers bring laughter and support everyday. My photography keeps me sane. Writing has slowed due to life’s technical obligations and my time is filled with getting the logistics done. I knew January and February would be busy months taking away from this area.  I am a self-entertaining unit and this is bringing me joy.  So, I let the sadness linger in my heartbeats. I let myself feel the loss of my friend.  He really was important to me.  It’s in this importance that grief becomes sacred.  I am not sure how long it will linger. As long as it needs to, I suppose. I am not one to hold onto it as a reflection of care, simply a person who allows this self to feel it until like most things; it is ready to pack its bags and go. 

I take time to support his friends that were closer and are having a harder time. I believe when people leave this earth, they leave like a rain drop in water, causing ripples connecting together those left behind.  The closer one is to the epicenter, the bigger the waves. So, I hold their hands and simply listen to them.  He was most definitely missed by many.  Suicide is a harsh one to deal with too.  The inheritance from such a death can even linger through the generations.  Ah, but that is a conversation for another time. I’ll leave that one for the poetry.

For now, I miss you Mouse.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Hopscotch for Jesus

(Fiction, Prose, Idea!)
G-d went and changed his gender to suit better understanding and I call zer the Universe these days.

When Christians pray for my soul in the up coming rapture, I hold their hands and pray. I ask for their forgiveness since they are sinners. You see, I am convinced G-d/Universe put me here to provide forgiveness to all those sheparded souls who never stopped to think where the devil is residing these days. He's at the pulpit asking the masses to segregate once again a people for their differences, and then I tell them, they will never have a Christian State 100% gauranteed until everyone can marry who they love.

I know its crazy. Arrogant really. But its true. Those poor bastards really are screwing the fabric of their existence. 

Once a fellow coworker - white, male, republican - asked me if I would stand in front of G-d and tell him he was wrong regarding homosexuality? My response, "I believe G-d will thank me for standing up to the devil spreading lies at the pulpit. I think you're wrong."  Horrified he was, but he asked me, "And if I'm right, would you ask for forgiveness?"  My answer, "No. Then G-d would be wrong, so really its an impossible scenario."  He put me on his church prayer list. I told him it would be a great reminder to see my name and remember G-d tried to teach him the way, if only he'd listen. My coworker got a new job.

Yeah, I am pretty sure I am a redneck homo playing hopscotch for Jesus.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

burning the sage

Strapping on the day, my mind muddled by the residue of a sleepy wake, I want to go back to bed. We all have our own stories to live and how we write those narratives matter. Me, I want to know I lived strong with integrity searching for how to love in nobility for all involved.  Spice me with humor and a good time & this GoGo knows it will be all right.

The older I get, the less power my walls have over the truth of the matter.  Grief is just a real an experience as happiness and euphoria. Without one, the other can only live in a shallow ego space.  Without balance, we inevitable tip the scales toward all the things we want to avoid.  All our parts work together, body, mind, feelings and soul – this fleshy machine asking us to keep the joints oiled so we can keep moving towards Oz.  

I miss Mouse today. I’ve seen his story in such repetitious sadness.  I find this self listening to the sirens that warn us against the currents crashing against the rocks.  It didn’t have to happen.  But it did and now all I can do is honor the grief.  It’s pointless to point out what added to his misery.  I know I am listening.  But here I go again, trying to arch understanding around the schematics in growing older, wiser, and stronger.  

Ah, but I’ve run out of time for these words on the page.

Friday, January 15, 2010

quick note

Rushing through the day, preparing for a retreat. I am excited to begin this year by debriefing last years actions and forming new decisions for the new one, even if it is for the activist space I have helped build. I remind myself, though late in this new year, I need to do this in my own life, separate from the public spheres.  

2010 greeted me while in the arms of my love. Grateful am I to the universe for the experience. ;)

Then I came home to a message that a friend from high school killed himself. He left an fb suicide note to add to the grief. Grateful am I to the universe that where he left off a sea of forgotten hope renewed in faces coming together to grieve. I am still processing this in my self. Still trying to wade through the sea of feelings. 

Done with the lingering eye on this page from women who do not have good intentions for me. If I am invisible for your own needs, I hope the universe provides invisibility in return. Do not come back here anymore.