memories in a can

she was dying
not from disease
it was much more
invasive than that
there is no vaccine for pain
no vaccine for the insecurity
he bred inside her
turning her into a genetic modification
of her former self
her soul is now broken ribs
from steel-toe boots
no vaccine for immortal memories
she wished would expire
memories as long as those
remembered by ancient gods
who watch as their creations die
centuries old rubble
fade to dust with each sunset
her memories are canned goods
created for disasters
made to last until the can is opened
unnaturally preserved life oozing
from the cut metal
she was dying by the inch
dying
from the fist that blackened
her eye five years ago
just after he proposed to her
dying
from the lover who told her
her tits were too small
dying
from memories of the child
who slipped from her womb
still
unmoved by life’s promises
dying
from the canned love
preserved in salt and bitterness
there is no vaccine for betrayal
no vaccine to heal the cut wrists
she sees the sun rise tomorrow
but life is only memories in a can
preserved for the dying soul

 

under the baobab tree

she waited for herself at twilight
under the baobab tree

black skirt raised above knees
red and gold painted bare feet on haunted ground

spirit rising through ancient soil
seeking lost self and awaiting life

the agape dance
gyrating for the coming moon

gyrating for her lost self
smelling sea water on moonbeams

night skirt tugged high
copper skin against cloaking darkness

she is her own lover
she made love

to herself
under the baobab tree

yesterday’s words

there is a forgotten life inside this aging skin
fragmented memories of an ancient epoch

ancestral reinventions laced in lost stories
our flesh matters less than the words we leave behind

the lyrics endure; a griot’s invocation
the deluge of stories return to our waiting tongue

words become anthropomorphic things
with breath and soul; with dance and song

inhaling and exhaling for us
onto paper, onto stone, inside clouds that form ideas

and rain; i am re-fleshing the dusty bones of forgotten worlds
with words; forgotten words

remembered sound inside this aging skin
needing words; needing lost yesterdays

mortal words

i’ve decided that i don’t want to write, not with my hands anyway.

i want to think words onto paper and screens and leaves and stones and skies. i want words to fall onto the sand and clay soil, carved into ice and cave walls.

i want words to appear on my skin, spinning stories of a life lived and yet to be.

i don’t want pen and ink. no, that is not enough.

i want the words to manifest, conjured from my soul and eager to find themselves atop anything that is not immortal. so they can one day fade, fade, fade, then join the ancestors.

i want my words to live for a million years then without warning meld into the akashic records that house everything we have ever known and ever will. yes, even the words must leave here.

mortal words seeking immortality.

so don’t ask me to write with my hands. it is not enough. it will never be enough.

 

i am the stream…

i am the stream…

of consciousness.

it is 2:38pm, monday, the In The Beginning day of the week

august 14. twenty seventeen, whatever that means

it is the day when i want to forget the days and seconds and step into infinity,

the un-time

when will my day come. this is not a question. not anymore. when will i be the well versed and well fed writer who need only spill ink onto the page and the letters and words figure skate to my thoughts, shaving ice into paragraphs

i stream across the un-pulp, the bits and bytes that give life back to the trees, so that i can write guilt free. still, i am guilty. the words have not yet transformed nations, creating a quasi peace, something i could leave to my children’s children

my words don’t bleed for them, not yet. my words don’t bleed, so they will never need to bleed, and sweat and cry for what could have been

i bleed for the horizon i have yet to reach, for the words that need to be found to conjure beauty and caste a spell upon our heart so it will grow eyes and wings, to see each other in the mirror, to fly into infinity

i seek the un-time, the edge of tomorrow

there is where we will find a wasteland of mondays, their bones almost dust

leaving only the un-time, on a mound made for our children to cast prayers to the un-gods

save words

i will save words for you. bottled and pickled words for you.

then feed you synonyms of me, so you will always remember my taste.

i will flavor your life until all your tongue remembers is what it is was like to come…to come…to come

…into my dreams.

and stay a while. a long while. until you are…

…exhausted from eating synonyms that uncover every inch of me.

 

freedom

We all seek freedom in one way or another. But in the end, we live in an age where none of us know what true freedom feels like. We’ve never lived it beyond our mind and flowering imagination.

Although I don’t know what freedom feels like as a tangible experience, I know the swing of its hips, the scent of its hair and the song in its voice. I know how deeply freedom wants to find me. I know how desperately I seek it.

Whether here or in that place we go when we leave here, I will find freedom. It waits for me, in that place we’ve forgotten exists.

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the thinning web

The silken network of threads thin inside me; those webs that stick to everything that I am. They thin, inch by inch, but strengthen, holding on to heart and lung and liver and spleen. They hang on to sinew; but muscles and bones don’t groan. They hang on to elusive time and love spent dry. The thinning web spreads through veins, lengthening along a stretch of miles, traveling at the speed of blood. The blood needs the darkness to cleanse and the light to live. And breathe. It needs me inside you, nestled into a place we thought we’d lost forever.

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authentic

Strong, sturdy hips receive hungry thrusts.

Authentic sex is not for the weak.
Fainting hearts are not welcome here.

Moans crescendo, vibrating leaves and rippling rivers.
Bodies transform, like werewolves under a hunter’s moon.

Two bodies cast a single shadow upon the leaves,
a single shadow spread eagle under star filled skies.

Animalistic echoes part the clouds and create light,
a bright light that gently cuts the night.

We are one shadow, one soul,
parting only after our sweat has watered the Earth.

Parting only after we have melted into ecstasy and are left there,
like puddles at our own feet.

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the clouds in prayer

The clouds interlace fingers seeking prayer, an impassioned supplication to the un-gods.  They spread across skies gathering stories of un-time, spaces inside cycles that collect memories we will never touch, nor taste. Nor see. Clouds beseech the un-gods, begging for intervention. But the gods are children of a lesser world, Earth merely a blue and green ball in their sand, useless castles jutting toward the sky. They play. And laugh. But the clouds do not laugh. They watch as fingers interlace, knees bruise from centuries of thanking. And begging. The un-souls want to return to spirit. But tears are not the answer. The gods mistake them for rain. The gods toss fists full of sand to the Earth for those with the bruised knees who stand only to survive this un-World. The clouds watch and wonder, where are the real gods? The ones with love and power; and the desire to stop the pain, change the Earth channel, frequency, so that the violence does not outweigh the peace. So that potential is realized in the tomorrow. Change the channel now, so the un-World can shift into an awakening we can touch. The clouds drop tears upon the sandbox. Their prayers go unanswered. Their gods  enjoy Reality Earth, because Reality TV isn’t where the real drama lives. So to soothe their unrest, the clouds cry down on us. Their tears bring growth to forgotten parts of the un-World. Maybe they are the gods we’ve been waiting for. Maybe their tears, like holy water, will cast out the evil that lives inside this un-World. Maybe.

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