hunger strike
eating nothing
but these hours
that devour
and the
black hole distance
between full
and fortified
in the night sky
lost eye
feast
of raw
subsistence
…
eating nothing
but these hours
that devour
and the
black hole distance
between full
and fortified
in the night sky
lost eye
feast
of raw
subsistence
…
as a child, i was often told I saw the world through rose-colored glasses. i could use a pair of those these days, when my sky is gray and life keeps handing me hard lessons.
these days, i’m thinking a lot about truth, betrayal and strength, and grace. digging deep, healing wounds that keep re-opening, cutting a crooked path through the tangled forest of fortitude.
it’s dark in here, but i never have been afraid of darkness. how else can we measure the light? besides, once your eyes adjust, it’s easier to see what lurks in the shadows, who your cellmates are, who reaches out a hand to guide you.
perhaps i’ll put a new garden over there, just around that bend. maybe a bench and a book with a view of the sunset. perhaps i’ll build my own mountain in the backyard of bafflement.
and then, just when i am ready, i will climb to the top and belt out the song of my survival.
. . .
writing again, winding my way through some things. finding my way home.
your hand trails through water
and the boat down the shore
dips a bow to polaris
and
we all break waves
on sanity’s shore
just trying
to find
direction
::
as the truth
sands us down
to blurred edges
…
yesterday i saw
just floating along
on this river of tall information
a tiny white scrap
inscribed with the words:
survival isn’t enough
a meme or a tweet or a post by a host
dropped by someone post-haste in the knowing
as with so many lines caught deep in the waves
of this infinite brick-brackish water
and i smiled to myself
just a flash
before thinking
oh child just you wait
because darling
survival
is
plenty
and yes
there is always much more
we can do with its gift
more to learn
more to love
more to cherish
but oh, my friend
in the color of end
survival
is quite simply
being
clumsy and violent
in our destruction
carnivore
herbivore
sure-footed-thunder
bearing down
on no future
the world is burning (turning)
turning (burning)
bleak mornings
endless nights
fear stirred by anxiety’s spear
searching for hope
in a world
already scarred
(scared)
i have a pebble
to offer
worthless
polished
smooth
by worry
set high on a shelf
worn
whole
silent
waiting
.
.
.
i refuse to say
hang in my heart
on bits
of knotted thread
and wrinkled ribbon
swaying
in a barely moving breeze
wrought
from distilled smile
and cornered
memory
because what choice do we have
and besides
the sun made a rare appearance this morning
dishes needed washing
we need to eat
and
some days
it’s fair to say
i’m tired.
part of me thinks
revolution
is for the young
and we’re all just
spinning
waiting
acting
watching
fighting
for
another
day
to stand
or soar
or sit with it all
once more
.
.
.
people say you’ve changed
and i say
hallelujah!
about time!
how high?
my feet got bigger
and my hips got wider
and crone was painted every
where i looked in
big red scary letters
or long retracted grey whispers
(and both sound exactly just the same)
i inherited all this anger
from the girl that came before
this rage
raging all around
i’ve been breathing rage
for a year now
a year that broke my heart
in every sideway possible
and screwed it back together
with those cheap screws
that break
when you crank too hard
that makes it sound worse than it was
that makes it sound easier than screaming
that makes it sound so grandiose
when really it was just hours
and minutes and tears and breathing
sweat equity pouring down my back
as i walked for miles and miles and miles
and never did get far enough away
i have calluses stronger than my silence
i have plastic words and a purple parachute
i have this empty body standing tall
and we all sag under the weight
of whittled-down survival
…..
this afternoon
the sky
was filled with geese
winter is coming
winter is coming
at night i hear these words
in the darkness
outside my window
inside my head
your voice
my voice
whisper scream
the possibility
of resurrection
.
.
.
they said youth was the currency
and beauty the price
but we knew better
on the streets
of anarchy
where blossom
was never
as fragile
as ego
and thorn
was the tally
of vice
.
.
.
the ladies gathered every evening
tap-tapping with canes and shuffling mules
to talk about the storm that was always coming
and the girl that walked to Seattle
pain always sitting on somebody’s lap
and death on a bench in the corner
pretending to be ignored
no one rose up to kiss away the chip
on a bony-cold squared-off shoulder
no one was afraid and
no one was falling
for the pout on the face of resistance
by this time they were all old friends
acceptance was the belt
holding the bathrobe closed
and besides, thelma told
the best stories
.
.
.