the truth of the flower bloomed within this skull.

to the creature who takes on the pleasure
takes on what is given
takes on what is there.
go off and enjoy it.
tell no one what it felt like
beyond those involved.
truth, once sold,
wanes and wastes
along with the small grip it once gave.

could i disappear into the wood pile
as a mouse?
deep into leaf bark litter
tunnels
as a home against it all.
i know what it is i live for:
a little pile of seeds
a bed of needles
dirty paws.
a full heart.
my home is an expansion
of a tiny self, which is
just enough
until i am done
and something else.

i mean it.
moon and sun
witness this longing
to be released from
being human
caring in the human way
dark orb of mind

what folks fail to notice about my light
is that it comes from having given up.
i want nothing
because i used to want everything.
i used to want you.
that is the truth of me.
but we know what this means.
give it away, fade away.

mouse skull, seed husks, snow flakes in bed
in my place.

bumble

oh that privileged minute of space where i get to say
"i have nothing to do! i don't know what's going on yet!"
and projects and ideas spring out of the wet sidewalk.
portland has left quite a series of first impressions...
wet socks
wet tops of thighs pants
yellow leaves! red leaves!
more energy than i've ever had in my life i think!
local beers! soft kind of fuzzy widespread liberalism!
("hating our kind of people just isn't politically correct here.")
buzzing magic energy clean houses mild anger small-town city
or maybe the opposite and bridges out the wazoo
i build little structures of layered wicker to smile out of while i ride my bike
because--this thing of cities--how you can't see everyone all at once, how there are too many stories, how that makes me sad sometimes, how that brings such richness and possibility too.
i had put out this desire to be a clown-theatre-maker and it is happening here,
good folks doing that work
skipping biking stretching singing simple but absurd...
manifestos forthcoming.

okay, okay, i haven't been writing for a while. i have yet to think about writing a story of my time with the fairies and still figuring out how to speak in a language resonant with where i'm making decisions and feeling the world in my body these days. (today, my stomach, mostly.) i am not sure i am always right. i feel like i'm balancing on a couple tightropes. but also that the world around is generally soft and wet and alive. so i think i will live here for a while, find a house and start fermenting.

check

i made a wreath for the first time in thirteen years.

dinner.
grey words float from one
to the other.
spectres of things better not said at all

this fall the faeries seem to take me back reluctantly
and i feel generally forsaken.
i can pick up the twisted
pulse of hungry ghosts in a few
hollow eyes.
conversations live in shadows.
distrust rents the heart.
blackberry ruins.

the garden asked
can you take my vines.
and i did.
more, i took
grapes for wine.
and so this lovely waltz began
visiting dying plants and asking for their bodies
this dance went down,
down into the ditch
where the old water is.

a monster lives there
who thought the wreath
was beautifully wrought.
as a joke it now sits on my head all day.
i dont come back because
he is teaching me to unspeak.
i am learning how to disappear into the trees.
he has me in this way but it's okay.
i ran from my mother
i ran from my father
ive been here before
and ill come out of it
alight.

Thoughts?

Why did I ever stop listening to Linkin Park?