this is what we have. this is all we have.

the game:
at any time, someone can call the beginning of the game by pulling something out of their pocket and proclaiming, "this is what we have. this is all we have." then everyone else proceeds to take everything out of their pockets, bags, fanny packs, etc. and hold each item up, one by one, saying "this is what we have. this is all we have."

these are the tools of my life:
red-handled knife, often dirty, often dull, and sharpener
a black sharpie
white greasepaint and gold powder
a lighter
cell phone, beeping
slightly glamorous earring which doubles as a toothpick or last-minute gift
masking tape for decoration and minor emergencies and securing poultices
red and white water bottle i got from a bin in ashland for a dollar
lemon balm tincture from the wolf house
bandanna, any color
pouch of tobacco

it would be nice to have a fork, too.

in other news,
it is frosty here at versailles! this past month-moon-cycle has been a steady stream of transformations big and small and guests. after samhain, i quit my job and worked my last two weeks at the residential treatment center. fox went back to work and carrot strolled into our lives as a new housemate-subletter along with their two chihuahua-creatures, potato and kinikinick. the rest of the acorns fell and the leaves continued to drop, the daylight hours starting to fly by, and when i came back from the bay this weekend the mornings are 24, 25 degrees and those white jagged outlines and sparkling nights and mornings are whisperin the coming of winter.

we have begun having fires most every day which means splitting wood and scheming about getting more wood. the cold keeps us orbiting around the wood stove and goose, who has been living in the south wing, is moving out and toward another house or perhaps seattle, bike mechanic work and other family dreams. we got our little car starting more reliably and something started leaking, so she's out of commission again. the deer have eaten all of our kale and broccoli down to the stems but left the wong bok and cabbages untouched. i have a lot to learn about gardening, and the deers' appetites and easy leaps over the fence have been one clear and painful lesson.

soon, tomorrow, i will plant garlic, a bit late but not too late i hope. we got a few varieties from avram, a friend and garlic farmer nearby. i am reading more, a biography of isadora duncan, and getting excited about winter scholarship and dancing too and garden planning again. i am so on fire about performing and making creative work, toward wild theatre and a dance-theatre of rewilding, art emergent from living with the land.

and, good night!

the starlings?
we should know a starling when we hear one
i ask what sort of birds are those
a crow she says
no crows are much bigger
they're glimmer birds, you know a crow, you know a night
you should know a crow
there are no pigeons here
which is odd but there is still bird shit on the sidewalks
and ground down gum

i thought you said this was a clean city
he said
it is! it is! i said
don't you know what all those black marks are
they're ground down gum

i thought you said this was a clean city
i've never been to a clean city
there are cities i feel unclean just thinking about

i asked after the dirt that lies in the creases of my sheets
i did that
can you believe it!
i can be very silly sometimes
under the hot noon moon

theme: dirt
i own several machines
but all this dirt gets in them
maybe faster than for other people
do you have pet dirt?
i could have a kitten i suppose
i have dirt

theme: dirt
a-poi-sea-uh
poi
poi poi
poor as dirt and like a god
cramping, bitten

do you remember you wrote "what do real people think about"
i don't want to do die because other people think we're not real
i don't even want to die because we can't remember that we're real

i have not killed the quirky girl billowing in me
or the policeman inside my head

oh what's a girl gotta do get slavoj ziz
to write her letters?

 i have been a boy forever
my long pants pulled up above my knees
the flap of the shirt
flopped over the belly
a winking boy

a hi fi vid
important people
but the fucking bathroom
is hanging out in the background
the toilet winking

i keep my boiling, particled shit
in a swirling bowl

i'm still peter pan

but i'm not i'm not i'm not

i lean on dads
fill up on dads

and i put up a sausage machine
that grinds out some half
limping three year old
with a bowl cut and a rubbed up stick
curling up around a pole
begging for nothing
but seeming to beg

santa sancta sanctified
peter pan humping the playgrounds ropes

pistachio tree a la chateau noir

i. 
the palm tree receives the bat
cradles the three norteno songs
throbbing in
from all points of the compass
save one
(this is the red cardinal we should take up
when we finally put down our bodies)
in its herringbone fronded trunk
are folded the yowls of faraway dogs
an orgami of sound

where is the succor
where the honey that drips
i have felt no press of flesh
but i am still somehow real

the best we hope for:
the palm holds the crowned eyes
up to the sky
they do not become pouched
our hearing never degenerates
and full sentences hold purpose, never terror

the bat offers no threat
it does not even care that you are there
but it can be the totality of the night

ii.
i am the night
in leathern fingies
fur stroked whorl
curling
uncurling
dose of wake up cortisol
all pressed down
the dripping honey for the space between the ears

i am the night
don't wake up

why do
beautiful bands of color
appear
in the tiny oil slicks that form atop puddles on a rainy day?
what do slugs leave behind
that shines?
the first trace of color
the band snapped across the chest

who would dare to talk in the night?
and who would pray?

iii.
one should serve the jello gray
in the shape of a brain
on an oil slick tray

no one will ever have sex again
no one will marry
all music will be banned
only so that no one will ever talk about music again

santa teresa will remain pierced
in the house of her ecstasy
and some large curving bronze structures
will be permitted to stay standing
all else will crumble
the world will become the color of green pennies
though i think we will have put those
all underground by then

i have not said what is right
only what will be

iv.
after the green; the white
down where the pennies go
you can put your memories in a house of aspic
but this is not as good as bronze

v.
oh i am the night
nay-cree-us
know that the locust
breaks its leg open
attracted by the smell of oozing fat
begins to eat itself
all is so scarce
nay-cree-us
an old man feeding his son
the son drinks a glass of milk
the son manages
nay-cree-us
the cockroach
the beetle
the cat's eyes in front of headlights
nay-cree-us

who would dare to talk in the night?
and who would pray?

some tell themselves
it's a peacock

it is not

buy the golden arrows
turn up the funk
i am coming