why can't nipples type?
they sing and moan, cause accidents despite alertness...
but they make other parts of the body put feelings into language...
although we could debate the changing mutations of language, i would rather lick red and white lollipops, as big as the moon on steroids. lick until my tongue begs for mercy and every sweet tooth has given up, dying from saturation. i would use the big, left-over stick as a flag pole, finally making my quilt with jimi's immortal words "make love, make love, make love, make love."
how long have i been collecting fabric for that project? textiles hand-picked in Kauai and Mexico, flea markets, thrift stores and brought to my santa cruz treasure box in old suitcases from India and all the portals of creativity.
finally, i will sew, will christen and stain the quilt with love, oh so much love and passion that the song will beat like gong's in our eardrums and we will laugh and scream and i will bite your ear off, almost completely. it will hang by a string of skin, but don' t worry, i will use gold thread to repair your beautiful lobe.
after my collaboration is blessed and given proper rituals of spit and blood and flower garlands, we will raise it; dark air will give it breath and it becomes a creature blowing red and purple smoke. those words will flap in the night, adding a funny touch to the noises of darkness. the letters will stay, brilliant and shiny, but something in them, the energy? no, the meaning...the hope will move, it will take flight and bounce.
it will be carried to every corner that exists. by cabinets and grey cubicles it will fly and leave silver dust. it will kiss the mouth of a man looking for bottles and will send ripples across a tea cup in england filled proper. in many years, it will find me again and enter my mouth as i am kissing in the park beneath the shade of green and orange, when our tongues meet, and i exhale, it moves into you.
Friday, January 19, 2007
when i am barking at the moon, i truly want to be stroking the contours of your white skin.
it glows and i am reminded of night and forests abundant with orange mushrooms and sparkling flowers that drip dew like sweet syrup.
we all come to lick their thin petals, marveling at the strength of their papery flesh.
we look at each other in the dark and smile with white teeth illuminating our red beating insides.
our blood flows out of four toes and silently seeps back into the blanket of moist leaves.
all is plush beneath my soles and i jump higher with the padding.
its smells musty, but i have grown accustomed, and inhale with a certain greediness;
filling both my lungs as though i never had asthma, never was constricted and choked.
i have left my inhaler behind for the black night air that would be scary under most circumstances, but you are here, holding my hand and goosebumps are quickly sung lullabies and fed ginger cookies.
yes, it is very, very dark. and these trees behave like friends, actually bending to allow me a climb, cheering when i get closer to streaking stars.
it glows and i am reminded of night and forests abundant with orange mushrooms and sparkling flowers that drip dew like sweet syrup.
we all come to lick their thin petals, marveling at the strength of their papery flesh.
we look at each other in the dark and smile with white teeth illuminating our red beating insides.
our blood flows out of four toes and silently seeps back into the blanket of moist leaves.
all is plush beneath my soles and i jump higher with the padding.
its smells musty, but i have grown accustomed, and inhale with a certain greediness;
filling both my lungs as though i never had asthma, never was constricted and choked.
i have left my inhaler behind for the black night air that would be scary under most circumstances, but you are here, holding my hand and goosebumps are quickly sung lullabies and fed ginger cookies.
yes, it is very, very dark. and these trees behave like friends, actually bending to allow me a climb, cheering when i get closer to streaking stars.
el faun
why is it i cry from fiction
watching a man's face being crushed with a hammer, or not seeing, just hearing and feeling my body tense and breaths that are hard to take. i lie in my dark room, blankets pressing down, hand over my soft breast, heart creating echoes among the blue-caged walls. i keep crying when i think about the hate-filled character, brutalizing people and murdering a little girl.
he only looked scared when he realized the baby would never know his name; terror, human emotion and fear finally burrowed in his chest; then he was shot.
my eyes are open and the stinging continues.
i finally let emotions move in all their ever-sweeping power. i heave...but for characters? or for the story, the feeling, the truth that was spoken and shared and conveyed with creative vibrancy for the world to experience, for me to feel. only her little body died, she left and was once again a princess, once again with her family and beyond this mortal world. i cry for it all. i keep going beyond the edge, i felt it walking up my stairs after i was dropped off, emotionally heavy and vulnerable. for a while i was calm, after a day in laguna, sun smelling and sun-filled laziness, but being left on the curb changed that, i had no words to explain to your ears.
did you feel my heart and see my eyes?
so porous. but i used it. i transformed my space last night and wrote. did i dance? i focused o my heart and fell asleep, awaking tired from vivid dreams. i recorded them half asleep, letters barely legible, but providing and awakening memories none-the-less.
this morning i danced
watching a man's face being crushed with a hammer, or not seeing, just hearing and feeling my body tense and breaths that are hard to take. i lie in my dark room, blankets pressing down, hand over my soft breast, heart creating echoes among the blue-caged walls. i keep crying when i think about the hate-filled character, brutalizing people and murdering a little girl.
he only looked scared when he realized the baby would never know his name; terror, human emotion and fear finally burrowed in his chest; then he was shot.
my eyes are open and the stinging continues.
i finally let emotions move in all their ever-sweeping power. i heave...but for characters? or for the story, the feeling, the truth that was spoken and shared and conveyed with creative vibrancy for the world to experience, for me to feel. only her little body died, she left and was once again a princess, once again with her family and beyond this mortal world. i cry for it all. i keep going beyond the edge, i felt it walking up my stairs after i was dropped off, emotionally heavy and vulnerable. for a while i was calm, after a day in laguna, sun smelling and sun-filled laziness, but being left on the curb changed that, i had no words to explain to your ears.
did you feel my heart and see my eyes?
so porous. but i used it. i transformed my space last night and wrote. did i dance? i focused o my heart and fell asleep, awaking tired from vivid dreams. i recorded them half asleep, letters barely legible, but providing and awakening memories none-the-less.
this morning i danced
Thursday, January 18, 2007
distraction
aahahrrr aahahrr. looking up, a formation of geese flew past the windows in perfect formation. nature pushes though the confines of this building. computers and financial worries are intercepted, stopped by feathers and air and weightless, immediate smiles. i remember the huge migration of last month. thousands looking like black ribbons; shifting, and shifting again against a blue canvas. there were v's within v's. the car was moving forward, plowing ahead, breaking sound in two. for while it seemed we were moving at the same speed, going to the same place, where your mother's waiting for you among reeds? my eyes were glued to the sky. angels held me from death.
me?
at this time:
ribbons and balloons. handholding and hair pulling. olive trees and green, cloudy olive oil. mermaid clouds, head-banging, exchanging smiles with "strangers" and eye contact in the dark. the moon in all its stages although i wait for the fullness with much anticipation. stories that make my chest hurt, jokes that make me scream. smiling is good. crying is good. playing with my hands. playing with your hands. earlobes. curls. words. movement. dancing, dancing, dancing. being alone and naked. talking and not talking. travel and concentrating. sewing. trash. boiled potatoes, especially with dill, salt, pepper and yeast (it's what i ate last night). i am into new and old. magical discoveries outside and in. pushing through weirdness and then remembering change is growing. communicating in broken spanish and being enlivened when i am understood, or when i think i understand (because who knows?). soft clothes and no clothes. heat and rain near open windows. music music music music. notes that make me remember...remember what?? only brief flashes or long, sustained feelings of eternity. street food. bowls and spoons. almost anything turquoise. moving of water. subtle bobbing of the ocean when calm. creating creating creating. writing writing. taking photos when i'm scared. dancing when i'm scared (it happened once for real in mexico). intuition. understanding before and after. understanding??? laughter laughter. working working working. riding trains. scenery moving faster than i can see, but not more than i can feel. persimmon trees in fall, in italian fog. places i have never been, yet always have known. power. unexplainable. finding words for thoughts. having sadness explained. finding joy beneath sadness, the deep well.
ribbons and balloons. handholding and hair pulling. olive trees and green, cloudy olive oil. mermaid clouds, head-banging, exchanging smiles with "strangers" and eye contact in the dark. the moon in all its stages although i wait for the fullness with much anticipation. stories that make my chest hurt, jokes that make me scream. smiling is good. crying is good. playing with my hands. playing with your hands. earlobes. curls. words. movement. dancing, dancing, dancing. being alone and naked. talking and not talking. travel and concentrating. sewing. trash. boiled potatoes, especially with dill, salt, pepper and yeast (it's what i ate last night). i am into new and old. magical discoveries outside and in. pushing through weirdness and then remembering change is growing. communicating in broken spanish and being enlivened when i am understood, or when i think i understand (because who knows?). soft clothes and no clothes. heat and rain near open windows. music music music music. notes that make me remember...remember what?? only brief flashes or long, sustained feelings of eternity. street food. bowls and spoons. almost anything turquoise. moving of water. subtle bobbing of the ocean when calm. creating creating creating. writing writing. taking photos when i'm scared. dancing when i'm scared (it happened once for real in mexico). intuition. understanding before and after. understanding??? laughter laughter. working working working. riding trains. scenery moving faster than i can see, but not more than i can feel. persimmon trees in fall, in italian fog. places i have never been, yet always have known. power. unexplainable. finding words for thoughts. having sadness explained. finding joy beneath sadness, the deep well.
nameless despite words
it's a new day. i feel my shoulders, my center, my temples. my lips purse in contemplation. keys are pushed, guided into thoughts. my little fingers with stars and silver, they move elegantly at my command, they bring emotion into creation, like tiny trucks filling holes with cement, only to be scratched with the names of teenagers and strange girls with leaves in their hair.
you carried the signs of fall like a masterpiece. marc chagall held between thumb and index. i gasped at the sight, beauty almost always moves too quickly to catch. portable stained glass, i wish i could bathe in colors infused with sunlight, warm myself with rainbows. but impossible is that wish. how do i swim in frozen matter without getting cut? how many kisses does cobalt require to open up and receive a silvery body?
the houses in mexico spoke the same language. i would press myself against blue walls, breasts tried to hug the corners, wished they could talk with color. that desire was almost nameless, it spoke of something still is hard to mention. but we pressed together, despite clothes and pedestrians, my face against stucco, lips breathing in aqua azul.
you carried the signs of fall like a masterpiece. marc chagall held between thumb and index. i gasped at the sight, beauty almost always moves too quickly to catch. portable stained glass, i wish i could bathe in colors infused with sunlight, warm myself with rainbows. but impossible is that wish. how do i swim in frozen matter without getting cut? how many kisses does cobalt require to open up and receive a silvery body?
the houses in mexico spoke the same language. i would press myself against blue walls, breasts tried to hug the corners, wished they could talk with color. that desire was almost nameless, it spoke of something still is hard to mention. but we pressed together, despite clothes and pedestrians, my face against stucco, lips breathing in aqua azul.
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