i became stories

flat and sharp

symbols that describe

life

touching objects

treadingĀ  ground

watching line after line

THen my fAthEr dieD

Wednesday I visit his son in jail

When he’s a story it doesn’t hurt so much

Anger replaces the broken pieces

Love turns dry and crumbles into disappointment

remains of which I constantly try to brush off

or gather enough together

for one last bite.

So much life spent longing

For what might not even exist.

I want to shred the stories that end

at peak experiences…they’ve ruined me

as I feel the reel must be about to end

no film continues for this long and each day

i continue on….. jumping from story line to story line….

 

Now

that language has forgotten me and my errors

mirror those of my father

no more need for upper case soon

no more need for letters at all

i love the way he calls me sal

My memory serves what it needs to

to carry me to the deepest places

that don’t require syntax or punctuation

Now

that poverty has become

a habit

i rebel against my own insistence of anything

refine what can’t be glanced at and forgotten

and pull weeds from your garden

now

that I’ve lost all hope in my being what will

draw the perfect “partner” i bridge to

the healing respect has to offer

and friendship sweetened

each time you call me

sal

I spend the day traversing my mind

questions repeating

fabric of existence under scrutiny

Convinced if only I could get past this need for

words…

Two hours of walking and bus wondering

What is it that I am doing with this life?

The why am I here’s and

Will I ever be enough.

Then I sit in the kitchen

Sun through sky light and a distant window

Then shadow so inviting

In a stranger’s home and

This home knows know stranger.

Longing stranded

When the light comes again

Down the hall way with the sounds of crickets

and silence

PulsingĀ  across pots and pans

Cutting boards and

Memory.

I can’t tell what bursts forth.

Is it me or the Universe coming to meet me?

The stillness in these Trees

Fluffface’s arrival every morning hoping to be fed.

The same expanse of sky offering new warmth.

The dance between work and desire

Hunger and what we long to be received.

All churning inside of me.

Bare hands in the Dirt

Cheeks brushing in the greeting of friends

Eating ice cream out of the container

staring out at the setting Sun

and the Dirt that will remain on my skin

All season long.

I listen to the words you say looking for something more…

Looking for an explanation for why I feel

When you are near.

Lingering after you’ve gone.

A meal needn’t be understood

Only experienced

Like this Desert experiences the Sky

The Great Expanse itself experiences the Trees

We watch the Rain though it hasn’t arrived yet

Murmuring the hymnals of the Sea.

I want to be something ordinary…

Like dirt

To watch the storms move in

Gray skies and wind

The worm beneath my fingertips

The butterfly; wing clipped by the weed whacker.

I may never think that I am enough…

Or realize that I don’t have to be.

I may never say the right thing or know the proper way to act..

And it simply doesn’t matter.

I will continue to risk for intimacy

For the sparks of human connection

Within the immanence of death.

Experiencing the only thing that can be taken away.

I read the news….

All I want to do is put my hands

in the dirt.

Like the Priestess the Farmer or the Shaman

I see time

stretched in every direction

All those who call this place home…..

Scrambling … searching….. seeing power as commodity

Migrants off shore

Stranded

Panic and fear

Tornado stirs near my heart

I listen to the stories

Observe the feeling

Travel to my fingertips.

Sometimes it seems like one moment of Love

Makes this life worth living….

Still….

and

Trembling

Tumble from shore to sea

and

Back again.

Hands

Dirt

Tornado inside

Not asking why

Raise tolerance for living.

Eat what my mamma gave me.

and

Move on…

Is it the innocence that we chase after and

Try to return to…..

I thought it was some Celestial Union or 

Reuniting with “God”

I begin now to think it is the innocence.

The beauty in its veins.

Fruit not yet ripe on the vine

Fruit ripe before the fall.

When wisdom is all words and not yet experience.

We haven’t been stretched and shrunk against the skin of our masters.

Wild eyed was enough and the flight of ideas pouring.

Touching each other.

If security was guaranteed 

we could see

This push to get back to

And this push to get past and through to the innocence of the wise.