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Archive for the ‘poetry in motion’ Category

I thought I told you not to ask me twice, because I blush when I can’t recall your birthday, or to ask about how your knee is feeling today, or if you worked out your most recent car issue…
It doesn’t stick and I have never known myself to be less invested in  someone I do care for, and it frightens me about myself- making me like you less.
I can sense your hands extending my way even when they are busy making lumps of your pockets, or interlocked, white-knuckled, behind you. I can feel the buzz of your questions, when your mouth forms a perfect, airtight  line. Your eyes- a welcoming brown and asking of me things that I can’t & won’t promise.

You ask me to be honest so I do and I am, but keep digging you do. You forget my humanity, in beta, treating me as though I tuck a cape secretly into my dresses; forgetting that I can only love you when you are happy in full & not look to me to fulfill this unspoken, expected duty to make flush your holes- pocked with insecurity. You forget how hard it must be for me to tell you constant disheartments, lest you never remembered- let alone realized.

Hurting the kindest person in the room. A bee stinging a bee. Squash blossom strains cross pollinating: creating a mealy, deceptive, lackluster hybrid. A dog, a tail: perpetual circling.

Your accolades stroke me, cocoon me, croon to me, make me sweet on you when you are not light enough to blow off the tower in response to my altered breathing. Your enviable sincerity. In my mirrored comparable to you this would equate to ghost netting/ nothing to show.

But love is it’s own world that hasn’t handle bars; and to grip and grasp- a fruitless way to hang on. Because it all boils down to feeling. Feeling with out the illusion of urgency. Feeling and truth commingling. And the foresight to not fear your intuition.

I disappoint myself in light of you. In your shadow I cannot commit and reciprocate. It’s tragicomedy. To want love so bad/ and be incapable of return. I do love you, but not how I would if I could.

glow hand

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Her favorite name for candy was Starburst.

Her favorite name for a recycling company that she had recently taken notice of was Cloudburst.

These expulsions. They could bring her to her knees; drive away demons. These slightest of suggestions.

Days where everything had meaning: Lights turning green were indicative.
If a dog barked twice.
For a tangerine peel to come off, maintained in one connected piece without coming undone beneath her fingers.
If the penny tossed while feeding the meter turned up on tails. Everything told something.

Everyday she wore items that fit the same description. Khaki shorts, tie died shirt of some sort, gauzy white scarf. A purposeful precaution should she turn up missing, she’d be easy to describe. Her fears over-arching; ever present. That head of hers- full of responsibility. Slippery shaped thoughts akin to greased palms, just as hard to hold.
Thin veil between psychedelic induced psychosis and one slipped into her drink. So suspicious. She could be found on the beach, laying in a tangle, trying to distinguish between which kind.

Luckily there were the calming elements. The source could be from a passing truck with the simplest of messages. Or the cold-awake-wide-open feel of ocean. Ocean. Ocean. It’s own sentence. Paragraph. Novel. Her biggest self. It tousled and it soothed.
And snails. How she loved them. The time they took. The swirl continuum. The iridescent remnants. Did they even have a destination? A model, indeed. “Be more like the snail”– something she would breathe and drive into the bottom of her belly. Someone had to own the mantra. Be more like the snail. Time is on my side. Even if this was said in rushed fashion it provided a balloon’s worth of weight off her back. She had these things. Palms unneeded. It could be nice.

This woman was the first person to be recognizable in containing a purposeful aimlessness. What an achievement. Her town’s people thought she a gentle kook: All weary smiles. She knew they knew of the springboard that lay within. Of this she was sure. Unhingable at any moment sans notice.
But what are their skeletons? She wondered often.
A good question, though not everyone’s dance like hers.

A doe-eyed doctor once told her to give up the sauce. She had taken to drinking spirits because of the name implication. The potentiality of unknown company. Another soother. Absinthe was a no-go, of course. Too close. Too witchy. She knew the limits. But challenge herself she did, and lessen her mania she had, when it came to cutting back on such a vice. Good job good job, said the voices from her sidelines, despite her bag being no stranger to a buttery cognac. Remy Martin just sounded like such a protector.

The sound of things. Eyes being the first line of defense, only once approved would her mouth take it on.  No sense in tempting fate.
Explosions always on the horizon, lest they be unuttered and ignored.
Only a sunburst could make way.

bernal

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One of my very favorite things is when Im on a walk (usually with my sweet little doggy), and we pass someone singing and practicing piano. !! It just fills me up, buttercup. When the rest of the world doesn’t exist, momentarily, and the thought is that no one is around, and you hear some one being free. It’s just about the purest thing…

And how people get petals stuck in their hair and falling all over their heads in the Spring.

And when Im in the city and I have a sweet exchange with a stranger, or even just share a moment, be it funny or sincere.

And even when the wind blows just right at the very right time on that perfect day and it feels like my cells just stretched out and took a deep breath in unison. That right place right time ish.

So I am reclaiming romantic. It abounds and is not limited to two people’s feelings/ actions/ expressions. Romance happens between us and the world. It is what makes us shiver (in a good way) on the inside. It’s our private collection of sweet things too small to tell, just as they are our anchors to faith.

Riding my bike is a sure fire way to light the spark. There are so many incredible Oo-ah moments that feed my soul, like yesterday, crossing the tracks in the SE industrial area of Portland, this regular looking dude was walking in a more desolate area along the tracks just playing a trumpet.

~sigh~ Super inspiring, just getting alone time where no one’s around, on an ultra hot day. My phone sadly doesn’t do justice to how sweet this moment was, or how barren the area was either. Betta than nothin’. Today I made a pledge, so to speak, to myself and promised to be a better photo-documentarian. Taking pictures of inspiration and secret moments revealed.

Oh, and also to never miss a good photo op even if the camera is kind of sucky sucky.

Along that same bike ride I spotted this older, transient guy on account of his pink sequins pants. Yes I did. Soo I turned around and had to had to just had to get a shot. Luckily he was down. He was missing a pinky, therefore now going by the name of Pinky. Lost to too much fun or something like that. We talked a little but then the cops came and told us not to encourage him. Jeez. Boring.

He wanted some company for the shot – naturally (!) and so Chaach (left) got up in there with him (and my sexy bike (R)). Putting his Pinkys out for the pic was his idea. Cute. Yes, he was a bit loopy but I tell you that man has fun.

I am wined and dined by these things that I mention. It’s these things that keep me in love.

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D.I.Y. movement

A chance for old to be new

Old boot, new planter

—————————–

Brilliant shining soul

Bioluminescence

Swallowed a starfish

—————

Please go on and sing

Make like no one is around

Then I’ll know you’re freed

—————————–

Spider, I’m sorry

Breaking your web really sucks

‘specially with my face

—————

twinz

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