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Posts Tagged ‘art’

At the mention of pelvic floor to any woman, an instantaneous muscular response ensues.
The hint of simple nod towards a kegle creates a domino effect in us ladies more contagious than a yawn. ((It’s happening right now ladies, isn’t it?))

And so, as such, I glide my coffee, straight backed, unshakable thighs,  tight pantied- to my haven table amidst the oceans of tantalizing print literature and calling, glowing screens a sparse cafe does hold on a rainy day.

My potion, viscus, flirting just above the brim- my tool to groundation and focus. A cheap, less monitored effect than Adderall or common prescribed pill-tools over my dawdling head. One can hope. The barista gifted me with a frothy heart atop my hot palmed mug, much like my own sometimes, all afloat and warm with a penchant for the grand spill. Oh coffee, why mimic me so?

A power outage led me here today. With a swift flicker, the glow of my alarm clock- a decisive two to three electric attempts at resurgence- the whole house- as if to settle all at once with some hefty exhale- gave up it’s connection to contemporary lifestyle and customs it thoughtlessly holds. And I- up with bright grey sky hinting- arose to a more simple portalistic time. Way backish.

My thoughts went to oil-lamps. My thoughts to sweater layering. My thoughts to non-perishables. My thoughts to generating internal warmth in the loved/hated yogic chair pose. My thoughts to what if this is it and our reliance upon modernity now severed, and be damned with the freezer goods, and the ability to operate appliances like an emergency drill, or entertain myself with my nil-discussed-distracting online video shorts addiction. My thoughts to I must be more prepared for the Big Shut Off. Big Cut Off. Water supply extra and perhaps time to start canning. Not really canning, but some sort of Oregon Trail-y preparatory shit.
My thoughts to common baby light my fire. Or really more that- I could or should light a fire, but when is life not fit for a surprise song?

Back to the big Turn Off. Whilst I sip at my warm, opaque choice.  The northeastern half of the city sits in the dark and still in Little House on the Prairie mode and I wonder, as I should: what if. If when. Cowboy coffee is easy enough, but basic power is past me. I can’t coerce a bulb to brighten even though I am so so very beautiful. My own craft, how I make my bread and pay my bills- beyond limited, considering my heavy reliance upon today’s conveniences. I am ever/ we are ever~ just. so. acclimated. In time we would find our way back to elementals, but until then… amazing adaption and  tremendous tyranny.

Crossing town had it’s own absent-minded loveliness to it. The stop lights being out, forcing people to work together. Zippering. My turn your turn my turn your turn. And on so.
Despite the rare sense of cooperation, the act of the 3-D shadow of dead incandescence all but lingered upon us, overarching, with a menacing feeling. Blackened, hanging stoplights. Firelights void of heat. Red yellow green colorless, sucked dry. Swaying lifeless like rot fruit bewitched to the vine. Soulless. Burnt out and in. Nothing left to keep those lights alive passed a rewiring if possible, or our brilliant, once upon a time, memories. “When I was young, child, we had great lights that hung above the streets and told us what to do. It was beautiful. Especially the rain part, child. Especially the rain”.

What might it be like, imagining we were prepared for it. Imagining the Big Shift did happen. What would it be like? No more voltage. Sleep you electrons, so little. You’ve done so good. Thank you thank you.
Now what? Our city’s minds, our ways; back to scratch. And then? What now? My thoughts? Time to prep. A resurgence of survival skill knowledge. Time to tighten up.

dark

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Part 1:

You tell me- how can I not invoke the cosmos when I’m writing? It’s a tricky thing to keep at bay when I have no control of the tides.
How can I be expected to leave the moon where it was? These arms gotta hold for something and who wants a bunch of armor or perishable groceries  taking up space when tales of Venus are tugging at your tongue.
The epic love story lays in the ether, wondrously waiting it’s bounce. That finicky thing.
These hips of mine await the rhythm- the pulse of ozone before the pour.
Perpetual motion.

Part 2:

-unrelated-

These songs we create. These sketches we doodle. These seemingly insignificant sweet little diddys’. With the proper frame work they are great achievements because we allow our minds to wander into realms of the unseen and uncharted. We let roam and go spin cycle. We free range.
Here we are now, who knows for how long, standing, sitting, laying on this earth. We are fashioned to make. Fashioned to connect. Built to link- in the physical, in the mental. Here we are, the trees bare gifts, our hearts and minds the same. We are abundance from the smallest of ways: humming while we prepare food, to creating feats like the Sistine Chapel. La Sagrada Familia. And here we are still.

Even if you don’t think you’re very good. Even if a white piece of paper seems daunting- it is your duty, in a sense, to exercise your creative mind. So open up and sing and feel real good.

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Soft breath came out in undulose roll, a serenity given to understanding incidences of stolen moments receding. Time time time, just a moment away.

All she ever wanted was a muse by her standards which were seemingly not set too high. It didn’t take much to ignite the visionary exacting that lay inside her, but love was indubitably, formidably, the key. The world could speed up for all it wanted, or creak slowly in orbit, if-to-when that one would enter stage left. Or right. Or come climbing down downy, silken spun, dream-fire-escapes and just come on in. The water is oh so fine.

Her inner workings were a scramble. Try she might, but the holes inside were waxing and waning with the tides and the moon. Her fits of full and lonely nipping at her heels just the same.

Sometimes the vibe was self-evident. A physically provable thing, probable thing, displayed in sights of messy hair, tired from tugging. Showed up in baggy eyes, bruised from booze. Achey muscles, self-induced over-workings, awaiting their holy massage.

Thank the greatest ones for her breath. The flowers were with gratitude. The trees felt younger for it. Where she could finally slow her roll and simply believe… just a moment away.

xo

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She came in late because that’s what she does best. Looking for an open chair before looking around at the people there. Walking in after the momentum was set in motion always made the grade school feelings resurface of trying to peep a spot to sit in the lunch room, carrying this goofy tray that must have been dipped in anti-cool spray, seeing that it always felt dorky, and wanting to look smooth and like she had friends- a place to be or go to of importance. She had them, it was just one of her little quirks. She pendulumed between the now and triggers of the old. It was her bit. Anyway, she had to settle before she could settle.

There were probably 45 people in that basement. One quarter of them set to speak at some point in the night in front of the rest of crowd, present. The literary types. The solo ones. The ones who came to listen, to glean inspiration, to be alone in a crowd. These people, being under the cover of night, posting up in a dark, dingy Portland basement in Old Town- pretty much optimal for this chiquita.

When you think about it, people are just balls of swirling habits and needs. Some have habits to be filled outside of themselves. Some have that artistic fever. The kind that wells up and demands release. This one- she had the latter. Her need for speed showed up in the likes of pen and ink. Leaving the house without a writing tool would be akin to leaving the house pants-less. But colder. And stupider. Sure.

So boom. Her ass on the stool. Her eyes keen on the speaker. A plain-looking middle-aged woman, spouting off some biz about dragons in the Victorian era or some-such has-been stuffy topic. The woman’s voice- pleasant enough, and for that she could be forgiven for the fact that the sweater she wore was the deadly and dreaded ”skin tone” color- a mistake that no white person should make again; that and it made her boobs look terribly boring. Burn all these items. Ok ok ok- also the fact that she was creating– so for the subject matter she could be forgiven. 5 Hail Marys’, ma.

Our girl momentarily cut the physical  vision off to illuminate the inward visual potentials. What could come to light from the contact high of these people, in this hole in the wall full of wayward history? Well, I’ll tell you one thing- if you ever wanted imagine a ghost pinching your chichones, now is your time.

“Write about us, mija. Tell your people sobre nuestra historia. Tell them there are witches everywhere. Brujas rojas, blancas, negras.”

Damn, she thought. I open up to tap in and some ghost dude’s got me reporting on some bullshit that’s played and noone’s trying to hear. Give me something juicier. Witches are outta season.  Sassy bitch.

Give me fodder about funny things we do, ghost. What do you see? Maybe you gotta get over yourself in the spirit world. You lingering beings take yourselves way to seriously. Give it up. And don’t climb on my head- this writer’s block is already killing. Give me some ESP or something.

Well that ghost had it. Ghosty middle fingers on blast and the haunting was over. Sitting erect, intent on the speaker, open to absorption; She waited. Mother fucking writers block. Assassinate the maker of this beast. Who coined the term was coconspirator. Take em’ out, Darwin. Right? Let’s do this. Open up the channels. Stupid spirits flying around. Permeating the corners and hallways of this whole damn block. This entire neck of the woods. Old fodder was all she had for the now. Boring like those long mound- upstage sweater titties. Waiting for the perks. Ready ready ready.

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Today I stomped the ground in careless play, noticed the reverb of hollow from below. Pounding above a bomb shelter, a tunnel, a tomb? Above all in absent awareness…

…Calling for a dig exceeds my jurisdiction but if I had the power, the earth would be pocketed in curiosity, and restored rapidly in vigilant remorse, for better or for worse.

I recall clearly as a child, a teacher telling class that the Native Americans we so romantically studied lived where our houses were. My house. A top ancient secrets. Those powerful beings who understood the tangibility of seasons, ran through crisp, blue corn fields, made with callused fingers- beads of dried piñon berries, lived nobly herding flocks, believing in coyote medicine…

I had the presence of mind to know that their reign extended beyond the small stretches of my yard. Most likely to at least the perimeter of my block, or ”la manzana”, as my pops called it. I came home that day to scour the ground and blacken my baby nails in dreamy hopes of turquoise treasures, dulled arrowhead, bird bones. Nothing ever came of these missions. Time would give way to something shiny, some tinsel or so, leading my excavation, my excursion- to press on in whispered hope.

bow arrow

During the time of year where the leaves find themselves tossing in tiny tornadoes, and the cold makes scarlet our cheeks, I will be greeted by the painfully beautiful scent of burning cedar. Instantly I transport to the vast expanse of my time living on the rez with the Dinéh people, an event that was lead by the hand of my earlier fascination and curiosity.

I breathe in and hold.

Smoke, providing a background where images dance and bob. Broken relics of poetry and dry dirt. Old woman of long braid and woven skirt. Counting sheep. Snapping sage brush. Being followed by a pack of loyal, rag tag dogs with each step. Awaking before dawn with purpose to ensure warmth by lighting the fire…
With that smell I am carried, and not a moment too soon.
I am living simply. I am living at peace. I am living with full intention. The red earth stretches for days and I revel in wonder about what tales are beneath.

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Sometimes I’ll begin to wonder, and my wonder will be laced with concern. I wonder if the way that I feel about music and what it does to me is normal; is healthy. Profound would be a tidy, dismissive way to describe it, as 2 syllables can only cover so much ground.

The way that I will feel can be alarming. Like it’s so good that it hurts. My brow will involuntarily furrow. I am completely at the mercy of someone else’s creation and they are singing right to me.

I went and saw The Shins last night. It was heavenly. I felt so much love that it made me uncomfortable. Like my seams would burst. The sound was amazing and his words- uh! James Mercer is blindingly brilliant. It has been a very long time since a person has reached me in the place he does. His prose is thought provoking and ever so delicious. I have a fairly gigantic crush on a man’s mind who I know closest from a 15 yard distance. Love is amazing like that. And reason is laughable.

It’s crazy and comical to realize that you have a crush on the most likely impossible. There’s nothing substantive about my feelings, seeing as I don’t even know if we would get along on all levels, but seeing him live always leaves me levitated. It’s powerful juju, a man with a song. Damn.

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Mom told me never

trust a man in a trench coat-

bunch of pervs out there

*****

Because every day

I see you outside, first thing.

Neighbor, get a life

*****

I pee way more than

the average person or

is 30 normal?

*****

My best friend’s brothers

tortured him when he was young-

hair clippings in pants

*****

What an unlucky

incarnation to be a

dung beetle. no thanks

*****

*****

I might have sex with

my iphone if there was an

app that could please me

*****

I am a poet

I know it. Don’t question me

obvs. you’re just jealous

*****

Whenever it’s hot

outside- I am so thankful

that I don’t have balls

*****

Inconvenience is

dandruff with a preference for

wearing mostly black

*****

I am not alone

in painting just the toes that

show through my peeps-shoes

*****

*****

I’d rather not go

if it means that I have to

see your stupid face

*****

You could be so cute,

so here’s a razor; a gift!

bye bye to mustache

*****

When riding bikes it

is ill advised to blow

a snot rocket up wind

*****

Little kids are cute

but made of germs and rubber

fall and sneeze often

*****

His shoes smelled like sex.

How did he do that? Had me

grossly confounded

*****

 

*****

A more respectful

way to say it would be “Bros

before Does!” I’m good.

*****

Mr. Face Tattoo

“upstanding citizen”

holy commitment

*****

Penny for your thoughts

I’d surely get a nickel

ignorance is bliss

*****

Feel the magic beat

Shake what your mama gave ya

don’t step on no toes!

*****

Just cause we made out

doesn’t mean I like you. Blame

it on the whiskey

*****

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