Your Sock

I am a romantic mess, waking up with only

one of your socks on the floor by the zillion

pieces of single clothes on the single floor

of a bedroom a single girl sleeps in.

Your sock on the floor reminds me of the time

I stole the sock from your drawer while you sang

in the shower, the love we kindled the

night before.

I am a romantic mess, because as I dress, nothing

matters but the sock on the floor. I make a mess

of the mess already there, trying to look for

the missing of the pair, trying to see past

the omen of fear that only one of us can

be here.

The socks with you were a pair, both of us,

happy and living in the post-coital bliss. The sock

I have here is but one, the other amiss. Where

could it have gone? I searched everywhere,

it’s as if it just disappeared. The magic cannot

be denied, I’m trying not to die inside, but my heart is

heavy.

What about the time when you hate me, when the sock

will be a horrible reminder of the wonderful memory? Or

the time when you leave and I’m left with the responsibility,

the evidence~ a sock in solitary? Or what about years from now,

when I throw the sock out, reminiscing about that time…that time…

You are my friend, I hope forever until the end.

I hope I can find the sock before it’s too late, I can’t stand this heartache.

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Tucson

If you’re sad or mad, go to Tucson.

If you’re fighting with yourself to accept your dream, go to Tucson.

If you’re hungry and impatient and you feel the tide

constantly changing,

your tires are spinning,

there’s no sense in winning,

but you know.

You know that you’re growing,

fertile you arrived and

pregnant you go.

Go to Tucson if you think

no one understands.

No one’s given you a chance,

but you were born to be made,

and Tucson is the shade,

the bassinet, the picnic and

the ants that destroy it.

Don’t disrespect

for she’s spacious and vast.

The Sonoran desert can kick

your ass. She’s

the place of ‘mad strife’,

The Seeker’s delight.

Go to Tucson if you’re willing to bleed

for your soul to be born,

The Phoenix rise from the ash.

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To Stand Amongst You

I am dying to be seen,

skin flakes and clusters in the breeze,

like the first rainfall dripping on the cracked

lips of a stranded crew on a beautiful

island covered by non-water.

I want you to open to me,

and taste me, let me

quench your thirst.

Show me what is dry.

Cold fingertips and curled up toes,

fetal position,

tears of life draining vitality

~to be missing you.

I am here,

on a stair,

sitting,

hoping to be noticed.

Do you see me? Do you see me?

I will hold out my hand, for eternity,

palm up,

waiting for you to hold it,

I will die waiting,

unless you find me,

until you find me.

I am reborn with your love,

the phoenix rising from her ashes,

knowing no truth but the here and now.

She is warm and collected

and knows the great Truths.

She will show you Heaven

if you can meet her amongst stars.

She will be sitting on the stair,

reading in the store,

floating in the air,

with her palms up,

to embrace the possibility

of

Salvation.

Our heroes always have a love story.

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When You’re Alone

And the time stands still, marked

only by the shadows decreasing inside

and the eyes who spied the time

calling it here.

Aware

of moments inside of moments,

what to do with them,

what has been done before.

Standing in stillness,

I open this door.

Please be with me here,

I am scared.

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Pisces

I want to write letters to everybody I know,

I want the letters to include artwork,

something that allows me to touch them

deep inside, where they feel seen.

I do not think it is right to buy

frivolous things, or worry about

people that do not need immediate

attention, because there are terrible

things happening in the world.

I love my soulmate, I have a soulmate,

they are the one I am with who gives me

love. We have searched for each other

through time and collided here, in this spot.

Am I meant for intimate love?

I am unlovable for any just one,

how can you love me when I am

not the same me you knew, just a moment ago?

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Coffee, Tarot, Highways, Mom’s House

Coffee

Am I dizzy from too many orgasms?

Is my brain getting enough oxygen?

I tried to channel the previous walk that was pleasant and the one before that which was most pleasant. But this was not possible.The craftswoman outside did not catch the love I was giving her. I could not look up after that without fear of being catcalled or ridiculed. I entered the cafe, where I was greeted with pungent pregnant silence and the red-haired barista who composed the first memory. My thought then, “I want to fuck him”. Was it wrong to want everybody to smile at me when I walked in? I tried to see him out of the fantastic goggles that were on before, alas I could not. I was jumpy and aching and insecure, but I made it out with coffees and a cookie.

Tarot

We ate breakfast and drank the coffee while we spent some time in post-sex, cuddle land. I read his tarot because of the custom blend of incense designed for readings and I forgot to shape the incense into a cone. His reading felt haphazard. I didn’t feel like I touched him deeply. Fold up, try to start again.

Highways

So I considered death and what it means to consciousness to die as a body. Is there an awareness around decay?

Mom’s House

She had food, and space. But I am a desert now, and too much space can be filled with too much emptiness.

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2:46 A.M. Words that Became Because I Was Un-becoming

To keep on going, I must write on the page.

I’ve abused my communication guideline and

for this I must pay. So, I suffer inside and it feels so

intense that the only release is on the page-

as I bleed words into the virtualsphere. Where they

go, I cannot know, I can only hope i am not a fool in the end.

What it is like to be an artist is to feel like a balloon inside, so

pregnant and full, is always on alert and prepared to go into labor

at any moment.

What it is like to be crying for salvation is a child

trying to crawl back into the mother’s womb instead

of feel the life stripped away before our very existences.

What it is like to be a woman is the constant urge to create.

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Outside on a Tuesday

Reflecting back on you,

and the various times ‘you’ came with ‘me’

and we would create whatever it

is, but

we would create it together, and

the nighttime stars lay claim to

layers upon layers

of truth in decay and

truth in creation and

the truth of harmony.

But before we go too far,

I wanted to take the time to

write to you, to let you see

something, to come on a journey with me.

i’ve seen me in the limitations of

seeing me in you.

Only when I don’t see me am I free to see you,

and even in this regard, one could argue,

that anything I can see in you is part of me.

I’ve seen myself in you, various bubbles of

past and future, floating above and beyond

or behind as memory.

You show me parts of us I have not touched,

but I am a sponge, fertile to your need.

You see me as much as I see you,

how high can we go?

How low can we go?

I feel the urge to tell you, that what you plant inside of me grows,

for I am an Earth mother,

So do not hate yourself,

because I do not want to see hate.

Women, we are receptive, by small or by large,

we need love to give love, to give large

as waterfalls on water; to give love as

geysers in the rock, to give love to anything

or any one thing.

To give love to what we would like to nurture,

attention and affection stimulates growth.

Our power lies in our power.

Reflecting back on you,

how can you be sure you exist?

Are we mirrors?

Do I know me from knowing you?

Can I only know me from knowing myself?

But I must be me before meeting myself,

so is that not inconsistent?

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to,

she asked.

Unconditional love, if you learn it within, so you will it without.

As within, so without.

Show me love and I’ll show you love, or Life.

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