Stick to a Plan

And I look for myself, Pa, in the structured lines of boundary,

but find them fading

as I am here,

then I am here,

finding myself in the space

where he dropped his towel and

did not notice. I grew excited in my seat

waiting to see

who would pick it up?

Should I pick it up?

I did not pick it up.

And I find myself this body

of lines, wrinkled and hard

against the backdrop of

sometimes-purple cacti

and drooping flowers,


will they drop?

will they drop?

I will not take them.

I wait for the Ocotillo blooms

to hit me in the head so I

can make tea like the rest of them,

and I stand there waiting,

but they do not drop.

So I go home alone again.

I find myself in the expanding

distance between

the hiker ahead,

the biker ahead,

the driver ahead,

do they think of me?

Do they comment on my backpack

and my patience as I walk the street?

Do I register on their radar at all?


don Juan Matus said,

“Sightseeing is for people in cars. They go at great speed without any effort on their part. Sightseeing is not for walkers. For instance, when you are riding in a car, you may see a gigantic mountain whose sight overwhelms you with its beauty. The sight of the same mountain will not overwhelm you in the same manner if you look at it while you’re going on foot; it will overwhelm you in a different way, especially if you have to climb it or go around it.”

When you are a walker,

every place is the same in the sense

that it creates a physical challenge.


Is that where I am, in the lines of challenge and easy?

I want to ask my ma and pa,

why did you have me?

As my womb yearns to be filled with life,

as my soul expression craves unconditional love,

what is a good reason to have a child?

Do I need one?


don Juan Matus says,

“we are energetic probes created by the universe.”

But it is not enough.


You ask me, pa, who is it I want to be?

What do I want to do when I grow up?


Am I growed up now?

What about now?

I only ever wanted to know who I am,

and now I know,

I exist in the moments of coming and going,

of shade and light,

of being blurry and exposed

under the sunlight,

and disappearing in the


There is the moment of reaction

to define myself as reactive,

to point to behavior as re-occuring,

to have something to hold on to.

I see the purple cacti behind the

lenses of my sunglasses, but when I remove

them, everything is green.

Why can’t you stay purple, I ask, so that I have something to hold on to?

I am flesh here,

a fleshy body with a name.

My relationship to my name is another story

that is made in the becoming and going.

Swim with me, pa, swim with me in the tides of constant shedding and growing.

Release the shores from the burden of constraint.

Who are we?

The lines blur, like a word we repeat so many times we are confused at what a word is,

or like handwriting on a page that looks like the cardiogram pattern of a heartbeat,



and we sing with the arbitrary patterns of meaning,

which disappear like lines in the sand.

And that is okay,

because it makes it easier to love whatever shape.


Born to Die and Born Again

I was born angry at life,

wanting to die,

separating myself from those others,

I’m better than…

I’m worse than…

I’m all alone here.

Leave me to die.

Who would have thought there was a reason

for me?

Not I.

The greatest truth is that

there is no separation

and there is no escape.

It is all available and right now,

pushed further by anger.

I am not alone.

I have never been alone.

I can never be alone.

Trying to is not strong,

I’ve learned that the hard way.

I have to learn how to be here, with you.

So be patient with me.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

Thank you.

And that girl,

the one from the dream,

with long purple and black hair,

may she be freed.

Perhaps she only can be by me.

Perhaps she is my baby.

Perhaps she is me.

They all are anyway.

I am he as you are she as you are me and we are all together.

Goodnight World.


Here and There

It is a gift to grasp at my anger,

to use it to create, to re-create a moment later.

Poetry feels fraudulent as I try to capture

the moment before this one.

The one I had to let go of. I cannot

summon it from those places

ideas go to die.

My anger carefully sprouted from

rock bottom,

watered with tears, fed by the fire

of not-giving-a-fuck.

Where is it now,

after I have treated it with a morsel

of soma,

medicine to get through

another night of living

in the fallen world?

Until next time, I suppose.



I wound up on your island,

Near your front porch where

They put in a restaurant and stamped

It with the U.S. logo. You came by,

Slick and quiet, to say hello.

I tried to act cool, like I did not

Want to know everything. But you

Knew I did. You did not indulge me.

You had the aura of a man who

Had been fucked by a real woman

So many times you became a real

Man, and I was soft and sterile,

Pre-menopausal in body, mind and

Spirit. Everything was different, you



She was with her new friends,

A Syrian-Israeli female soldier

And a group of cronies. One of

Them asked you, “so she has to have sex

With you to live here?”

“No, to be a Priestess,” you said,


You looked slick and edgy,

Cold, the warmth was gone.

You did not want to meet my

Family, you did not want to meet me.

We are light years away now,

Blood pumping in opposite

Directions. It reminds me of

The Skeleton Woman. I must

Become as death and lie with her.

You must become as Death and lie

With her. Do you have the Skeleton key?

Just the blood pumping heart


I had a dream God laughed at me.

He said, “woman like to pretend they

Are superior to men, the creators of

Life on Earth. To give birth, we must

Have a seed on continuity. Why do you

Women think I made you so pretty?

So much ugliness in life already, most

Of which you bring. How else could I

Ensure productivity never cease? You

Still need a seed.”

What is to come but the dark and vivid

Dreams of night?

Where my lovers fade, where my true

Love waits, making jewelry and taking

Classes on metaphysicians. He is chubby

Or he is from Maryland. My dreams,

Reminders of those who are stayed with

Me. Not real but in the sense that I

Care. My lover, the man of my dream,

Touched me on a mountaintop of

Crystals. But he did not tell me

He already had a lover.

The Skeleton woman objects. To be

Initiated, you must fuck a corpse.

Maybe necrophiliacs are on to

Something. Perhaps I should date one

Of them. They would love me even when

I am dead.

Life is full of false security.

The only constant is change.

The western world wants to put us

In boxes, and bury us before our time

While they keep corpses alive. Breathing

Is not life, not only breathing anyway.

Wolf packs travel with a vanguard of

Elders to give the rest of them a chance

To get away, to protect the young.

When did we stop living life for God?

Self-preservation or immortality.

These days feel like self-preservation.

My womb is empty and hostile.

My spirit is empty and hostile.

They asked me what I wanted to be when

I grew up and I said, “a tree.” Well, only

In a dream.





Schrodinger’s Lavender

It must be a fruit fly,

dead on my thigh,

drifting over my birth mark

of Orion’s belt. I remember

this time last week,

he guessed what it would be

before he dipped his lips and

begged to kiss it, my soft and

milky relatively supple skin.

Just like now in reverse, he was

lavender when he breathed hot

air on me, and now he is dead.

I project myself to a time when

I am old enough to see not so

supple skin. Everything looks better

in a bathtub. When I was a girl,

I did not think about these things.

They always ask old people what

they would say to their younger selves,

what about writing to my future self?

It is romantic to think of a letter I would

write to myself and never read.

It is romantic to think

somebody might care about me

more than I care about myself one

day( which is not much, despite

the rudimentary evaluation of

an ex-lover). What is the legacy

of a Jewish-American woman?

The role models in entertainment,

in medical fields, in law offices,

we are everywhere, filled with the

guilt complex and instability of

being a Monsanto plant with

superficial-reaching roots. Nobody

cares about the Jew, unless they are

hermaphroditic, or transgender, or

black. Impress me, Jew, do your dance.

None of it is even that good. What

about the Jew with the long face?

What about the long face?

What about?

Those Hindu Hare Krishna tableaus

with the process from birth to death

piss me off. I only capture this moment

in poetry to prove that I once existed here,

in this moment, that there is something to

show from my time in the middle. The

fruit fly is lavender, though death

does not bother me anymore. I am

at once a brilliant, shining star

and a rotting corpse. I do not hide it

anymore in the American way. I want to

rub it in your face. Why does ancient

knowledge make no difference? “Women Who

Run With Wolves” was written in 1992. I was

two years old. It may be too late for me,

completely filled with apathy. Where do we go from here?

Preach to the choir. Make yourself happy.

Is art worth more than sharing?

We are on lifeboats. Where is life?

Happiness, meaning, dreams, reality.

This is my moment, my breath in a wasteland

of noise.

Where do we go from here?

Dead fruit flies and lavender.

Maybe that is what the Buddhists mean by “emptiness”.





I’m scared of my teeth falling out,

and I’m scared of physical pain,

I’m scared of being humiliated,

I’m scared Karma is really a bitch.

I’m scared of being judged,

I’m scared of cancer,

I’m scared of the raw power of an Empath,

and I’m scared that I have it all wrong.



It is perfect,

the way the light still shines,

the way the light still shines when it’s in the trash,

the way it does not know not to shine.

Which is like love,

which is like my love,

which is a femme fatale.

He smiled,

or she smiled,

opened wide,

and drank me in,

like I was eternal, because I am.

But I gave,

and kept giving,

and gave some more,

and intellectually this is wrong.

It is not the way of hearts.

The way of hearts that the Egyptians knew,

the way she knew the Egyptians knew about hearts,

yet she did not see the way she was gripping mine.

She did not want to say it,

he did not want to say it,

they did not want to crush me.


No is a word that is not vague.

No is consenting to not happening.

No should not be a puzzle,

should not be tricky.

Do not let me crawl in your arms,

do not let me split apart my heart

and hand you a piece if you are

going to open up and breathe your fire breath,

disintegrating my love.

You contain me,

the way you swallowed me,

my seed in the pit of your stomach,

it will not grow.

Lucky for me there is not much debris.

I will not have to clean.

Your movements mean everything in the moment,

and the lesson is the way the moment does not carry over

into the next moment or the next or the one after that.

Permanency is a human creation.

The lesson is that I cannot crawl inside you

enough that you decide to hold my heart.

The lesson is that I must not need you.

The lesson is, once more, that I must be whole.

The lesson is not to not give everything,

but to stand strong when the heart breaks.

I will be mine.

I will not stop telling my truth,

bursting with affection.

Somebody will be ready to scoop me up.



The lesson is not to act like it is not already here.

It is not possible to be truly alone.

I cannot hide in you, except in the deep reveries.

I knew it. I did not want to admit it.

When will I learn?


Moonstone Dreams

Hate is held

in the cauldron

of creation, to be


A Goddess

knows that She

is fear.  As

Woman, her

intrinsic power

is a container

for everything

that can be.

Only the lowest,

the strongest,

who have been

ripped apart

and born anew,

died over

and over

again, who

stand up

for magic

and the

long view

have the hands

of the Goddess~

to receive,

to give,

to form,



is fear.

My papa

told me

the line


tragedy and

comedy is



is change

is fluid.

We are



in the

face and

holding it

as only