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.

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Dreams

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

Said.

 

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,

imploringly.

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

machinery.

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.

 

 

 

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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”.

 

 

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Fears

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.

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Hope

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.

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.

Someday.

Maybe.

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?

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Moonstone Dreams

Hate is held

in the cauldron

of creation, to be

transformed.

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,

whose

reflection

is fear.

My papa

told me

the line

between

tragedy and

comedy is

fine.

Nature

is change

is fluid.

We are

looking

Death

in the

face and

holding it

as only

women

can.

 

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Which is it? Not.

Are you in?

Are you out?

presupposes

a definitive

destination

of other

must be

everything

I am not,

if I cannot

identify with

some facet of

you, so is that

why we

need to be

empathetic,

survival

tactic, or

you are like

me or

against

me.

What does it mean to be lunar-bodied?

The weight of the world, pushed pulled by

the force of the moon. Women embody

this force, a physiological connection

with the celestial realm. Her spirit

is the voice of the tides, her belly the

container of the ocean.

What is true is the poetry of force,

the creation refining vision, which seeks

to give form to material, to focus and

manifest, her material is the energy

of the universe, called in variation fire,

water, earth and air. She~ the creatrix

weaving dreams with her

left hand and intention with the wand

on her right. She finds herself

trapped in the cage of

this or that.

She has not

breathed in

thousands of years,

she had grown used to the food,

used to the grief,

used to the death and

emptiness, used

to the desecration of her body,

she sleeps. But the cries of her

daughters are too loud.

The cries of her daughter

wakes her up.

Women of the free world

stand up for the women

who are killed

for doing so. We have a voice,

and as our voices gain

momentum, with clarity,

sexual empowerment, education,

our

vocal chords fill with the me

the Goddess Inanna seduced

out the clutches of the god of wisdom,

Enki’s, arms. She found the power

of force to be used responsibly

only in her arms, the arms

spun with silk to move like

a rushing river. Men are waiting

to be told what to do. Men who

defer to the wisdom of a woman,

who know that strength is

not represented by the bulk of a

muscle and the force of a command

and army, but the strength of vulnerability,

which loosens her , because

she is in constant communication

with the universe around her.

Hers is the consciousness that

seeks to elevate to divine,

the spinning vortex of creation,

the natural alchemy

of turning pain into pleasure,

of death into birth,

of masculine into feminine,

and feminine into masculine.

She is the paradox that everything

comes from and where it returns.

Without a deep, embodied

knowing of her,

we have disaster,

the belief that

we can do

anything at all

on our own.

Disrespecting women is the original sin.

Connection is why we’re here.

Vulnerability is how to connect.

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Taking No Shit

Because I am in the business

of being nice,

when I can’t muster up the energy to care,

it feels glorious.

I received a text message,

“when are you coming to see me?”

it read.

“I have no plans in the foreseeable future to ever see you again.”

Beyond nice, there is truth.

Truth is better than an orgasm sometimes.

The sting of a woman’s love was shunned by COCKiness.

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The Power of Psychedelics

Closing my eyelids in the sunlight,

I remember why

it is a blessing for blurry lines.

When objects fade into objects

so that there is only one,

I feel saved from having to be someone.

The regular, steep delineations from person

to person, from one life to the next,

compartmentalizes the world into

boxes and boxes within which we need

craftier tools to escape.

There are no straight lines in nature.

Change was demonized along with women.

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