wild stray

i was called wolf inside you. i scrapped at your insides digging for my freedom, i wanted out so fiercely that i often hurt your feelings with my clawing and digging. 

the light of the moon began to rise through the tiny crack of your cervix. --i lost it. you dilated fast but i still tore through you, protecting my head with an arm raised above it, i marked my eye. i have no memory of which eye i marked. too quick no time to stretch i ripped you from the inside, front to back, jaggedly. 

i don't believe i meant to harm you, just a wild stray. my dad walked in just after i entered the wind world. startling the doctor i lifted my head to howl. i was born with a strong neck. you just asked them to take me into the other room. 

dad took me, he called me moon baby, said my eyes were shaped like moons. i stared. observing silently. you were too exhausted to hold me. i injured not only your body but your feelings in my fight. i did not console you after birth by cuddling or nestling. you wanted comfort, i could not. i did not do this to harm you, just a wild stray. you laid me next to you, eventually i fell asleep after drinking your milk. i whimpered in the dreams of my first sleep in the world of wind.

AFTER FORGIVENESS, WHAT ELSE IS LEFT?

i am struggling right now. in this moment. with the shape of my relationship with my mom, struggling with feeling hopelessly stuck in the inreconcilability of it all. maybe I am in denial, but I do not believe reconciliation is about forgiveness. if we have ever had to forgive someone we are in deep relationship with, we all know that there is more to reconciliation than forgiveness, but i can't seem to map out or figure out by thinking what that 'more' is in regards to my relationship with my mother. 

last night i watched Smoke Signals a movie based off of a screen play by a native writer from spokane named Sherman Alexie. at the close the film a character by the name Thomas Builds-the-Fire quoted this poem:

How do we forgive our fathers?
Maybe in a dream
Do we forgive our fathers for leaving us too often or forever when we were little?

Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage or making us
nervous because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.

Do we forgive our fathers for marrying or not marrying our mothers?
For divorcing or not divorcing our mothers?
And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?

Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning, for shutting doors,
for speaking through walls, or never speaking, or never
being silent?

Do we forgive our fathers in our age or in theirs or in their
deaths, saying it to them or not saying it?
If we forgive our fathers, what else is left?

—Dick Lourie, "Forgiving Our Fathers"

if we forgive--when we have forgave-- and remain in the pattern of that process... what else is left? forgiveness is not about 'moving on' but 'remembering rightly' and 'working towards' transformation. Is that not what it means to repent, to kindly turn and go the other direction, not to continue doing that which one has already repented for? what else is left--what is that other direction, when we remain in relationship with those we forgive and have forgiven us? 

i had an astrology reading today by a new friend named Deeaygo, who has the prettiest of eyes. at the end of a pretty intense session for the both of us, he asked if I had any questions. i asked is there something i could work on? he chuckled and said of course you would ask that seeing how all your planets are internal except for this one that just peaks above the surface. he said, when you think of your mother i want you to work on feeling completely loved by her, because she loves you right, in her own way? as well as write, then go put it in a glass bottle and smash it or send it down a river, but work on sending all the energy somewhere external to you. i was pacing the house when he left feeling on the verge of tears, fidgeting, my mind on repeat -- i need to run. as i was running i was rounding one of the few soft dirt bends of my route and thought to myself, that is a mother fucking koan he left me with and there is no way i am going to be able to think myself into feeling completely loved by my mother. 

be it that transformation has two main modalities those being suffering and contemplation... i remain where i began. in question. though slightly calmer. with no answers. with a practice of envisioning and creating until transformation comes.

yet always impulsive, i called my mom. preparing to talk to brad or her. not completely sure of what to say. but needing to say something. name that these pattens that my mother has asked for forgiveness for need to stop. that they need to turn and kindly go another direction. what happened with rory over thanksgiving has to stop. and that i will continue to not be silent. 

but they did not answer. 

i left a voice mail. 

(class) effect, a theory which is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions, where a small trigger-- of a biochemical reaction pattern, or more superficially, an emotion-- in a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large “abnormal” or “crazy” reaction in a later state and or situation.

today i cried over ketchup

ketchup no long in bottles,

ketchup no longer in plenty

today i cried over ketchup

condiment of poor –

ketchup

i wanted some good clean meat

elk. like what we had growing up in the mountains.

now i find i am losing my appetite and crying over

the class effect of  ketchup

ketchup.

ketchup dressed up in Pearls.

little (fucking) fancy silver

not-too-much (fucking) container

(singular)

ketchup.

earlier, as i drove my friends borrowed car,

i drove in the appearance of money, as i drove through

a neighborhood, traditionally red lined, and was followed by teen eyes

i clinched the shame i felt inside, when they looked through the windshield

i felt their eyes on my internalized class shame call Imposter!

i lowered my eyes, drove on,

only to park at the foot of homeless youths tuppence containers

i wanted to tell you

i tried to tell you

about how i felt about barbara moving in

and i broke down over (fucking) ketchup

how i feel about barbara moving in is

embarrassed—

the-dry-wall-is-cracking. the-trim-ain’t done. the-east-wall ain’t-sided-to-match-the-rest. i-don’t-have-a-shower-curtain. the-back-forty-is-covered-in-moldy-dump-shit. like the way white trash keep it. you-have-to-be-careful-in-the-room-you-move-into-don’t-walk-in-the-NW-corner-you-may-fall-through. the-shower-leaks. the-floor-is-only-held-by-grout. the-back-door-don’t-shut-unless-you-dead-bolt-it. the-front-door-handle-doesn’t-turn. leave-your-door-open-otherwise-heat-won’t-get-in. i eat ketchup…a lot—

embarrassed

but most of all

i feel shame ---

so i duck and turn my head,

lose my appetite for

what  and where i came from,

and cry over ketchup served

in the Pearl District

in a fancy silver not-too-much

ketchup container.

where are the bottles?

we took it – deeper 

then we’ve gone – for a while

i dipped into pockets

created nearly 16 months ago

mustering the bravery required to

cup vulnerability in palms

-- shallow breathing. rapid.

shifting-searching-- contact.

extending, i hand you fistfuls of – me,

the way we experienced pain,

opened tangled fingers of interpretations

i cried everything of

distanced, protected, defeated elements of – me

in you.

as night turn to day in the

memories of our devotion

i told you –passionate love making can be tiring

what i miss the most of our intimacy, our love making

is the feeling just after

the feeling of deep soulful peace, comfort, familiarity,

the feeling i would get as i lay my head on your chest

as i would breath in

                             home.

at this the seas, the seas seemed to--

the seas gathered and fell in assembly

from the cliffs (of cheekbones)

lingering and pooling at lips and dips

saturating shores with the salted holy water of our eyes

humble offerings of our tired redemption

‘nothing is forgotten—‘

Liminality

I feel like I been born again
beginning and ending
opening and closing
each beat. pumping--
life.
(re)birth—

****

In the back forty
there is a tree as old as me
though that’s not sayin’ much
she’s a mere thir-ty three

They came and they conquered
the wild, the uncivilized, the feral

clear cut
slash and burn
heartbreak

striped even the snags
disappeared the birds
barrened the women
hollowed the ground.
(filled it with waste. trash. bodies.)
Shallow graves-- at best --
though most often they just threw
a blanket
flame.
Covered us up with smoke
called it dignified, civilized, and rectified
tamed,
domesticated
animal
no longer dang-erous

What’s left
but ah’ (like a gasp)
high-pitched ringing
of unclaimed past--
ghosts of wing beats

There lies, here remains
the only rise and fall we now know--
a chest    flutter, heart     pounding
pal-Pi-TAtion
(of a nAtions interests.)
anxiety         disssss-connect (in a whisper)

Around these parts you can hear memories
louder than words
the scream, the mutter,
whisper as you walk by
as if    they had voices
voices of their own--

Around these parts children are no longer--
born (of women)
Women gone. Been sterilized.
We haven’t always been a people
deaf, blind and mute--
barren. Indifferent.

Vibrations been ˈhälō-ed

clear cut
slashed and burned
heartbroke

There once was a time you could feel the vibrations
live the vibrations,
replicate-reproduce the vibrations
but today. we only speak, tell stories, ghost tales
in remembrance of--

Homes to stones,         rubble
Forests to snags,        debris
Snags to clear-cut,        empty
Woman to object        broke
hard-to-argue,             forsaken

They called it progress,
the minimization of liability (in a hoity voice)
Merciless,
when they--
they,
we,
I,

clear cut
slash and burn
heartbreak

set the (winged) beings, critters,
them,
us,
me
flesh and blood
to Sisyphus’ fateful flight.

****

There was a time I breathed
only pine needles and pollen
--coated so thick the glass windows
of my heart --left residue
not even newspaper could remove
But now I only breathe your exhaustion
the smog (smoke) covering the clear skies
of your eyes

I’m tired now,
too tired to hate
too tired to (re)create
now I just prophecies
speak, utter says of (re)birth
rumors of being born again

Give me your ear child
and I will give you--
a garland to grace your head
a chain to adorn your neck

Patience child,
and I tell you a truth-saying
in the telling of my tale:

I had to learn

I had to learn
a new rest
a new habitat
in the belly of the beast

I feel like been born again
like I’m stuck in a fucking tunnel
jammed up balled up
my chin shoved into my chest
my head smashed between the bones
of my mothers contracting pelvis
my body contorts—wincing--
i reached up and ripped her open
she gave a mighty shout
god damn it i put her through hell
as i try to find my way
reaching up to the hell blinding light
I didn’t want to hurt you
I wished I was a little more delicate
at the threshold of being born again.....
utterly human and alive

shapeshifting at each
threshold--
in between
the beats.
Betwixt
the day
the night.
Dia-stolic
between 
contraction.

The old world must be left behind
I know you are not sure of the new one yet
but do not rush it child
Do not be afraid child
Remain
in the threshold,
it’s a good space,
get there often
and stay as long as you can
by whatever means possible
for it is here we are born
again and again

there will come ‘crazy times’
times that look nothing like we’re used to
times like just after a loved one’s death
times like just after loves loss
times that are not so clear-cut

Graveyard

I feel like been born again

like I’m stuck in a fucking tunnel

jammed up balled up

my chin shoved into my chest

my head smashed between the bones

of my mothers contracting pelvis

my body contorts—wincing--

i reached up and ripped her open

she gave a mighty shout

god damn it i put her through hell

as i try to find my way

reaching up to the hell blinding light

I didn’t want to hurt you
I wish I was a little more delicate

Waiting to be born again..... 

you asked how i was feeling

... in short 

like i been born again 

blood, piss, and shit

utterly human and alive

Stray

Stray
This is not a premonition 
this is the way it is 
and the way it is, is the way not
the way contrary 
This is not a manifesto
but an obit
of you in me
I’ve never been so high
This is not an apology or an apotithenai
it just the bitters,
the roots,  the pedals, 
soothing my hearts spasm
This is not me reminiscing or me hypothetical-izing
it is just the sediment of a bottle wine
at the bottom of a glass bottom of the barrel 
the ashes of cigarette butts
This is not a dialogue 
this is a four-paged flower stationary dismissal 
of a ten-page blood, sweat, tears 
of three new moons 
This is not me crying on Sundays
this me weeping, whimpering in my dreams
trying to figure out what this bright light is 
at the end of this tunnel I’ve effaced
This is not the kindness of my nature
I’ve left bruises on my orbits
raising fist while putting you through hell
hurting your feelings
This is not me
a waif
a foundling
just a stray.