Shavasana

Shavasana

what i know of man bodies of my own

body could fit in a small bone bowl

what i know is salt: blood sweat tears semen this pillar

is all i am at times at all times i am

waiting on rain to come wear down wash away

the lot of me  

my body is told to me to be

a hard stance of legs wide as shoulders arms

over chest & broad back & flexed hips only never the soft

mystery crying out folding unfolding in secret

never the soft prostrate position

of the dead the prone position of a laid-out body

drenched in its own exertion and breath slowly slowing

alive among many other bodies who know

little of themselves less of any other body

but salt

on the skin collecting in the corner of the eye

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The antidote.

The antidote.

this is the antidote. calm-talk. deep-breath. collarbone taptaptap. these ancient rapid-fire parts of me, myelinated slick and screaming bloody murder & fire in the theater in one breath need to ease it on down, baby. gaba it up. gobble it down. boggle a while, you know? pick up the brush. slap some paint on a canvas. don’t worry will it work. soothe to the sound of the brush. that one bright line just right, words spilled out, made flesh or nearly, the hand coming suddenly visible. that’s what we’re lurking here in the shadows for, hunt and peck, bags over our shoulders, noses to the ground. it’ll come we’re confident, even when we’re not. in those moments the breath becomes a second beast, moving in and out, stalking with us. spring-loaded with sleek muscle. lovely. waiting. patient. ready.

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At the Women’s March, Seattle

At the Women’s March, Seattle

You see us in the streets and say ‘political games’. We protest
because our bodies tell us to move. We are working out
something far deeper than regime change. We are exorcising
trauma’s insidious grip. We put one foot in front of the other,
side by side, to announce we are alive, our bodies are
good, our minds are our own. We march to survive.

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Blackstar

Blackstar

They, whoever they are, tacked on
One final second to the end
Of the year. Hateful 2016 skips

Death for one more beat, unlike
Prince, Leia, thousands of rebels
And Syrian civilians, Bowie,

Black men, gay men, hispanic
Gay men, trans-men and women,
Women, water, the democratic process

And any sense of dignity. Lucky
Bastard. I–and I’m certain I’m not
Alone–want to get rowdy drunk

(As is the American way) and break
Down sobbing at what’s passed and
What fearful unknown is to come. But

I won’t. And you? Don’t. Instead
Grab that extra fucking second
We’ve been forced through

By the powers that be that have no
Power to speak of, and live out the year
In full-throated knowing what is

Is now. Be loud about the year that took
so much. Be louder about the hopeful
who-knows? wildness of what’s next.

Press right up against the false edge
Of time, every nerve ending you
are tingling, as one we all contract

into a massive blackstar, screaming
For everything we’re worth, streaming
Full of light into the new.

That final second, overwhelmed
By such bright resolve, expends one last
breath and then explodes.

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longing

longing

i come upon the white flower

in the green field and stop

not now having to do anything

more than this.

the flower is present to

all that is: wind, the soft peel

of the sun, the grass.

and so i am in this moment

the soft green slip

of stalk, the white crown

and pale center

of everything. i am the flower all

the way to my roots.

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eldertree

eldertree

outside my side door
next to the stoop
is one last red
leaf on an upper branch

the others have gone

i thank her
each morning
for the bright reminder

not all is lost
at once
but stays vibrant
a little longer

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‘the morning after’

‘the morning after’

the morning after, bleary eyed

and tasting bitter, pondering the dream

that seemed so real there it was

in the kitchen. the brick. glass shards

like spilled salt. the christmas cactus

broken in the sink. a cool breeze

carrying the smell of rain. hand-sewn curtains

hung up on jagged edges. thick, old

and crumbling, pulled from under a tarp

in a backyard or a construction site

or dug up in the dark, an unsuspecting patio now

a mangled, muddy checkerboard.

reddish, a little chalky. good heft. imagine

the arc it might make in the rain. the library,

the QFC, Kay’s corner bar, the Papa John’s

and hardware store all made of the same.

brick on brick. now here in the kitchen.

blankly staring back. in the middle of the fever

dream were many muted voices. desperate cries for

help not quite discernible. as if in a locked room

or in the middle of a river or just under the rush

of a passing semi. a dream within a dream.

and now the brick. and the sounds outside

coming clearer.

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Deplora-bowl Conversations

tacoI couldn’t sleep last night (again). I was thinking about what it will be like for so many families and friends over the holidays, the awkward negotiating, what to say/not say. How to come together when there’s so much to divide us.

And so I made a thing in the middle of the night. It’s called Deplora-bowl Conversations..

It’s not politically charged or even all that original, and it has kind of a dumb name, but I offer it here because I couldn’t not.

Download it, share it, adapt it, use it.

We need to start talking to each other again. Here’s one way we might start.

 

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