In Which We All Grow

What I have is in the midst of the waves,
a ray of water, a day for myself,
an iron depth.
…

— Pablo Neruda, Waltz

In Which I Come to be Danced

We have come to be danced

by Jewel Mathieson
We have come to be danced
Not the pretty dance 
Not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance 
But the claw our way back into the belly
Of the sacred, sensual animal dance
The unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance
The holding the precious moment in the palms
Of our hands and feet dance.

We have come to be danced
Not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance
But the wring the sadness from our skin dance
The blow the chip off our shoulder dance.
The slap the apology from our posture dance.

We have come to be danced
Not the monkey see, monkey do dance
One two dance like you
One two three, dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
Tearing scabs and scars open dance
The rub the rhythm raw against our soul dance.

We have come to be danced
Not the nice, invisible, self-conscious shuffle
But the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
Shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
The strip us from our casings, return our wings
Sharpen our claws and tongues dance
The shed dead cells and slip into
The luminous skin of love dance.

We have come to be danced
Not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
But the meeting of the trinity, the body breath and beat dance
The shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
The mother may I?
Yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance
The olly olly oxen free free free dance
The everyone can come to our heaven dance.

We have come to be danced
Where the kingdom’s collide
In the cathedral of flesh
To burn back into the light
To unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
To root in skin sanctuary
We have come to be danced

In Which I Give Myself Advice

Dear Self:

Not sure if this is the original source, but:  The Gossip Heap

You often give good advice.  Maybe, just maybe, you should follow your own advice.

Sincerely,

Me.

In Which My Mind, It is Boggled

Dear World:

You never cease to amaze me.

Sincerely,

Me.

Sunken Forest of Lake Kaindy

In Which I Continue to Feel Like the World is About to Get Kicked Out From Underneath Me

In Which I May Divulge Too Much Information

Dear Body:

You bled all last week.  It was annoying, but it is what it is and I acknowledge that you still believe you are performing a valuable function. 

So. 
Last week.
Bleeding. 
Check.

This week, however, you not only continued to bleed, but you've added in cramps and clotting.  Are you bored?  Do you not believe that I know you are there?  Is any attention good attention?  Or are you just very confused?  Did you forget about the cramping and clotting at the beginning/middle and are racing to add it in?  Or are you starting over again with no break between?

Also, for the last two days, the amount of blood/clotty bits coming out of me is starting to become concerning.  So if you could address that leak sooner rather than later, I would appreciate it.

Sincerely,

Me.

In Which I Can Hear the Sound in a Silent Picture

In Which I Don't Actually Wallow but I Seriously Consider It

Dear World:

I feel like I've been on the edge of a panic attack for about a week now.  Nothing concrete, nothing solid, nothing I can say "you, yes you, stop freaking me out!"  Just this rising sense of dread.

So, I'd like that to go away, but I don't even know what is causing that and it's just been making me feel cranky and yucky and like any second it is going to become hard to breathe.

So.
Yay.

Sincerely,

Me.

In Which I Acknowledge my Lust Affair with Words

"I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you. I want to ride in the swing of your hips. My fingers will dig in you like quotation marks, blazing your limbs into parts of speech."

-  Jeffrey McDaniel 

Dear World:

You break me apart, most days.

Sincerely,

Me.  

In Which I Embrace my Foul-Mouthed Tendencies

In Which I Admit to Some New Favorite Words II

"Every moment is a poem if you hold it right."

- Lauren Zuniga

In Which I Admit to Some New Favorite Words I

Buddy Wakefield - In Landscape

There is a chance
you will show up laughing
made of fortified fan blades and Ferris wheel lights
true of heart and best foot forward
our long-awaited love made easy,
remember for sure no doubt these things:

The joy,
we are a point of complete.
This life,
standing guard over your solitude.
My eyes
are monsters for most things approaching.
I’m probably gonna need a hand with that.
This heart.
This sleeve.
Neither one of them things is all that clean.
But the rain,
my lucky number,
been doin’ her part to make things right

for the light bulbs
and the bruises.
Hiding holy water was not my forte this life.
Forte
is French
for blanket fort.
I have trusted my corners to revolving doors
but am fluent in getting better.
We are fluent in bouncing back,
lifting quickly,
learning fast.

Our courage
is a natural habitat.
Ya know we’re gonna build a body to keep the wolves out.
Hold my house
you humble barbarian,
this door only opens for the remarkable now.

So we will both show up remarkable.
Speak your piece from the I can do anything.
Say it clearly.
Follow through

on runways,
in turbulence.
There is a book
living inside your chest
with dilated instructions
on how to make a safe landing.
It was written
for crash landers.
Thank you.
I am coming home to listen.

It is time.

Please
forgive me my distractions.
There’s a freckle on your lip.
It is a national archive.
Give it to my ear
so you can see what I mean.
Here hold my breath
I will be right back.

There are gifts
hidden beneath these lungs.
Slide your hand over my mouth
and I will speak them
in hang glider,
in hilltop,
from the loyalty of a landscape,
silk in a sandpaper offering plate,
the jacket on a handsome man.
That lip
Sweet Grape, you cannibal,
kiss my eyes
until they see what it is that I wish to write down:

Your name.

Film strips of prayer.
Ribbons of a garden in stereo.
Driftwood welded to the guesthouse.
Ringfinger wrapped in a horseshoe nail.
I will meet you by the eighth day dream
in the wide open purpose of a locomotive coming
to a stand still with the sea,
like thumb

on pulse

you watch

what happens

when the air

erupts

into suction cups
opening up to breathe,
like the love in my lungs
took the tip of my tongue
and finally taught it how to read,
you five-acre ladder-backed pearl book pouring
from a pileated chest of Earth.
I know our story may look like octopus ink
to the rest of the breath in this world
(flying in under the radar
holding to a pattern of worth).
Come closer you guest of honor.
Chickens stay off the porch

in quiet,
in kindly.
We are the house gift-wrapped in welcome mats.
Your dinner’s on the table in thanks of that
and the loaves of chocolate toast,
the Book of Job and of Jet Propulsion,
raincoats floating in a rocket ship,
playing naked checkers in bed.
It is an utterly epic arrival
every time I get to see you again.

God, this is what I was talking about
for like 37 years,
a true story,
of oceanthroat,
of grace,
the holy goodness glory
I was praying to your face,
My Man,
this is what I meant
and this is what I’m meant to do
so sit me down inside us now
and let me praise the greatest good in you
by laying down my weapons
including the shield,
in rest,
inception,

on cue, my friend,
you came
your name
well lit,
stenciled on the walls of Fremont County
years before we even met
in landscape,
in scope
and so,
wing tipped,
I wrote it
down to the ground you walk on
with the heels of my helium shoes,
“Put your ear to the sky
and listen my darling,
everything whispers I love you.”

In Which I Admit Some of My Favorite Words I

source:  I believe this might be a wallpaper for Nokia?

"I will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers. I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air, alive, with closed eyes."

E.E. Cummings

In Which I Reveal Part of My Heart

Dear Bear:

Sincerely,

Me.

In Which I Indulge in the Greatest of Breads

Dear Shortbread:

How could I not have known how dead easy you were to make?  How could I have gone so veryvery long thinking I had to fork out way-too-damn-much-money in order to enjoy you, which always left you tinged with guilt?

Today I discovered that, with three ingredients and a very little patience, I could have you, guilt-free.

Truly, this is a beautiful thing.

Sincerely,

Me.

Recipe

In Which I Find Joy in a Photo

In Which I am Not Sure of the Source

(Not sure of the source.)

In Which I Relapse (Slightly)

Dear Crippling Self-Doubt:

It's been so long since you've really made an appearance that I'd forgotten how debilitating you are.  I think I'll just sit here quietly and hope you get bored and leave.

Sincerely,

Me.