attempts at art & honesty
one thing I have quickly
come to know
nothing kills you slower
than letting someone go
grateful for the floor
that holds me
in a time like this
grateful for the woods
the man with steady hands
grateful for the brush
the pen, the words written and played
into ears as i wait
i will wait so desperately
fuck.
// thanks zach bryan
When I faced you
daughter to father, in the kitchen
I felt taller than you
just like I did as a teen
when I lept for you down the stairwell
and when I threw my hands
around your neck, near the pear tree.
I never meant to hurt you
Even though, I did.
As the years have passed
and the strength within us both
has diminished, my anger has turned
to sorrow, not so much for my actions
but for the giant pain in this life
that seems to have left
no other way, but to anger, and defend.
Bing Crosby plays in my ears
as your low voice resounds against the walls
at Christmas, and on Sunday afternoons
trying their best
to absorb whatever joy they could.
Your hair is so much lighter now,
your large body more round, less firm.
I watched you slice tiny shrimp into pieces
at the third birthday luncheon for my son.
I know you’re afraid, and I wish you weren’t
so fearful of the death we all know is coming.
Your own father dying as he choked
on some trivial piece of food from a recliner
in his living room, his wife and son bearing witness
fighting against the truth of that moment.
Why must we always push back at
reality that is before us? Me, you, all of us
in struggle against the harsh reality
we see.
I stayed in bed all of today, save
four walks to the kitchen, the same
number of front door openings
so my yellow dog with a hard chest
could pee on sparkling snow, light blue
reflecting the Saturday sky of January.
I felt a fever, which made me scared not
in fear of this virus I’m told to be afraid
of, but of passing on a job interview, a
role I know I’ll get, and will accept, and for which
I will adjust my life accordingly.
I didn’t want to fuck it up, from
sickness, no I’d rather make that happen
by choice. I practiced pitches, the sales funnel steps and learned about aluminum trailers. Hours spent understanding trailers. Done, and still will there be
time for writing, for spreading blue
on white canvas, the feel of wonder
on my fingertips as they glide in
wet paint, creating something from
nothing. The not knowing feels the best, and yet
here I am, with wrinkles
a hairline moving back, an inch past
where Snapchat filters place
the hairline on my head. My scalp
hurts. Years of indecision hidden
under play, curious in deserts, dawdles
on Fridays in the forest and tuesdays
on airplanes. Who but I to set
my schedule, and still, a child played
with gray blue sand and flimsy clear
volcano molds on the table next to
me, behind the computer as I decided
not to let me be so unsure any longer.
From this bed today I practiced
elevator pitches, the fire in my pelvis
cooling with the minutes that pass. I
questioned to the doctor if his drugs
could be to blame. I wished never
to decide my steps from head and not
from heart, and yet I saw him sitting
there, tiny rocks falling from chubby
little hands, water falling on my face
“Don’t cry like that mommy” as my chin
dimpled in. “Mama’s trying to make it better,
little man” amongst the papers and
the mess I created ‘round myself, to
shield us from monotony that is
surely just ahead, when I clear
the mess I created ‘round myself, in
spreading blue on white canvas,
the feel of wonder on my fingertips
as they glide in wet paint,
creating something from nothing.
Her speckled tan banana bread
is dense, losing moisture, and tastes
of saran just a tad within my mouthful of
home. My mother always made two tins
of the simple cozy cake from a bunch of
rotting yellow fruit our family did not
eat. She still does. Two weeks ago she
wrapped a loaf within layers of plastic and
left it on my counter next to mail from
DHS needing my attention and bottles of
coriander, turmeric, cumin and black pepper,
a clay pot of pink salt which I use
to add flavor to my food. She knows not to
mention them or ask or stay much longer in
my house these days. She must protect
herself and the way she wants to be. So do
I, now seeing bitterness in a jar and a
warm slice of her on a plate with its gold
flowers and golden brown cracked crust.
I took the time to butter bread this morning.
a new old light in my smile
why
was it the kiss of the man I was meant to
be with
who I kissed almost first, and who I’d love to
kiss last
the strangeness in our mouths, a welcome home to
our bodies
perhaps it’s when we stop performing proving and decide
on settling
into the sweetness of a human life, without pushing back at who
we were
all along he was him leaning into life his way, and still there is so much
I don’t know
and there was I was, over there, and there, and there, and here, and there, never
stopping long
and maybe now I hear a gentle letting go in knowing not all this life can or should be lived in
this moment
it’s perfect to accept what is, what isn’t, what comes, and what must go because not every little thing
can be
what would I sacrifice, asked the wanderer to me, for the chance to let love be sewn onto my soul for a long while
everything
I know as I let it rest, which isn’t really rest at all because in this mind and life of no casual affair at all, I cannot let it rest when
it must be
I know that my heart my body and my spirit longs for a long adventure into quiet expectations giving and receiving for once without demand
lay with me
a while upon this frozen earth under those red oaks and beech holding onto leaves beside a small hemlock poking through the pines near the flowing river
and let us see
what comes in this life wherein we’ve circled round each other time and time and time again never ever saying goodbye with fire in our eyes and anger in our bones
because love is
and kindness comes and comes, continues to come and ravage my soul as it always does yours and fingernails on flesh and mouths on necks and breasts in your hands and mine
being held by you
is the most
exciting
thing
I
know
as the sticks of crabmeat
slippery from themselves and the water
I rinsed them with in a swirl
slipped across the plate, one landed
all by itself on the center metal ridge of
the steel two-basin sink.
there it was, a shaft off pollock and
egg whites, dressed as king crab
wet and floppy near a spongey yellow towel
I chuckled, the joy in this moment profound
all of life being so silly
and just fine exactly as it is
clarity dressed in leg-style meat
that i will heat in a small pan on an
inexpensive gas stove in a house i do not own
a better choice than the microwave, but if
I’m being honest, I don’t really care much
how my food is heated at the moment.
I’m just so glad
I laughed, and that I will eat it
with a toddler son at my side, who won’t
and we will laugh
about slippery meat and
slippery spaghetti and
slippery white mushrooms and
how damn slippery our lives together thus far
have been
and I am so happy to hear my chuckle
and his
the moderator wears braces
i imagine these are new, a covid offering
now you can hide your metal smile
behind the mask, closed doors
time to rebuild your face
what a shame story
the music of an orientation video
begins, i start to cry, pause
my video, can’t show others
the soapbox i once stood on
now here i am, grounded
therapy is going well, we all agree
I smoked twice today though, also true
finished off my self-medicating stash
with a dance party to The Weeknd balanced
iPad recorded my efforts. head nod.
two therapists, two paradigms of
healing, and my own acknowledging
an intellectual mind loves to spar
with like minds, developing beings playing
nice to pay the bills. head nod.
I’m paying nothing either, save the
stories I may tell of this to them
they always want the juice, don’t they
I, too, offer a hefty pour of pain, pussy
struggles, parents, pay the bills. head nod.
one says to dance it out, collagen
for a leaky gut. note that its his karma, to deal
with you. the other smiles more kindly
his own elephant still in some bits,
outside. sit with it, he says. head nod.
neither men take the whole truth, nor dozens
who I paid before, yet they swallow some
mixed, shaken, and ground up and taken
sipped on slowly, chewed with a note
in the margin, time ticks on. head nod.
see you friday on zoom? head nod.
Surround me with stone and city
society, structure of man —
I’ll still find my way.
To rock and water, earth and trees,
mossy meadows, sand —
home to bugs, birds, me.
the purpose is experience what it is, is
self-realization, enlightenment, removal of the veil
who decided we needed this, light beings being
god asks, do you trust me?
humans in a mad mad world without rhyme in reason
searching and seeing while others do not care to look
how miraculous it may seem to not wear spectacles
envy not the sleeping sheep with their white fluffy wool
if you choose not to look, how could you see?
they’ll be back again, trust
here’s the secret, searcher (you already know it)
do the things that bring you joy, set me on fire
your passions are also mine
let go of knowing how. mind runs wild
confusion if you choose it, choosing to
cling to itself, not the self, fear
a dozen hands touched me, a being within being
bamboo, heaven on earth is here, on earth
god asked, do you trust me?
eight years cycles round, i honor conviction
oil on my face, lust for freedom in the heart
god asks, do you trust me?
i surrender, let us dance
god says we’ve work to do
enjoy a morning with me breathing
while our world is turning still
see here …exhale… light
there is movement in the wind
silence in the stillest places
and even smaller still, wisdom
in the rocks below, and in you
my friend, in you
i hurry rushing flushing bluster of nerves
i pause from stacking the tank tops on the shelf
behind the door of knotty pine, that slides, a bit rough on its track
stop
what am i doing? for whom and i changing what just was? who am i trying to be?
my healing vacation of quasi-awakening in traumatic shifts of the self
coming to a close. they’re already in the car. my mother driving him
home to me, his mother
an artist when he is away
i slide empty canvases and masterpieces just the same
inside a brown paper box awaiting life, when she comes again
since becoming a mother, i have been trying to find my other mother way
but no. i have to make my own way of mothering, because
i am terrified of the other mothering
the one without unconditional love offering freedom to be creative
somehow there has to be space
for art in momming
it now is who-i-aming, so expand i must in my mothering
i choose to make space for the artist, the child in a home
without freedom to create, to be seen in her brightness and her glory
to the sweetness within my mothering
i offer kindness to you, who will not be understood
some of us cannot hold space for
no art in our hearts, lest not in our eyes
of the children artisting in our homes
is that what you’re wearing? (she asks)
yes, mom
–
edited:
i hurry rushing flushing bluster of nerves
pause from stacking painted tank top, black sweatshirt on a shelf
that sits behind a heavy splintered door made of knotty pine
which doesn’t slide any longer, broken now and laying rough within its metal creaking track
stop
what am i doing? for whom am i putting all this away? who am i trying to be?
my healing vacation of quasi-awakening, traumatic shifts of the self
coming to a close. they’re already in the car. my mother driving him
home, to his mothering
artist when he is away
i slide empty canvases and dried lumpy creations from core
inside a brown paper box awaiting life, when she comes again
since becoming a mother, i have been trying to find another mother way
which, it doesn’t work it hurts more than helps, i know it cannot be true, because
i am terrified of the other mothering
she doesn’t have unconditional love, or give freedom to be creating
somehow there has to be space for me, the artst in me, within all of my mothering
it is who-i-aming, so i must be expanding
i choose to make space hold space offer grace for the child in this home
full of life in her space in all she creates her brightness and her glory
and to sweet attempts and perfect failings within all of our untrue mothering
i offer kindness to you, who won’t be understood
some cannot hold space for
art in our hearts, lest not in the eyes
of children within our homes
stop, is that what you’re wearing?
yes, mom
i don’t know where to put it, or him
this is his space, too, and i need to be respectful
not everyone should see the sulking frothing form of woman, bleeding
on walls and screens, on her face, smell of cannabis and tulsi smoke and death, asking
art asks
to be seen
so then how to do it
to cut the skin and drip it out
while also being a mother, a lover, a friend
this is his space, too, and i need to be respectful
not everyone needs to look at the choking chastised woman, without a bra
in her home just walking waltzing doing freedom flying birth and life, just asking
art asks
to be seen
so then let her be in art
create space on the inner side
grow rise never contract in the face of fear
new ways of thinking are required if we are to expand
not everyone need know language of the beings being without name or reason
cosmic worlds can speak in silent colors rhythms rhyme and guttural sounds, just asking
art asks
to be seen
i do know where to put it, or her
because this is my space, too, and i need to be respectful
soft, the marvel of love, too soft
but hard is the copybook of reason
if I may have one for my body
it should be a soft lover, one willing to
rub rub rub the soles of my feet
couldn’t have a life of hard scraping tries from a man who
doesn’t know quite how to love a woman
but better yet, a man of both
a lover of rhyme and reason
i’ll rub my own, he’ll build me a home
using feathers, warm wax, and gloves
to soften the blows of his natural way
of love
yes, i’m in, my love
–
(hafiz)
oh thou who are trying to learn
the marvel of love
through the copybook of reason
i am very much afraid
you will never see the point
you hook me with your tip
as i’m driven under you and inside
madness, taxi, tuk tuks, Delhi
you do not hide
from faces of women in dupattas, men in turbans, cows dawdling
dead on the roadside
look into me, you sexy crescent moon
low, gazing wildy, heart and hara, hot and pricked
just above sugarcane fields forever
are you waxing, are you waning? will you fade or light me up?
i’ll worship and adore you, you sexy crescent moon
feed me, guide me, suck me up
i lie on my side, see you resting, glowing, offering sight to me
bronze face tilts to the heavens, round pout
we’re purple in our humanness
beloved effortlessly seduces his lover, who loves to give herself to him
…cosmic and only time will tell…
i rise in your darkness, offer you my light
round and round and round and round
you sexy crescent moon
–
first night in india, taxi delhi to rishikesh // march 2014, refurb november 2020
india’s evenings remember
hold the heat on copper, above a saffron glow
emerald trees witness from mango gardens
blue skies now gray behind cooking smoke and haze
aarthi melodies cricket bat crack crack cracks
chatting and chirping away like birds at young souls
delights for wandering ears and eyes
quick to claim understanding, a purpose
intention care systems for saving the way
their way, of love
their way, of love
mother’s crimson mark
tika on foreheads in hair parts on
sakti hands on palace steps
reminders of legacy for some, for now
–
[ g r e e n ] 