Good Morning

Musical recalibration, the same deep water
But a new lease on it

I knelt to my knees to worship you
and took the same deep breath, again

And I was much of what I was
When I was young

And my kiss became my own, again
Mine and mine alone

Johnny Come Lately

Tell me please, when does this get old?  Rescuing me like this.  Showing up when least expected and having just the right thing to say, just the right mix of emotion and distance.  I looked between the mattress and the floor and I faced my fears unaided.  But in my weakness now, I allow the outside aide, acquiesce to your version of me.  When do I not just open up like a naive flower each time that magick dust of memory and muse is scattered in the air above me? 

Regret won't find me until tomorrow.  For now at least, I am safe from him.

Third Eye

The dream came true. I listen to her song, and
Her voice is my soul in mid air.
Honey I’ve gone away. I’ve gone away.

I should be ashamed of myself for this reverie.

But I just want to sit here and love to hate you.
To remember how your mouth tasted when it mingled with mine.
Those weren’t kisses. They were life itself.
They were oxygen and blood all together in fascinating motion.
They were energy with form and function.

It’s as if we should’ve celebrated the ability to achieve
Such human perfection, to preserve it wholly and to keep it sacred.
That was no ordinary place where we found ourselves,
And from where we fell so hard.
But, it’s gone and no one else knows the way there.

Your silence punishes me, and yet it gives me healing time.
How unfair and yet how wonderful that I could see
What was to be our reality even as it was forming

Rubber-banded into the future to foresee such awful place.
Perhaps the powers that be wanted me to know
That I really didn’t know hell, even though I accused them of leaving me there.

So be it.

My apologies are made, my amends restored.
You have no quarrel with me that you do not invent.
And it is so like you to invent such things.
It cures the boredom, I know. It stops the endlessness,
At least for a moment and gives you an anchor to the here and now.

Otherwise, like a kite, you’d be floating off into outer space,
You would forget even your own language if your mouth were closed too long.
You would enjoy watching us from afar. Remembering with me.
You would recall the half- sunken ship outside our window
And how we knew that to be an omen, but how we pressed on.

You would remember the spiritual prostitute who took pity on you.
You would again say my name with affection,

if you were certain that I couldn’t hear you. In that I would find peace.

Missed opportunities are like old woolen blankets.  We wallow around in them because they are well worn, well known and they even smell like us.  They feel familiar and safe, those things that we hold against ourselves the longest - scratchy on the surface, but always the right temperature for self indulgence.   Just perfect for that false sense of security.

Slow Gin

Slow gin
Water down
the memory
Remember

Fit the pieces
two today
One tomorrow
Slow years

Hold the hand
that held you
Listen with
Deaf ears

Slow heal
Water down
the lies
Rationalize

Slow tears
bring
a slow city smile.

Journal Entry: March 14 (year unknown)

Night falls.  I struggle to remain in focus as the dark sheet threatens to enfold me.  I let my mind wander and see the darkest silver luxuries I stand without all around me.  Those are the memories we haven't made.  You.  I want what I need.  I seek to end the starvation.  I play only at night now and never not alone.  My spine still tingles when your name rings and my heart beats hard as I dial.  Let me go or come back and never leave.  I don't remember what hurt so bad, or why it was so easy to forget.  What I know is that I'm starving for you, like food, only smoother.  I guess you'd throw away my letters, you'd ignore my calls.  And all I do is make you run?  Do you or don't you?  I'm starting to think not anymore.  Will you come to your senses?  Is it possible to have real love and then have it yanked away?  No.  Because if this were real, you would not be so good at leaving...

Rain

I feel the rain


Shining on my neck

Shimmering on my breasts

Wetting my hair

Clinging cool

Sultry

I hear the rain

Delicate poundings

Puddles with patterns

Rattling the panes

I know the rain

It echoes from your ears

To mine

From miles away

Sweet, unexpected rain

Yatahey

Your absence weighs heavy on my heart, thought I had mastered it's avoidance.  I miss our talks, the companionship.  The reality that you are gone settles in like a heavy fog.  It is not unlike the Seattle Mist, shrouding the mountains I never climbed.  Will anyone ever know me as you did?  Will anyone ever try?

Journal Entry: 7-10 Sept 1997

Today another funeral.  Sunday at Jackson Square, a few ashes scattered.  The bone hard reality of our source and matter graphically understood.  Thunderbird calls to mind.  Dressed like a tourist, little white cotton tennis shoes and white ankle socks.  Heart as black as night, and determined to complete my silent task in broad daylight.  No one the wiser.

Wednesday at the beach, words and tabacco to Wakan Tanka, in honor.  Sandpiper, Crane, Dragonfly, Spirit Visitors and Silas all in attendance.  I knew this would be the roster, the place.  The time was unclear, but the rhythm was right.  Chant and peace smoke as offerings and a quiet goodbye...

He said Te Amo for you, but I heard you in my heart.  He did not know that you spoke through him.  And I will never ever tell him so.