15 Days of Writing Prompts, Day 6 ~ Morning

Thanks for joining me again for 15 Days of Writing Prompts from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones. Today’s prompt is especially accessible to everyone, give it a try!

“Give me your morning. Breakfast, waking up, walking to the bus stop. Be as specific as possible. Slow down in your mind and go over the details of your morning.”

Oooh this should be a good one, enjoy! ~ ❤ wren

Day 5: a place of health, ease & rest

There is bright sun. It is morning sun in the summer. I have arrived to the platform just in time. The platform at the nearby nature preserve, the platform that sits in the middle of the wild field. There is a mowed pathway to the wooden platform. The path is full of black eyed susans, lavender bee balm, young poplars, raspberries and, as I make my way, a red tailed hawk soars across the field near the adjoining tree line. I’ve brought my journal, a book, a yoga mat and my hat. I’ve put my sun screen on and I have an extra shirt.

It is very breezy out in the middle of this field above the plants on the platform. The sun shines through the surrounding forest creating the most lovely orange glow. Being in this space allows me to feel easily thankful and I breathe deeply as I do upward & downward dog, bend over and touch my toes and reeeeach! for the sky. I practice yogic breathing exercises and expel all the stagnant air in my body. I remember many things as I do these exercises and I am again amazed at the shifting realities of consciousness – how a change in setting, posture, stretches and deep and slow or shallow and rhythmic breathing can change thoughts, perceptions and feelings- in a term, they can change reality. The air is so fresh and I’m able to deeeeeply take it in after the breathing exercises. I feel renewed, as if I am a new person with new thoughts, a more flexible body, surround and filled by a lightness without and within.

I feel the soft yet hot morning sun glaze over my skin. I adjust my pose so my face isn’t directly in it and I continue breathing and stretching until I lay on my mat for some deep relaxation, to feel how my body has changed after all of the stretches and breathing. As I lay there in silence, the birdsong plays in my ears, along with the rustling of the cottonwood tree’s leaves. The field is a place of much activity and yet, unlike a busy city, it imparts a sense of peace. A playful rejuvenation.  This field is a tonic and I give thanks again that such places exist in the midst of cities and towns, sometimes, as in the case of this one, right off the edge of the highway.

prompt: “Write in different places – for example, in a laundromat, and pick up on the rhythm of the washing machines. Write at bus stops, in cafes. Write what is going on around you.”


Day 2: paper mache gorilla hand memories

From 15 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 2 ~ Memories

2. Begin with “I remember.” Write lots of small memories. If you fall into one large memory, write that. Just keep going. Don’t be concerned if the memory happened five seconds ago or five years ago. Everything that isn’t this moment is memory coming alive again as you write. If you get stuck, just repeat the phrase “I remember” again and keep going. (from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones)

I remember… playing in the San Diego zoo as a kid. I was most amazed by the gorillas. The big silverback gorillas that sat in the grassy hill in the San Diego zoo. We were far away from them and there was a stream beyond the wall that closed us off from the gorillas. But I could see that they were huge, even from afar. This inspired awe in me. They were so big & powerful. In third grade, we had to pick an animal and do a project on it, composed of a poster with information and a “visual”. For my visual I made a life-size paper mache gorilla hand.

Last week I went to that same store that I went to to get the supplies for that project. When I walked in, I immediately felt some of the same feelings that I had felt as my small child self. I tingled in amazement as I saw all of the tools for creating. There were paints & chalks, tons of paper of all sizes to draw on, little nick knacks here and there. It is still the magical place I remember as a child.

Recently I was living in the appalachian mountains. Of course I brought my paints with me. These are acrylic paints that I bought myself last year when I was traveling through Seattle. My friend Christina drove me to the paint store for my birthday. I scoured the isles looking for the perfect medium to start my painting with. Romantically, I was hooked on the oils, as I was attracted to their essence, their history, their smooth colorful finish. The clerk there talked me out of it though. If you want to paint while traveling, he said, you’ll want to use acrylics. This destroyed me a little inside & I argued with him a bit just to make sure his point had validity. You see, I was heading to Peru soon and I wanted to “paint things as I went”- chairs, stones, table legs, signs & billboards, you name it. I have a knack for travel-painting, painting things that exist in their place and that will exist after I leave them. I like to make shapes & designs, splash colors all over the world.

So I bought acrylics, after the advice of the man in that store in Seattle. I painted wood pieces I also bought at the store that day. I painted an anniversary portrait of my friend who drove me to the store that day and her husband. I got a white vest from goodwill and I painted that while I was traveling around the city. I later left it in a bag with other clothes at a church, hoping someone would find it with glee. I didn’t take the paints with me to Peru (we already had so much stuff and we were back packing so I didn’t think an extra 8 lbs would be good!), but I did take them to the recent homesteading experiment in the appalachians.

The memory that sticks out now is painting the wooden blocks we found underneath our shacks. We lived at a homestead that had a ton of wood stashed all over the place. Some under big blue tarps, others underneath the foundation of the barn, the shack, the chicken coop. I took the little pieces that couldn’t be used for much else and that didn’t have mold, fungus or too much wear on them, and started painting. We were living off-the-grid, so, when painting in the evenings, I had to paint by kerosene-lamp light. I painted rainbows in shades of pink. Lines and colors of my choosing. Goddess symbols. And more. I like painting on random pieces of wood and on unusual canvases.

When I squatted at my lovely friend’s backyard in California last year, I made a thing we called the bedwomb. This is one of my favorite memories. I made a teardrop relief out of earthen plaster and painted it with chalks and such. The whole wall. It was an amazing time. From a kid to now, I am still letting my child self make art into the present. Here’s a picture of the womb… a space I love & cherish in my soul:

womb relief

womb at night

in the garden of freely written weeds

thanks for the inspiration, daily post 🙂

“Today is a free writing day. Write at least four-hundred words, and once you start typing, don’t stop. No self-editing, no trash-talking, and no second guessing: just go. Bonus points if you tackle an idea you’ve been playing with but think is too silly to post about.”

good thing i started this this morning in my usual pre-writing warm-up of writing whatever the fuck wants to come out!

Good, she slipped in past the gates. The guards were enamored by her shiny plaits, not even realizing what slips under their gaze. Superficial sally subterfuges willy wonky heart spirals. Tombstone groomstone hello moonstone. Sapphire giraffe fire hello backfire . hello goodbye rye stye eye fly. Hello good morn jello mold uncle horn. Jello mold uncle horn reborn true form hello goodbye 4 3 8 stye one time fly by fire fly fire fly uncle jump yellow trunk hay bale dry spell uncle wren hi then queen lace dread face xylophone instigate yellow jacket I elate relate uncle hay bale dale frail ol mail female red grail holy snail junk pail sex fire 4 trie quail egg remake 7 8 2 1 sally subterfuge has won.

okay okay okay, so the idea i want to write about is actually spoken of in this daily prompt in the words, “the rational mind doesn’t nourish you.”

when i say, slipping past the guards/gates, that is exactly what i’m talking about! i see the gates/guards as…

the rational mind …

the rational mind as a kind of trap, a filter that inhibits us from reaching full heights/depths/potentials of thought/imagination … we’re going places kid and the rational mind can only take you so far.

one time i lived with a famous writer & that’s what she told me … you get to a certain point in the creative process where the mind doesn’t help you at all. at this point, you just have to be washing the dishes or going for a walk in the woods or lighting the peace pipe for ceremony and then


that’s when the “good idea” “better” “best” idea comes forth… the mind can only take you so far … and then there is mystery that moves through us.


And isn’t that what all good writers try to do (of course good is a subjective in my own head)? to try to write the spark of life into their words? (you can quote me on that one, dear wordpressers.)


From time to time i have written stuff that i look back on and think, wow, that’s actually got merit … maybe i should harvest a bit from that piece. the piece could’ve been hidden for years in the antiquated folders of my computer.. such a post a came upon the other day.


i think i wrote it while i was housesitting on a mountain in southern california, in a home where i could see the city of LA from the mountains in the evenings. it sure made me think… here’s an unedited, spur-of-the-moment piece from then 🙂 :


You are the artist

We give you space and trinkets and wine

You are the artist, after all,

And you might need it to take the edge off

From all of your midnight wandering up lake ave at night

To reach the mountains and see the city

An indeterminable call that wells up

And froths forth from your mouth

So we’ll take the froth, collect it in little jars

Bottle it and sell it, maybe even around the world

And we’ll feed you wine, you might need I to take the edge off

Tear the edge off the world, to reach center





When the world says you are a writer

Write for us and share oh please share as if your life depends on it and so does ours

And so does ours

My gender pronoun of choice is us

What do you adore


I cannot live without you garden


Oh my god I am sick with your words mary you cut right to the point and present your poems as is you are some dark cryptic grave the shell that breaks open to reveal the lifeseed sprouting

In each of us!

If I can tell you anything tonight through my words

It is that the creative spark is in each of us

Did you hear me

It is not relegated to any one other than you tied up in your very same flesh

You amid the mud and pinnings of culture and ways we do this around here

If I could give you just one glimpse of the nature within

One waft for your glorious sniffer of the scent of freedom

If I could cast a little light on your trail right night

Your trail which is your very own which is your vewy own

How can I say again what cannot be said

Only felt

A  felt sence so I bring attention to it now

I call from the top of the mountains are you listening

Bring your self forth

Bring your self forth

a fresh wind moves in: letting go of the angst

Today as i walked the loop by my parent’s house it was palpably a different experience for me. We moved into this house from a fish-bowl neighborhood, where everyone is competing with each other & can literally see into each other’s homes to know what they’re competing on. One of my friends growing up – her dad was a basketball star on our state’s NBA team & i used to play in the lake, others were my wild soccer team members (lots of stories to share about that!), and others were children with lame mothers who didn’t enjoy it when i would invite their daughters to play in the ice with me- so what if our feet got caught as we tromped around the icy stream beds? we were on an adventure! but i digress..

We moved here and it was spacious & surrounded by farm fields and the occasional farm house (which pretty soon got torn down as little box neighborhoods, as i call them, were popping up in their place). Good bye corn & soybeans, Hello plastic siding & same-looking boxes with same landscaping for people to live in! Everyone gets their little mortgaged square of bland, colorless earth around here. At the time, i was a very active young one – playing sports in every season, hanging out with friends, making out with my boyfriends in the basement. It was a time i look back on as being so outwardly-focused. But sometimes in my room, especially at night, i would feel this hungering ache. I would write poetry to my boyfriends or write in my journal to God. I read Edna St Vincent Millay. I wondered what it would be like to live an artist’s life and i hungered. It was a hungering ache i didn’t understand & it made me feel very very alone & misunderstood. While on the outside, perhaps everyone would’ve said, well, that girl had such a great, well-liked high school situation – and, in so many ways they were right – but there was so much uncharted territory, so much of myself, left unaddressed and, well, neglected. The plastic siding & homogeneity only made it worse.

They tore down the farmhouse i could see from my bedroom window – and the one across the street too, where my sister & i would dare one another to sneak into the old, falling-apart, creaky barn & where i got the then-wild asparagus & transplanted it into the garden. The neighborhood seemed to magnify this ache that i had. The homogeneity was excruciatingly painful. I saw it as a place with no character. Without soul. Filled with slaves disguised as people who take out mortgages & listen to everything the local news says. A place where people live in fear & do not think for themselves.

My inner life was relatively untapped while in high school. My inner learnings were to unleash themselves/i was to open up a few years later as i faced certain struggles like death, injury, desire & ways of life different than the ones i’d known growing up. Since this homogenous neighborhood experience & many seekings of character, art, ingenuity, individuality & ram-shackledness later, i am pleasantly surprised today as i go on an evening walk and feel peace as i look around at the surroundings, the plastic siding, the boxes, the manicured lawns.

Suddenly, my judgment or perspective of the place was not holding me back from enjoying my little moment in nature, my walk on the concrete loop in the subdivision’s flood plane turned into nature trail (i’m sure you’ve seen one of these places – a little forest, prairie, wetland nook in an area unbuildable for homes within a subdivision). The prevalence of non-native, “invasive” species didn’t bother me. The cotton woods were beautiful, as were the red-breasted black birds and the shrubby legumes were so prevalent & taking back that landscape, fixing nitrogen into it, so well! The sky had just rained & big grey billowing clouds were still turning above me. I felt like a witch as i harmonized with my surroundings, taking step by step, recollecting & embodying the walking meditation i had taken part in the week before at the prison meditation. Perhaps it was seeing some of the horrible natural devastation in Peru just a few months prior that gave me this perspective. The clear-cutting of the amazingly diverse amazonian rainforests into vast deserted land. The pollution near rivers & in cities. Perhaps it was this perspective which more easily allowed me to “let-go” of my previous hold on hating & judging & disdaining this young adult habitat of mine. Perhaps there’s something in this week’s astrology (I think so), which eased this transition for me. Or perhaps, this wound has finally dislodged in a deeper way within me & i have found peace here from within my earlier surroundings which beckoned so much pain, angst & aching. So many questions. So many existential crises.

And today on the walk, they felt transcendentally resolved. I felt finished with them. I was there, in this same place i have been so many times before, in so many moods and i felt … peace. simply put … peace. And that release brought happiness and gratitude.

creativity-on-the-go; creative inspiration

creativity-on-the-go; creative inspiration

i got this cute white vest jacket from the bins at a good-will outlet. that place is awesome (they’re all over- find the one near you!) and offers clothing-by-the-pound- I think it’s under $3… so, Ini and I were traveling down the coast from BC, hitchiking, stopping at friend’s, I had to get medical care, etc. Our destination was LA- to fly out of- to get to Peru. but we had a lot of fun and did creative things along the way. For example, this jacket. I got this jacket at the good will and painted this passion-flower on the back. i bought the jacket knowing I would want to paint Something on it! and as I was walking my bike through the Ballard Locks in Seattle, I spotted this Gorgeous passion flower!! I wore the jacket a few times on the trip and then in a town in Northern California, Ini and I left a bag of clothing, including this vest in a bag in front of a church. I hope someone enjoys this creative gift! I love leaving gifts places, what about you? Have you tried leaving secret gifts for people to find?

back-to-the-land history, west virginia

Exerpt from: How native West Virginians took in hippies, and passed on their art 


Around the same time, Seaton said, the second issue of a magazine called Mother Earth News carried an article about a man who said he paid $29 an acre for land in Lincoln County.

“Well that’s all it took,” she said. “It’s beautiful, it’s remote and it’s cheap. What else could you want?”

Seaton said the young pioneers rejuvenated West Virginia’s crafts, which had survived extinctions that killed other states’ traditions. The Industrial Revolution’s manufactured goods destroyed crafts in most of the country, she said.

“But in West Virginia, and in Appalachia, the guy with the wagon couldn’t get up those hollers,” Seaton said. She said that preservation of crafts was good for West Virginia but made residents appear backward. In the early 1900s, settlement schools sprung up to teach crafts in a way that would appeal to the outer world. But the Great Depression killed these schools.

Later the back-to-the-landers arrived and took up the artistic heritage. Since they were from outside West Virginia, they were more willing to innovate their art and travel outside the state to sell. Seaton added that the government of West Virginia, more than governments in other states, supported crafts as a way to draw tourists.

Seaton said the “hippie homesteaders” helped establish and continue to be an overwhelming part of Tamarack, a state craft show, and the public radio music program “Mountain Stage.” She suggested their story is the reverse of the usual tale of a native West Virginia leaving to find notoriety.

“These people came here; they were willing to live the West Virginia lifestyle, and a hardscrabble one at that, and they still became successful,” she said.


of the hardest things to do: taking a stand in your unique creative self

What are the hardest things to do? I would wager that it is the things that the outside world does not endorse. People are given more than food as they grow up. From infancy we are fed ideas about “the way things are”. Children are naturally free-spirited, full of imagination and endlessly creative growing up. Yet over time often the destructive voices surrounding them from youth tear down the creative penchants of a child’s natural way of being. Voices of poverty, practicality, peer pressure, pain, parental guidance, etc pound on the door of their young selves and replace the imagination, shame the creative, limitless expression and drown out and curtail the free-spirited nature. It should not go unnoticed that it is very difficult to rebuild these back once they are torn down in youth, but it is possible. It is very possible. And the hope of our world and our own spirits depend upon it.

People, as anthropologists find worldwide, are naturally creators of culture. It is an organizational structure upon which the very foundations of our lives are set. We would be lost, disorganized, chaotic without it. Yet it is the role of the dreamer within each of us to critically face the faults of the culture, the chinks in “the way things are” to set them more right. Certainly there is no static perfection available in the universe, yet step by step, better by better, more apt, creative, healthy adaptations can be found.

I learned the other day that mammals were very small in the time of their genesis in the evolutionary transition from reptile toward mammal. Large reptiles were the rulers of the land, so the mammals hid underground and learned to hunt at night to escape death. After the mass extinction, mammals, who successfully hid in their tunnel systems to protect themselves from the radiation and other extreme conditions, were able to successively grow in size given the absence of the large reptiles. They terrifically adapted to their climate. Before they were kept in check by the other animals in their environment, yet grew when that variable was gone. Likewise, in the presence of negative voices, limited thinking, overwork, stuck mindsets and reinforced, outdated patterns, the imagination, creative solutions or alternatives to everyday problems do not have room to grow. Harboring and nurturing a creative idea is a challenge akin to seeing a dandelion grow through a crack in the concrete of a busy sidewalk. In the desert. In midsummer.

Growing through “the way things are” to create anything alternative is always a miracle such as this. Mindsets are one of the hardest things to stand up against, grow through and bloom from. Imagine a young child raised in poverty, strapped with financial responsibility and entrenched in familial ways of being which both encourage and stifle the child. As the child grows perhaps the imagination isn’t encouraged toward “dreaming” or envisioning different solutions for everyday problems for a myriad of reasons. Slowly over time the creative edge atrophies. I suggest that it never in fact dies, but can numb over or be cast away into a forgotten nook in some inner closet.

For a child in a situation such as this, say even raised in a financially depressed town in need of many practically creative solutions to create a better life for the town and families, it is nearly impossible to bring to light creative options. Everything that makes up “the way things are” is in opposition to this kid’s ideas. The family chides the kid when the ideas are brought up and even if the family doesn’t discourage the child, the harsh reality of the situation will. As my dad will say when I talk about the necessity of creative problem-solving in the face of ugly “realities”, “It’s great that you are thinking these things – you are very privileged. Think of the mother with three kids who has to work to put food on the table and pay bills. She doesn’t have time to think so much.” While this may be true (I honestly can’t say whether the person in this situation has the time to think as I do), in any event I can see the difficulty of “everyone’s” situation. Even if we do not witness and are a part of impoverished situations growing up, environmental pressures push us away from creative dreaming and toward fulfilling practical cultural norms.

How easy is it for any one of us to stand up in the face of norms, especially when they are tied to economic realities? Cultural norms are some of the most innocuous, entrenched, hard-to-shift patterns in existence. As Ani Difranco says of capitalism, “it’s as easy as breathing for us all to participate.” Oftentimes we don’t readily have a choice to be a part of something other than the pervasive norm because norms are the inherently organizing structures of our cultures- we produce them (or go along with them) without thought. They are “the way things are.” Yet, what if “the way things are” is not just unsuitable to the strong creative dreamers on the planet? What if the pervasive, ever-present “way things are” is actually killing life on the planet? Threatening the existence and perpetuity of our very culture? What if “the way things are” is harmful to life? To us? To animals, ecosystems, air, water….?

Truly, this isn’t a What if – this is a wake up! Wake the fuck up! The current “way things are” is in fact, LOOK AROUND PEOPLE: harmful, damaging, threatening, suicidal toward actual life. Many of the habit patterns founding western civilization are not encouraging the furtherance of life and, in fact, they are downright discouraging to the empowerment of people, the protection and prevalence of wildlife and clean air and water and healthy soils. The facts to support this are endless and I for one am continually re-surprised that more people are blind to these basic, open-your-eyes facts. Or if not turning a blind eye, unable to take beneficial action toward shifting these norms.

So, yes, I get the challenge of creative problem-solving in the face of a problem so large it’s as easy as breathing to participate. So innocuous, so prevalent it’s hard to see. I get that a dandelion growing through a crack in a concrete slab is a miracle. I get that to face and shift norms is like asking a creative idea to grow through that slab-like concrete of the mind and is nearly impossible. But it is possible. I have watched my own mind shape and shift over the last 3 years into a malleable belief-in-creativity-chamber. My creative-muscles were nearly atrophied or at least ignored, and I have seen the instigation of Belief rise again in my system. I know that it is possible to make a mind-set dance and swerve. The unexpected is possible. Life’s beauty is confirmation of that. Our greatest honor while on this planet is to take place in the co-creation of this beauty that exists as Life.

We are not separate from this Life. We are not here watching it happen, as observers or consumers of some great play created by some people other than ourselves (though the media industry would have us believe this). We are Life. We are the creators of our realities. And I don’t mean this in a new-agey at all.

Who opened that new shop in your town? Do you think it was someone so much different than you with super human capacities? Who wrote the book on the best-sellers list? Someone so far removed from you that they are in a different category? I posit that between all of us there is not so much difference in us beyond our choices. Our choices are the stuff of which we are made. Not our thoughts, but our actions. Too many people die filled with dreams. If I can stop one case of that happening in an individual human, I will find a piece of personal happiness. Too many people live lives of… how does it go, of quiet desperation. To hell with that! If you don’t believe in your dreams, who will? If you don’t believe in your one crazy idea, who will? Do you think it is your job to sit back and criticize the actors on our world-stage? Do you somehow see yourself as separate from or different than those actors – something inherently different in you that makes you an observer or consumer instead of a co-creator or conspirator in the “way things are”?

This is a call to arms, a call to action. A call to hands … in the garden, on alternative-fuel engines, on pieces of artwork & handy crafts, writings of inspiration, healthy foods for our families, the list goes on. This is a calling forth of the creative piece of your soul that may be numbed or dormant, but is in no way gone. This is a calling forth of your imagination, that piece of you that served you so well throughout childhood and then fell away as deadlines took its place. Neither I, we, nor our world can suffer a field of players too concerned with passionless things and to-dos. I cannot suffer myself this way.

This is a call to arms, hands, feet. Cultivate your creative nature every day. Believe in impossible ideas. If you have impossible ideas they are within you for a reason. You think only other people can act on their ideas? Why is this? Are other people more deserving dreamers than you? Did someone rob you of your divine right to co-create this reality we are all a part of?

If so, it is time to establish this divine creatorship as a right you also are able to rest in. No matter poor, middle-class or upper-class upbringing (or somewhere inbetween or off-the-chart), we all were perhaps faced with voices discouraging us from living our dreams. Monetary security is only one cat-call from “the way things are” away from our dreaming selves. This “way things are” is continually re-instituted by people who don’t even realize they are refurbishing a “way things are.” It’s time to recreate a “way things are” – many “ways things are” – that are friendly to fish and fauna, all creatures here as friends, as much as possible. We are not innocuous bystanders passing time here. We are here to dream and land these dreams in our lives. This is our mission here. Give me a hand, will ya?

want it to show in a poem

My aim is to encapsulate words with the effect of bringing the consciousnesses of those who read the words into similar states. Like writing as a portal, as a finger pointing, as a signpost. I have this hunch that all spirits Are hungering after this union , as like a secret underground mission of sorts most of the time, so leaving little baits out along the trail of tears.


Have you ever noticed its blue hue and the way the winds move and touch the surface,

It’s never the same

The flow of life is written on the sky for all to hear and see

Yesterday I laid by the ocean for hours, sometimes opening the slit of my lips allowing the chords in my throat to quiver and to hear a sound shiver out I wanted the sound to match the way the waves moved I was a lone human,

Yet indescribably I wanted to be all-one, I wanted to be joining the waves, I wanted no difference between us two, I wanted no difference between me and the sea

Is this oblivion,

It is union

What is it to be human, what are my true responsibilities

Each part seemingly taking a different slice of me

Can I be whole can I be wholly all-one

My tendency, as this part in the whole, is to watch, I want to witness as the world moves by in its ecstasy, in the pain and beauty

This morning I rolled around aching with the tears that wouldn’t come. I breathed for a bit and tried to orient my perspective with a vibe that’s true true true

Now I sip tea from the orient, characterized by asian symbols I couldn’t read if my life depended on it

The ocean still moving the way it never stops the girl who came to me in a dream, was it a dream, consciousness, which part of you is real real real she said to me, both in her actions and her voice, my dear, ecstatic, you know those moments when it’s like you’re having sex but you’re really doing something like look at the wind move in the trees, sex is the word we use for the union between humans, or  organisms,

But what about the sex I have when I feel a sunset, the way I can feel smelling a flower, when all time stops, it all ceases to matter ‘sides us two. To live in states such as these, wouldn’t it be fine,


Yet the girl was jumping in and out of line, she was unruly, unprincipled, unshocked, unguaranteed and she looked at me, the way she looked at me, we were devouring each other. There was nothing left. There was the brutal honesty in it that I can only write about, but I want to show you in a poem. I want to write the meaning into the words so you feel it glowing.


So you can feel your own majestic self move as the fibers in your brain latch onto the state, sneaking into the consciousness unawares. The power of speech is a transportation portal. I’ve visited plenty in my day. What is the power of writing lest it change us. Why else do we read. For more sleep? Sleep is fine,


Yet why not read to be rocked. I eat your words because in them, in the way I am moved by your eyes, I remember what cannot be said and simultaneously forget everything that can be forgotten. For a time, for times. What is it to be human. Where am I anyway and I how did I get here?


I want to prod the basics, keep in the body, write what I see



Receptive vessels

The base state of people

And where they meet

Where do we meet

As stan asks, where do I appear


And the lines are telling on my face, but I can change them at moment’s notice the way each organism goes its own way the way a tree grows up in the shade or in strong winds it is bent and curvature’s just right to fit the lens, yet moving from that space, with feet and with legs and hips that asway, I can move in any old way . I can choose and form and dance and glide, the lines are telling on my face, but I can then slide


The way a poem reaches out and meets part of you you forgot about or weren’t remembering just at that time The way this is why we seek out art, to show us something sublime, or like art can be a portal

a portal to where we want to go, where we want to live. Base state base state, living on the ground, humans, yet within this and amid it there are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the sun,

a thousand ways to run our course to run

A thousand ways to perfect and hone what’s at home here, we’re the ones who decided Truly truly, I aint playing that game of the mass culture truly truly let’s let some ingenuity into the fore. There’s no time for sitting around keeping things the same, with all of this creativity flowing through my brain It’s time to fail and time to try again. Time to learn and time to be a kid. What’s in all of the livin’ if it’s not a time and time and time again. Time and time and time again. Time and time and time again.

I want my poems to be mind-states, mind states to wrap your head into, showing us, a hand reaching out prodding what we could be, what we have been. Portals for remembrance, portals to what we haven’t seen. The brain will take symbols and interpret them without you knowing what happened, I want my words to work themselves into your system without your brain’s permission. Though there’s something deep inside that’s asking to be listening. Asking to be listening, ask and you shall listen, avenge and you shall hear. What is it most, dear, most you want to hear. Portals to hop into, to remind you what you could do. Humans as inventors, engineers of days we haven’t seen yet. Same old same old sometimes has its benefit, yet there’s a time and a place we haven’t been to yet, and it’s there I’m headin, there I’ve been, there I come from and there I yearn for. Days I haven’t seen yet, spaces I haven’t gleaned yet, things I only imagine, imagine in my genes, it’s an imagene that exists within my head and things are never the same we just sometimes wear the old glasses in the same way.

You know how your cells change every 5 years, thoroughly completely, you’re a new being than you were back then. And the brain has the capacity to carve out new rootless into dark nooks and crannies that we haven’t been to yet. That we haven’t been to yet. Talking about spaces we haven’t seen yet.

Prod the unknown, court the undecided, uncertain, dark womb of creation that you’re drawn to. Court the cunt, penetrate and sow a million seeds, maybe one will glisten in the light of day and grow to have a day of its own. Maybe one will glisten in the light of day, you never know. Sow sow sow sow sow. We never know what will take hold, so plant while the day is young. We cannot know what we haven’t seen, but we can dream, we can dream.