In the clutch of the moon.

The way the crescent moon cups in the center feels deep down in the hollow of my heart like this.  Like yes for many days now I’ve been laid back in that very good place to hang out a while.  Laid back swing–

–that’s home, the east, the fall-changing leaves, the peeps and screeks in the low-land night-part of the trees.  If I were sitting on the moon with fishnet legs in a dangle maybe in my hand I’d have a fishing pole dropped over to hang in the fish-sea of souls.  Which is to say there are so, so many here who deep within me, move.

Which tires me out, again and again.  So many lines on the troll.

Tired feeling: me watching, over and over the circles I know. They grow out from the little space here–shore-side ripples leave go far way out then always return to here where they start, same ol line upon the coast.  Here I–keeping count at the edge on the swing.  Sound of quiet in the stars the footsteps that beat check on the dock to the tides. Swept swept swept again rush rush rushing out and, more.  To return, Home.

Oh moon, your silly countenance such easy laid back way you cause me to sit.  It’s not the same as California-moon charm hanging on my back otter-style in the waves.  More pertinent: action.  The harmonizing way of getting to be part of the flow.

I am tired and surprised by this laid back moon arch that doesn’t feel like ache.

Erika comes and gets me we talk about feminism, racism, intersection, Catholicism a long, long time.  This is the work we do to write.  She tells me she can see my space which I say is good bc I can’t even see my way to my degree.  What the hell have I gone and done?

In the city Walsh takes me to the fancy spaces and also, simply, to the streets.  This is when I feel alive the most, like me.  Walking in Baltimore City.  It does not stop me from feeling unsafe.  Justin doesn’t know I am home and happens to have time open in the same space.  We walk to what back then was boarded up ground, days I was 16 and drove Park from Druid Hill Ave and MLK once a week.  Those were the days that Chat Street used ear guns to pierce a nose and to get a belly ring down to the S&M dungeon of the Leather Underground you’d have to go.

None of this matters anymore.  Now.  California is as sterile as gentrified sections of Baltimore but there is lots of sun.  I don’t know what I am doing and sit a long while at Erin’s waiting to ride to the beach.  Twitter and the untelevised civil rights movement.  Social justice repair.  I lean way back into the clutch of the moon.

Change is coming.




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