In August the sounds of locusts are primroses or psychopomp, which do you dare~ In August I dream of the bay, cotton candy mute of clouds into shelf-wells of water walls gather and collecting the dream of themselves above or ahead, the just out of reach sky. If that is thunder, it cracks open the…
Tag: writing
Prayer, to Mokosh Who is Also Death Wolf At Mutating Door
It never ceases to amaze me, I am awakened the night before last to the whir of my own stressors but watched from afar, not all the way connected, knowing I wasn’t awakened by my whir knowing there was a slam-fit hit to my solar plexus space, and like that I meandered through the day….
On such brand new ground
On our walk Saturday me and Laverne are two hours through the spires, through the greens the pinks and yellows, the sweetest braids of brand new all the way to the clear clear water of the bay. Joint where we first met ten years back sunrise fire orange mornings over the Assawoman hella early and…
Since the time of the desk
The last time I went on vacation I drove 45 minutes up the coast highway and landed in a cheap boarding house I’d booked the night before on a 3rd party finder. Room cheap like the plastic blinds had runners missing in halves and a busted fridge that smelt like hot breath cheap, and a…
tiny as i am
Ahh right that’s what they wanted me to do circle on, I am thinking of or feeling out this- level generational patterning and deep in thought so that some parts of me are gigantic geometrics vibrating in the ether cortex, making mockery of satellites and shame. On her way out the door I am blowing…
This song is for you~
This is like being on the road I think to myself, the round empty in my body that needs for nothing, is willing to just show up to what is next. I take this as grace considering there is so much going on to show up to, so much to busy myself and especially my free…
Myths and your story. Following your Bliss.
Seven years ago in 2010 before California, before north cubby holes and south green rooms and southwest desert sandstorms, I would stand on the deck waiting tables at the Yacht Club in Ocean Pines, wind blowing (like a million different Pusser’s winds, Naptown holllaaa wudup Chessie and back then) and it blew warm and westerly like Hawaii,…
New Moon: She takes up pen, again.
It’s been a million days of this I think, and as I write such words I see the gray slant of my ceiling in the morning, the days leading up to, but especially following, Aunt Mary’s death. Grief, which sits like a bone in the air. Its smooth, cold, calcium-yearning. Always there, blocking the place…
Virgil McFarland
Virgil McFarland called me eighteen times in one night. The honey-tongued woman on the recording said nine of those times the same thing into my voice mail, “an inmate from the North County Penitentiary is trying to reach you, press one to accept this call, press the pound sign to deny.” When you pressed one…
In the summer you write in the morning.
What can I tell you that you don’t already know? The 101 in Ventura County in June smells strawberry sweet. There are paintings of seagulls on a wall in town, circling a convertible. My sister-in-law is 8 and a half months pregnant and I never got to hug her when her belly was big…
Wild Women Wisdom 