ride

bird

the first few months are magic, are safe,

are exhilaratingly edged, are me showing you

my best held-together self. it’s not fake; i’m really

feeling it, really flying. but it’s not the whole

 

package. it’s as if a part of me—that

spiny slant of light—has split off and

soared—and you are the reason, and the

co-pilot, and the sunset, and the high.

 

the trick is in the sustain. all things must come 

to a bend; all things must eventually land.

but what a fucking ride.

what a fucking sunrise.

 

i would not go back and change a thing.

ok, maybe a few tiny things—

but only on my end. you were every

thing i needed at that time.

 

you were

every thing.

and for a moment,

so was i.

orchard

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dark thorn

dark thorn
rising,
howling,

filling-falling-emptying,

like every
thing living.

there are exceptions:

dreaming-flying-loving-spiraling,

sixth-seventh-sensing —
in which you never come down.

transcending the
libelous
fear:

finally.

the eye of the needle
leers,

drags
down the out-line;

under a blood moon,
muddy waters

spit-shine.

the keys to the kingdom
are mine.

help my un-belief.

holding on for life

they call these stretches

episodes,

as if they only last a brief spell,

and wrap themselves up tight

at a definitive end:

into a meaningful

conclusion.

 

really it’s just hell getting through

each hour,

and then,

more confusion.

and you really don’t want any one watching.

but often you need some one watching

to help pull you out the other side.

 

believing that coordinates can lead you

to the center

of the universe

is saying you know the way to the edges,

to the end of the world.

there is no end; therefore, there is no center.

it’s just spinning and falling and flying and holding on for life.

tiny & full

on my way to flying school,

late as usual,

taking the lady liberty boat

since i just missed my bus.

 

i was up all night,

dreaming of teeth

falling out and digging in

to chase me;

 

of cruising over

bridges and swimming

under cities

(naked, of course);

 

of moving through non-time —

a star for a pocket-watch,

a string of white moons ’round

my wrist: tiny & full.

happy belated birthday, baby blog <3

one year old

I’m going to keep this one short and sweet.

 

Yesterday was one year since I began blogging here in this little corner of the world. It has been quite an adventure, and I have crossed paths with some wonderful people.

 

Mostly I have continued to learn and grow and make mistakes and feel joy and pain and hear my own voice and put myself out there and pick myself back up after falling. Yep, sounds like a full first year.

 

This card from my mother seems to sum it all up well, this thing we call life:

20140628_075355

Happy belated birthday, baby blog. ❤ Thanks to all who stop by, read, comment, and toddle along with me.

 

 

the fingerpaints of god

like falling in

love: can’t under

 

stand how it works;

why it stops working

 

or how it winds up

again. how it

 

rings out

in the night–

 

red-sings

across

 

steeples and 

train bells–

 

like how a rail thinks big

and a tower thinks high.