Archive for June, 2010

Because Blessed

Today: I am proud to say that a search of the phrase “bare vulvas” directed some soul to this space on the internet.


I chose to create a circumstance that caused me to leave the small house. It was not an impulsive choice. It was the most fair choice and the best choice, especially for him. I have been careful. I have been aware of ways of goodness and badness and strived to treat those around me in high goodness. I am trying to step lightly and bring by waves of joy. I am aware that I’m so often a thunderstorm, blowing through electric and wind into people’s lives and out again before they know – but I’m trying to temper. I’m trying not to disappear and instead to remain long enough for whoever’ll have me, whomever wants.

I am not ignorant of my own nature

and I’m neither a fool. I will not be reduced to such.

I dreamed last night that my knowledge went unseen and misconceptions on who I am reigned.  I dreamed I was perceived as stumbling around unknowing, causing havocs and making ill judgments. It was uncomfortable to the point of vomit and rage. But people were placing those on me, it wasn’t truth.

In truth, I know exactly what I’m  doing because I am performing my work, yes

I am.


Mother felt my stress this morning and returned my call with love. I am supported.


I love the unmeasured way things are moving these days.

More couches should exist in the world.

slowly and more I do realize how the normal economy cannot hold me in

and finding ways

and building skills

this is unfolding, sure,

in a way i’m certain to be happiness!

Yes, now, everything is coming along nicely, homelessly and all.


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Here we are, lining up a long counter neath a ceiling of brushed metal

and naked charcoal forms towering pendulous breasts behind us

three big bare vulvas. true nudity? falsity? disease.

mostly-empty liquor bottles decorate the bar.

It’s weird how relatively-at-home I feel in this situation. I look around and count something like 12 heads of blonde. 2 here are older than thirty. and isn’t it interesting that the new staff for this opening cafe is composed of thin attractive females – floor managers and head chefs all male. I’m wondering when they’ll bring up the fact that my legs are covered hairy. No way am I shaving some seven months of hard working growth.

Already I am sensing the double-life I’ll have to lead. That I kept right in Boston, the sensible restaurant waitress with acceptable furs and cockle-shell smiling. Suppress, you dirty hippie! Down girl

but it’s like I choose and want this,

i see the monetary value of     [[[Town}

‘and I accept it, for such small tradeoff.

I’m cool with acting for cash. I’ve always loved filling roles, as long as I can melt back into myself for a good amount of my week beyond. I m cool with feeding people. Even if what they order is sure to kill them,

i’m all about the choice, afters. and no’m not going to play any withhold.’

I’m even cool with the pretense required for now.

the meat sits postulating on a plate,

all full of christmas colors gunk and waiting for a chew. broiled, brazen, bar-be-(Q)cued. spitting its rare juices onto white plaster and soaking towards a mashed potato bloom

creamy heavy and desirous.           tempting and bleeding       gums. pick them teeths!

I notice Gretchen. a woman with my favorite name and a plain suffocated body that might’ve held muscle once

she shines out past red shorts and some striped frock that covers her like it would be silk

it’s a poor piece her gentling mottle skin makes look expensive in terms of light.

I notice I like Gretchen. i like the small folds of her stripes and how her freckles caress it like it might be soft to wear.

—  she never planned to be a “professional server”  . in her late twenties or elsewise ever. Girl went to school for journalism,

got a double degree in fact.

I’m knowing now, I’ve got to take what might be lurking there. Finding what I like and going

not gonna be a professional server. And yeah, I’m going the yoga thing.

What a beautiful, natural, bursting the seams woman.

it’s cool, I’ll find that right direction whenwhatever and knowing taking breathing what comes.

[hey yona

i’m scared to write

but maybe you’ll look           ]

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So, Swannanoa.

We live (love) on a street off seventy, a pub at the corner and garden out front, was all boxed out when we got there. I am not a legal resident and the room I sleep in’s full of sweat.

Rent: a hundred dollars each month.

two sleep in one room. Fig’s got a twin mattress in a crawlspace full of windows. I’m in a room with another. It’s not my room, but I sleep there. The only bathroom connects downstairs with upstairs, and in that steaming loft three mattresses spread out on the floor, along with buckets of clothes and books and used alcohol containers. Our herbs have sprouted and live on the roof, fungus in the basement.

We pee outside to conserve water     and nothing stays plugged in. The fridge is full and faulty, leaking the floor as if it got up and moved during n ight. The washer shakes something awful, so that Fig sits upon it hoping the pressure will contain. Fig’s the sweeper and the swatter while everyone else is off to work.

Like anywhere else I’ve ever lived, I tend to walk. Yesterday I even strolled – (the heat of the day made impossible walking)

Small house is near to train tracks – one passes every night at 9:30, every morning just past seven. The rhythm of the in-betweens evades me, but I’ll learn them.

Anyway, I leave with bare feet normally, stepping careful on our gravel and hard plants drive. Past the pile of large refuse, including our old dryer, and out into the street. A pub’s to my left. Once when I was dropping our recycling behind there, the parking lot swarmed with bikers and their babes, their grey beards offset the hard glint of the leather on their backs, reacting too noon’s light. A church is to my right; one of something like seventeen in the neighborhood. Some separate buildings, some like old converted warehouses. Anywhere to worship in this valley, I suppose. This one’s Methodist.

Turning right towards the church and heading up the way. The train tracks lie ahead some couple hundred feet. On the left we come to once-existent sidewalk, now overgrown with weeds. A chainlink fence guarding so towering false mountain made of sand or some more toxic substance. Real mountains grace the skyline to the South, lushing and bumping elbows with clouds of pink late late evening, when the sun finally tires from some sixteen hours of shine. They are a painting. The mountains are a work of art, there, cradling and tossing cards, home and family for whomever cares to look up and feel caressed in them. And nothing lines them but trees

and ten thousand plants made for healing.

Quickly, come to an antique store playing Marley and selling short and longs. It’s open some ten hours out of a week, and postulated to be a front. Turning right and walking still, here’s a house where it’s lored some dready’s make glass pieces and sex toys. But all we’ve ever seen out front is a mass of beer belly’s, babies, and bags of chips. People who don’t take kind to my braless wave and whisper something neath their breaths. There are toys strewn around the walk and a mystical eye paints above an entrance, infinity at its depths if you stop for looking.

Come forward and on your left is a photograph waiting to happen. The funeral home is dated like sixties and colored cream. A matching, vanilla hearse reclines outside the door, probably still smelling of flowers and gasses past if you open the back. A collection of soul-paths within there, for sure, but uncontaining. Just a reservoir in pass.

And the chocolate factory joins the funeral home, its dumpster locked but accessible, and containing huge blocks of the bitter stuff. Kitchen clean and pristine, only seen when an onlooker’s curiosity moves them to jump and peer past covered plastic on windows.

Here’s a Baptist church. And another just across the street, called “Free Will.” Back yonder was the “PLACE: People Living According to Christ Everywhere” or something to that effect. An old sign practically faded floors some trees on the roadside: “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and Thou Shalt Be Saved!!” such emphasis for any fool who knows otherwise. One church’s named only “Truth.”

Keep walking and the factories/warehouses fade to back. I live amidst trailers and cozy houses screaming “NO TRESPASSING” through dollar-store signage. All times of the day, people are out. In their yards, on their porches. They sit and whittle. And drink. And read. They simply set awhile, with or without company. They listen to the television blaring on just inside the door, where someone else sits in the dark of their old shelter. They smile at me when I wave at them. There’s an air of suspicion at the same time a complete lack of pretention welcomes any visitors. A sense of ownership on their land.

These folks,           they work and long hard day


they come home

and they set. Taking solace and comfort in the simplicity of that life and the sweaty sweetness of the grass and birdsong surrounding. The hollow sounds of highway echo off the loving arms of mountains and punctuate with the toot of any train pass.

I think I’ll take up smoking.    The sweetness of our back porch just welcomes such an act, in its lazy seeping way.

The poverty is such dogged comfort in this town. “I love the way the sun glints off the Harley Davidson building on the golden hour, as it starts setting near eight every night. She takes her loving drawn time, hardly disappearing completely til quarter to nine.”

This is where I live. We walk to the supermarket to pass the time and I teach boys about good beer. Rising bread. Running River. Bending in worship to the yard, its poisons in oils festering my skin in a way that’s itchy comfort

sex with nature.

Our neighbors, Betty and Ken, are retired. In all hours of the day, we can look off the porch and see them setting, screened in over there, with their parrot Amos and two cockatiels.

Betty makes us a strawberry shortcake. The house and more gain to consume most of it before the ants claim it as their own. We make some brownies with peach and blackberry preserves Mary bottled last August, and make through the yard to deliver them across the way. They invite us in, refer to us as “you’uns” and sacrifice their chairs seen as they’d been ‘settin’ all the day.

Betty loves the brownies. She congratulates us on them over and over, a large crumb quivering there on her starched collar through when we get to going. They love to have us visiting and tell us all about the church and it’s Welcome Table. They’d like to see us there, I know. Refer to us as “their college friends.”

This is where I live right now. And it is where I want to be. Not sure why, but it is. There is something so comforting about the simplicity of living by these definitions. Even something freeing about it, though I wonder to find more of what life’s true about. Know?

And even though my passion is in some city so far North and opposite of here

i want this slow crick’s current to take me and give me success

the mountains like a support

like a cot I’m constantly on, suspended firmly, even by rickety metals and tarp.

The flame of him is here, always anyway. In the Skeeter Beeter candle next to me at night, as someone muses to my right about losing faith. I look to the flame and see the mandalas we observed in the sky one day a whole equinox ago. I see some green and smile knowing which chakra is winking at me from that vial. In the flame,

I see some squirming exhibition. Writhe.

Like pain. Such incredible burning pain and exaltation


that’s what I felt with him all of the time. Can a life be spent burning? It’s a raucous and beautiful choice. It’s a hard choice. Our fires scorched and stoked by winds continuous

I wonder when I see him

will it be the same.

In the meantime, I tell the boy losing his faith not to worry. Sometimes we can’t hold on to faith comfortably. Sometimes we forget to bless our food. Sometimes discipline is impossible and we begin to crave

and that’s glorious. That is life

making extremities from the subtleties

and getting poetry all on the way.

My friend says soul mates are temporary, because the pain of them is too hard to bear for long. I am not ready to believe that

or make a choice to let go of the love I hold on to

and still caress dearly

each every day.

All I can do is concede to “we’ll see.” Maybe that means letting the crick take me

maybe it means becoming more moral and stringent in what I let make me

maybe it means tumbling back into full arms is imminent


In the meantime,

I choose to be here because I fear being elsewhere

and because I’m beginning to know here

and because the drum circles in town every friday are tribal.

I choose this electric youth

and matters lessons holding me safe

even if it means struggling when this passes.

I am so damn comfortable on this flimsy cot, anyway. Daisies licking at its corners

and dreads not staying out my hair. Another tribute,

my heavy music friend,

to you

and how much I love you


dear always


Carry it in the air

on these sopping southern currents

catch is in between your teeth

let it fill those spaces

first in your mouth

and traveling

through twixts yon bones.

I love

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This become a dead-space yet? I live in a house without internet. I’m writing on paper. [that’s the update.]

Swannanoa, sweet SwannaNowhere, Iam Here. I live in a small house sweltering in sweaty grasses.

I live

in some small house

completed now with seven other children and a chorus of flies:

their teensy iridescence crashing together continuously

making music

I’ve grown used to

even when it falls on the skin of my shoulders

and rouses me

in morning.

When I get up, I move lengthwise

making my muscles unkink and grow slender. I flick my toes.

When I walk out into the world after asleep,

my naked skin greets the air. I reach down and notice my pubic hair’s grown coarse

in its forest of thickness

I’ve allowed to flow free for such time now. Never again to disband it

without incredibly good reason.

Fig’s in the living room, positioned somewhere ocean-wise, on our giant rug of the globe.

he covers world in art

collage-fixins and papers strewn allover

his addiction. His schizophrenia

and the reduction of his pills

forcing him to seek refuge

in all these genitalia

he constantly creates.

skeleton-penis-flaming vagina. “Everything goes back to birth,”

he’s wise so beyond,          that it surprises me when he clings to my words

until I realize I must be careful what I say

around a searching soul so willing to change.

Fig, you’re okay. And I love to get high with you

off mullen, mugwort, herbs,

wrapped like a delicacy


and expelled innocence laughter.

The medicines I’ve got to take to get myself to sleep

in that hot smelly room of human

on all nights i could tear in for


The small house is white, and it’s really false as a house afterall.

Nothing but some crude shelter,

outside posing as in.

It sounds like music

and feels as restless as creative youth.

and outside, which is inside, is always singing. It’s even in our skin,

raised little red bumps

we can’t help but itch until they bleed.

I take a pen to them,

making stars,

galactic scenes,

connecting sense out of chaos;

the creatures I killed so swift with the flick of my hand,

my own blood smearing there, along with that of how many others? It’s a deep orange pekoe

resting in a streak, residual lastings for as long as my next shower,

which occurs maybe in ten days or so.

Showering is a big event in small house. and Clothes can’t contain

the freedom we feel

in a first small house, it’s loft full of arts, words, crushed cans and stolen go(o)d(lines)s.


Emma. has hair like a marigold

and the body of a muse,

renaissance painting.

Her ‘grandpa-ass’ like porcelain gel, speckled. flatly swishing against her frocks, all flowered

she is covered in flowers.

Emma’s like soil, bathed in flowers,

the intricacies of the root systems finding their coils and clings

in ways impossible to predict.

flowers grow from her demure smile

and the way she knows herself but doesn’t know she knows herself

dousing in wine                (“get me the burgundy”) and seeing four faces.

Her skin sprouts faery wings

and smatters in stars

when it’s courageous enough to face the sun.

Emma. A drawn-by, strung-out tangle of golding copper,

lusting for melancholic passion and learning to pick on through

pluck on by

her breathy voice

is as endearing

as the red little pimples in her crack

and the way her teeth line up

to show off the piercing just topping her chin.

A cherry

on her icing (for she’s a cupcake garden, after all.

she;ll go soon. And be gone. And the small house willn’t be similar.


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