New Moon

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

inhaled

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

hours.

–

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.

-0

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.

longer.

–

–

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Go harvest some stinging nettle!

I harvested a ton of stinging nettles today with the intent to make an infusion with it, sautee it along with meals, and try it in a hair tonic. It was recommended to me by a friend when I mentioned to him I’d been suffering from inexplicable fatigue the past few days. We put on some gloves, grabbed some scissors, and walked down to a massive patch at the foot of the garden.

These plants are fighters! They actually sting you. Covered in tiny spindly hairs, each hair has a microscopic ball of chemicals on its end. When you touch it, the hairs become needles and inject you with the chemicals, causing a burning and numbing sting, much like that of a bee sting. You’ll notice your skin reacting as if it were stung by an insect – it becomes raised and inflamed. I was handling them seven hours ago and my fingers still tingle from the stings I received. Apparently a number of people self-flagellate with stinging nettles because of its stimulating effects on the muscles and itch-relief.

If you can bear the pain, the payoff is enormous. Stinging nettles are used to treat an unthinkable  number of illnesses and other causes of dis-ease, ranging from gout to eczema to allergies to anemia. It helps women lactate and endure more bearable menstruation periods. As a food it’s incredibly rich in a number of vitamins and minerals, as well as iron and protein. This plant is magical!!! Go pick some and nourish yourself with it. I ate a bunch of it raw today by folding the leaves up carefully and rolling them into a small ball to release the stinging chemicals before popping it onto my tongue.

I also picked some garlic mustard, which tastes delightfully just as its name describes. I sauteed it with some tomatoes, chard, and garbanzo beans and topped pasta with it, along with some ground flax meal and nutritional yeast for dinner. Awesome.

Walk outside. Look at all the life beings that so readily capture the mysterious essence of light and morph it into respiration, nutrition, universal mothership. The light wants to feed you. The earth wants to feed you. Partake!

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