On Writing

The writing comes to me vaguely at first, distracted and at the same instance prepared for anything. Ready and waiting.

Crippled little words that long for legs and arms free from pain or pinch. Alone, I wonder if I can move the world, here, I know I can.

The editor buries my thoughts on louder days so
I need hours of silence to find her
unexpurgated voice.

Cramped between these fingers are years of poetry, aching to be told. Keep writing as if it were the only thing left and you had to gasp for letters to keep your lungs pumping.

These are the moments that remind me to take another sip of water and slip my eyes into the silence of poetry again.

These shielded words hide the anguish between the letters. Crying consonants.  My fingers stay focused and I watch and awaken.

This writing digs holes into the fabric of my past so I can see through to the other side

Twiddling my ideas into placid constructions of word and line –
The practice is simply to continue, even when there isn’t a clear purpose, just continue, to say and feel what moves by without judgement or parody, eloquence is forgotten and words are misused and misspelled so the continuity of the gift can free itself,

I can smell the confidence roaring through me as I write.

My trickling words are contingent on the sound of breath I hear when I dance, it is from these movements that I derive such things as poems and prose to give away to you.
This is for you, all for you.

To write. To move, and race across this keyboard with fury and laughter for the sweet release of this passion: a slow and burning forever.

While I write there is sometimes another conversation going on, the one that watches me write. She breathes while I forget, she coughs while I am creating, and sometimes she laughs while I am healing.

In the past, my insecurity would spur a vehement outburst of creative efforts, always ending in a simulacrum of art, lacking a piquant purpose. I am not sure if it is merely the conviction behind my work, or the sheer abandonment of concern for its reception by others, nonetheless I have appropriated the title Terpsichore, aka. Twerp. No really, the art of dancing, the Greek muse.

Writing makes me itchy sometimes, I scratch and twitch, waiting for the words to reach out and soothe the discomfort of this life. It reminds me of the mosquitos that would get trapped in my basement bedroom, distracting the spiders from their night time biting, my skin would wake up with welts and my mind buzzing with the sound of small life trying to stay alive.

 She put me in the basement, raw concrete beneath my bed, spider webs surrounding every old wooden banister they could find for their old homes. I would lie in bed and sneeze, fearful quiet sneezes that would spray up into the air, the strange soothing feel of saliva sprinkling back down on to my face made me smile for a minute. Then the dreams would come, and I would wait, until the sun would rise, and so would I, for another day, away from the basement.

She was kind sometimes. We laughed and ate ice cream until her sadness returned and I was left alone to feel everything for us both. She was cruel, would slam doors and scream Fuck You. I learned this from her, fuck you. She taught me to be angry, to be wild and cruel, to be strong and fierce, to be hurt and torn, to be wicked and free, to be volatile and strong, to be destructive. She also taught me to believe in magic, to trust myself, to create beauty with colors, to love rainbows, to dance everywhere, anytime.

Even those days when silence kept us together, I knew she loved me, would die for me, if she remembered to.

 

Write, bleed, die for the words that fall from your mind.

Let’s take the rain from this fall and dance in it’s blessing

Allow the shame to walk quietly out like cats approaching street food left by the kind man with the green hat.

Woman can give birth to herself, can conceive herself, can become pregnant with her own desire and give over to herself the right to know anything.

Continue to watch the birds fly and notice how the sun changes the shapes of things

Grief that revolves around itself and you are the center, the silent wanting center, the night always takes it away and you are left naked in the morning with grief curled around your back.

You can become again anytime. You are the right person for this moment and can lead us toward her anytime. Just remain in your breath and practice the touch. Touch yourself regularly so you can ignite the slow drain that lets you drop your feet to the ground softly and stand firm while twirling.

If we fall asleep, it drifts by and we end the day at the shore, swampy with oil and refuse of forgotten visions now mold and muck.

I live this day out with the conviction of a ship through storm and sea while water is waking up the sky with its torrential sweetness.

Strong feet shuffling down cobblestone streets stained in life given up for god. Travelling past borders put down by the fearful ones, then torn up by the wanting ones, transferring smiles in exchange for power, then smiles fade and the power transfers through death

Strong trees push through the stubborn streets and I laugh at the resilience of life.

I keep walking with the muse, her long arms swinging beside mine as we take a dip into the forgotten zone.

I am left with useless words and quiet. The birds and the rustle of warehouses. Slam of metal on cement, scattered chirping and a rooster call.

Forgetting that I have something toward which to grow, I allow myself the freedom to not know, and it is in this space that birthing becomes graceful and delivery an act of surrender.

Sitting carefully with my heart straight and my back open, I wonder what the day will reveal knowing fully that my intention is great and true and honest and bright. Further into the moment I find the now is still waiting, so I return to myself and smile.

I wait. Distracted only briefly by the commercial world around me. Then I return to the fig tree growing through cemented soil, offering what it has in these warm summer months, wet inside.

and then I fly toward the estuary where the birds give me new ideas and the small waves wake up my dormant prayers.

a wave throwing itself against great rocks that lean forward to challenge her strength, she buffets herself wildly and with that playful determination that keeps children repeatedly digging the sopping sand out of the mote around their sunny sand castle, waves returning, filling the mote, again and again and again, somehow the game does not get boring.

The sun is setting and I still have her colors on my fingernails. Dancing outside, walking, painting, breathing fully when I remember.

Gathering evidence for the surfeit of joy in the world, I tend barely to my alimentary needs while allowing myself spurious moments of distraction and misdirection.

My effrontery nature carves stone over night, I let fright fail me so I can walk forward through this pompous life. Beaten, my heart is turgid, broken open, many times, now a rolling ocean climbing onto rocky shores, threatening the quiet houses, asleep in their marshy beds.

She is the arbiter of energy, keeps the movement toward healing and awakening while the mind profligates its blind wants in front of her, petty antics that only strengthen her.

Oh sweet sleep, you have given me so much quiescence despite the pain that wandered into those drowsy dreams.

Giving the silence another chance to speak to me, I listen with a quivering heart, letting the longing linger in my bones, the space between these breathes is what holds everything in place for another day.

And you, too, can walk away with your heart in your pocket, smiling as you clutch it between dances.

 

 

 

 

Mural in Poblenou, Barcelona