fuck you

Here it is. The moment you've all been waiting for.

I never understood the part of the poem about the voices crying "Mend my life"

But that was before this perfect scream of a sound, this perfect gag of a bite.

I've been waiting for it too, all bated breath. Even now I wonder, will it last?

But that question moves me from what it is, right now.

Surrender.

And it's not to anyone. And it's not to anything. It's to me. That was the tricky part. That is what I have been shielding from. Myself.

Aha. Giving up on the fragrance of last year's roses.

My skin is mine. Mine. My voice is mine. MINE! And my lips and my hips and my indulgences and my withholding....all mine.

And even now, when they are not being adored by some other human, when they do not belong to this one's desire or that one's security, they are still full in existence.

Can you feel it now? Inherent worth?

There are the roots my darlings.

Can you hear the song playing in my ears?

"It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me. And I'm feeling good."

That's it.

I belong to me. Not you. And trust me, you want it that way.

love letter

This is a love letter for a rainy day in Albuquerque. The days in that high desert are all gloriously sunny. The sky is such a fantastic azure blue all day every day. And that is what we love. We love consistent pleasant weather. The climate agrees with us there.

We gave no thought to needing a rain fly for the tent, or a plan B for an outdoor wedding. We did not become anxious to be inside working on a shiny day. And I have numerous spectacular memories of beautiful hikes and amazing outdoor parties under breathtaking skies.

But this is a love letter to that day that rises above all of that. I remember that it was a Friday. I was almost finished with school at hippie central. My eyes and tongue had been on fire for weeks, over filled with sun. I was in a cafe called 'Double Rainbow' and then later, 'Flying Star'. The monsoon came with amazing force. There was lightning, thunder, the noise of the water on the roof was deafening. And we all stopped. The city streets turned to rivers in minutes, traffic was a mess. It was a most beautiful chaos. We all thought so.

And then, within the hour, it was over. And there was the rainbow against that blue sky.

It was the introduction of chaos into what was persistently predictable that makes me swoon to this day. Whatever was breaking my heart dropped then. The drains could not cope with the flood.

The arroyos became dangerous.

I became aware.

This is a love letter to waking up.

Sweet chaos,

death,

heart break,

falling in love.

We are not sure that it is all good, that which rocks us from

copacetic to perilous.

This is a love letter to Kali, who sent Freya as seductress.

Stay if you will. Go if you must.

undisclosed

I am an older version of my younger self,

and no less bold and no more wise.

Tempered only superficially by pain. Or by the fear of it.

At five years old I contemplated universal truths

and I cannot say if I had more or less clarity then.

What is most trustworthy? The thing which comes unbidden,

or the thing sought after, tracked and caught?

best laid plans

I wrote a plan. Right on paper, even. It started in Fairgrove, for no other reason than that was where the hero and heroine found themselves.

In my plan, we escaped that wretched existence and spent time in Florida making money until we had enough to cross the ocean and land on an island.

After that, the invincible couple had a baby and dissolved into ecstasy.

Ecstasy. I actually used that word.

Best laid plans.

Enter Freya. Lusty whore, dripping with pheromones.

I invited her in like I invited being brunette. Which is to say really I was just acknowledging what was.

I bent over and offered her my bottom. She teased me and it was nice so I let her hit harder and I liked it. So I let her tie me up.

Can you see where this is going? I certainly can't.

Because I let her blindfold me as well.

What was that about detachment from the outcome?

Oh yes.

That's the safe word isn't it?

Detachment.

sweet the sting

I was riding Synara once, bareback in the dark, through the forest. I felt good and wild and one with her. I trusted completely in my animal and the trail under us that we'd been on over and again.

But something had happened since my last daylight ride and I wasn't expecting a thing that was likely to happen in the forest. A tree had fallen across our path.

Synara passed under the tree with no problem, but I, atop her back, was hit with it right in the gut. Before my mind had time to recognize what had happened, I found myself on the ground with the wind knocked out of me. Which is exactly what landing in Wellington today was like.

A thousand thoughts are swirling in and out of my consciousness. None of them are entirely helpful.

The general theme though, is clear. I did this. With conscious and unconscious decisions and actions and omissions, I brought myself here. This is a self-inflicted wound.

Oooo. Bad girl.

What did I promise the honeybees? How appropriate that the Melissae wear veils.

So, ok.

I hear you.

I hear you, Melissa. The way out is through. God I hope that's right.

for love of you

She told me "I'm not missing you"

I know. It's painful. We want forever and always. But we can only have now. And that only sometimes.

But I'll miss you.

There can never be a thing like what is when we are together in a field under a full summer moon.

Or us in a beeyard humming together, or us dressing and undressing in each others clothes in a frenzy or singing our way down a river, us swimming naked into a lake under the stars......or....or.....all of it.

Oh my god is it harder the second time. We know how far now, we have already been apart.

I could cry for days more and it wouldn't be enough.

This evening, the poetry isn't on the page. Poetry is the connection I am leaving. If it weren't for purpose, I could not bear it.

If it weren't for you, there would be no purpose.

let nothing grieve you beyond measure.....

This is for me.
Which makes it also for you.

Here they are, but never exactly like I left them, here it is, but not quite like we left it. Who were we? How is it that whatever that was, is no more? The truth is veiled, barely perceptible, a glimpse of light on a strand of hair of a goddess we imagine tantalizing and generous.
Who was the blurred dancing woman who left?
I want to say this: I do not like the person I must be here. But that is a half-truth whispered in an echoed cave.
The truth is.......it is.....a slippery fish.
It is time to leave the palace teeming with priestesses and libations.

One of them says.....let nothing grieve you beyond measure, for life is short and time will come for you.
Well said.

star thistle honey

Sisters and brothers of the almighty republic......


Nevermind. That's a terrible way to start.


Sisters.


You're doing it. You are humming right along at the vibration you must hum to. Can I say I appreciate you more now? All your firey assertive noise....the drugs you take to help you remember the words to the song.....who else but you could keep swimming in this mire? The snakes here lie in wait for you, the bears are hungry and aggressive. The hurricanes interrupt tornadoes interrupt wildfires interrupt earthquakes interrupt floods.


Out of many, one.


I can never understand my own self unless I see you. I embody the too muchness of this prairie mountain desert northwoods everglades coastline.


In Frankenmuth's growing health food store yesterday I saw a jar of local star thistle honey. This invasive purple flower added to Michigan's honeybees equals a thing......a substance.....a golden viscous liquid that surpasses any other. It is a beautiful accident, as neither the plant nor the bees belong here.


Belong.


Here.


Hmmm.


Sisters and brothers, we do not belong here either. Or anywhere. What is the beautiful accident that brought us here, together, in this time and place?
What flavor have we added to the universal feast?
I held back tears in the health food store in the face of that glorious jar of honey. Not being able to take it with me is such an exquisite gift. The essence of that serendipidous relationship between melissa and centaurea can only be tasted here, in the same way I can only smell my homeland summer by being in Michigan after the summer solstice.

Well, this is not really what I wanted to express.
I was hoping that out of the ether something relating to by, for, of the people not perishing from the earth would come.
Apparently today is not a day for fairy tales.
I am love. And you too.
May the essence of our serendipidous relationship be sweet and nourishing for as long as it can to as many as it can.