Snowed In

A smokey cave of gratitude,
a noose of obligation.
Stairs and stares,
this is my winter.

My rusty pen struggling
under months of apathy
but I cannot be condemned,
being newly resurrected.

Hints and insinuations
heavy the air
between perceptions and personalities.
Eggshells are walked upon,
tongues are bitten,
and the ownness lands in my lap
and purrs in the shape of a cat.

I've never been so free and stuck.
I cannot win and cannot fail,
mercifully mired.

To Thine

Your ravenous hunger
for my candidly sensual folly
entertains us both
and fuels suspicion and insecurity
that cuts through the vapor of innocence
like sulfer through new snow.

If it were any more than fantasy,
the violation of the last
of my intact self-morals
would open a crimson river
from both of my wrists
and wash me new
for God.

Fertile Insomnia

I woke up stark
naked and raving,
choking on words
that have begged to be born.

I have been fooled by your humor,
by your attentiveness,
and am more a slave to your mistress
than you...
She with two names
and countless functions,
who weaves a smokey false halo
around your polluted head.

I am sobered and saddened
by the addictions encircling me.

Pregnant with delusion
and contradictory hope.

Fallow to Fertile

In the clarity of hindsight,
everything beautiful that I have seen dissolve
has done so as a result
of my own self-undoing.

I am like a garden once unnurtured.
Everything with potential withered unwatered.
Today I bloom
under and above ground.
Lush and lavish green,
a rainbow of fragerance,
plump and pollenated.

I am the provider of the sun and rain
which offers this bountiful harvest before you.

Oneism

My soul admits I am guilty
of that which is forgiven.
My mind swallows the confession
and my body digests it into truth
and I am once again
without hate,
without fear.

Each moment I awaken
into a lighter shade of understanding.
A softer compassion.
A quieter voice.
A simpler existence.

I glow in this illusion.
I infect those immune
to the knowledge of their nature.
I embrace my vastly small
individual many,
and guide them to one.

Forbidden

My self-control
is consumed in your eyes.
The excitement
that I thought had retired
as a memory
has returned with a vengeance
Stronger,
Hotter,
Louder.

The incarceration of this passion
is tragic.
Just touch me once more,
brush by me by unaccident,
breathe heat onto my neck,
pull me to you with force,
softly trace a line from my shoulder
down my back.

Delicious torture,
the resurrection
of what I didn't know
had died.

From Despair to Joy

I was outside looking up
lost in threes and limitless proof.
Your brilliant tragic light
grasped my attention and owned my sight.

Alone in the deafening crowd,
disenchanted and caustically skeptical,
spitefully praying to your fictional hated God,
blind to your own divinity,
you sat separate
crying dried tears.

You were glowing beyond the spectrum
in your darkest hour.
You were a potential miracle
in the depth of your confusion.
You were oblivious to the Providence that chose you.

A metamorphasis is occuring
and you are gradually defining and discarding
the untruths that wrapped around you.
Victimized and villified,
you've been cast in several roles
that you never auditioned for.

If I could give you one intangible gift,
I would wrap in red
chocolate covered courage
to be vulnerable.
And peppermint perspective
to see the result.

Simply Complete

Tonight
I found more of God
in the current of the slightest touch
between you, asleep
and me, watching
than I could find
in the sky or the ants.

The most intensely unexpected
became easy bliss.
I see my soul in your eyes,
it has been captured and consumed
like a drop of rain
joins the sea.

Before you
I was unaware
that I had not yet
known natural.

Apprentice of Peace

Puddle splashing old kid
Indestructable searchlight
Immortal verbal map
Stubborn seer.

Self-appointed shepherd
Melodramatically unburdened
Mired pedant.

Propaganda hunter
Slayer of apathy
Megaphone of semantics
Passionately serene
Hysterical Guru.

Unorganized

Your religion is your rival.
Your postscript says you're wrong.

What you inhabit
is merely a background.
A crib to the swell of a mother's womb.
The zip code of a cork at sea.

God is arbitrary
not judiciary.

Street War

They dwell in an aquarium of bureaucracy.
They dispose of life
for the color of their horticulture.
They are nebulous families
whose predominant characteristic is fear.
Then a shot, a shiver,
a tremendous mistake
which purpose becomes vague.

Can we withstand
being so misled?

Just Think

Like a dusty forgotten cradle
I stare and forbid
the panoramic choices
that occupy my agenda.

I caress my confusion
left hand on my temple, jaw, and chin.
A vague recollection
of larceny and greed.

A kiss and attack.

Casualty

He'd been gone a full year
and there were apt to be more.

A carnal tour
of death and regret.

He runs down the staircase of his mind,
and couldn't crave any more.

He takes what he's given:
Novice orders in commandeered territory.
High society wounds.

Submissive Slave

She tried to sedate the King
on his arrogant throne,
feeble and meek
a young bride with no courage.

She retreats to the attic of his castle
her tears weave a silver lock.
Heavy is the noose she hangs,
A tragic price to prove
that she will always be young.

Absent

He wears the only token
that I had to offer.
It is merely a peek
at what represents me.

We were blessed
with this intermissioin
to allow our knowing to flourish.

Beyond our cumbersome circumstance,
we will celebrate the combustion
of this blood-thirsty passion.

You are a finely tuned banjo
that I discovered in an attic,
waiting for my ardent fingers
to retrieve it's hibernating melody.

Enlightened

On this page
I anticipate no trepidation
but delight in syntax
as if I were a child with blocks.

A knave with paper and pen
garrulous silence,
this existance is not finite.

The ellipse of my mind
from birth to debacle,
I am a copious connection
to bounteous truth.

Unchanging Evolution

Welcomed death enveloped me,
a cocoon built of dramatized fear
and unrequited hypnotic obsession.

An almost-year of forced stability
void of compassion...
a deafening concave.

Broken way beyond the heart,
wrapped tight against the frost
and blister threatening sun.

Terrified into fearlessness,
I lost all I thought I had
to find the only things I need.

The soul of the Divine Paradox
is conscious bliss.

The Graduate

A pseudonym of machismo
jubilation in the hubbub
encircled by a garland of ignorance.

I am a thankful eccentric disciple
determined to decorate the cranky unconscious
with one comprehensive Truth:

I am not.

You are not.

We Are.

Unplanned

A scrape in the distance,
a loss exchanged for win,
unfunny oxymoron of life.

A diminished swell,
a muted sonic boom.
It's only an electron
evicted from a uterus.

On this particular day,
there is no deficit
in agreeing to an x-ray.



*** A writing exercise on abortion ***

Unforbidden

I recognized you
the way a berry knows its vine
and I waited in the shade
for all of the fruit
to fall to the ground unchosen.

I had no interest
in being just a leaf,
and I couldn't have you view
my joy as thrift-store folly.

I offer to you my divinity,
and I feed on your purpose.
We have aged our potential
to perfection.

So let the Sun bring forth from us
what the world hungers for.
We are Heavenly delicious.

Incomplete

Late in the darkness
I walk through God
to get to you.
Within me yet elusive,
you've resided in my heart
long before we met.

My capacity for altruism
shows in your eyes
and I am like
an angry torrid child
with forgotten candy
clutched in her hand.

I can hear your smile
and see your sorrow.
I shower with my tears
and laugh in light memories,
the sum of which
is my massive desire.

Sheep Don't Speak

Your choosing to be private
is a public statement still.
For what you hide is what you seek,
against your own self-will.

Believing you are better
makes you less than what you are.
You claim to be a planet
when you're already a star.

You think that you are different,
and in that way, you're the same
as all the other sheeple
playing all their reindeer games.

You're not defined by what you say,
but by that which you do.
So if you want to change the world,
begin by changing you.

Stop cursing all your blessings
and stop wanting what is not.
For life's not getting what you want,
it's wanting what you've got.

Give freely that which you desire,
and watch it come right back.
Hoarding things will only cause
a constant state of lack.

If you must sit in judgement
then  you are what you condemn.
So take accountability
for what you hate in "them".

The kindest act of giving
is the act of giving in.
And those who free themselves of guilt
are also free of sin.

Discount yourself as diety,
and you discount me too.
But I'm not what you see in me,
I'm what I see in you.

DKNY

The watch that I bought
when we were in San Francisco
stopped today
and it felt like the moment
I accepted the loss of us.

Black and silver
and beautiful still,
although scratched and dirty
from hard work
and hard years.

I just got tired too.

Unfinished

There are moments of connection with you
that bring back the power
of years ago...
Watching the water
channel down the middle of your back
from your wet hair in the shower.
Knowing you had fallen asleep
in the dark,
in the middle of a conversation,
holding my hand.
The way you said you Loved me
from behind a videocamera
while filming my swollen ankles,
like your entire being was saying it
and not just your lips.
There are also infrequent
razor sharp reminders
of midnight terror
born of inconsideration
and this piece is as yet unfinished.

I Fold

You are the murderer of my soul.

I tripped getting into the bathtub.
I had to wash off
this red anger.

I am a fool,
ashamed and embarrased.
Scrubbing isn't working,
so I bathe in my drama.

The scene is set
with locked door and candles
and you don't have the courtesy
to show up on stage
when I'm screaming your cue
from the curtains.

I bought into all of it.
I cashed in my entire hand
and drew all new cards.
With nothing left
but Aces in the deck,
how is it
that I didn't even get a pair?

What you've said
isn't the same
as what you've shown
but I am too tired now,
and the water is getting cold.

We Only Drove a Few Miles

I drove ahead on autopilot
listening intently
though anonymously
as my eldest daughter
told a tale
to her toddler sister.

She made it up
as she went along,
crocheting with words
inspired by a book of photographs.

"I like that you like paper",
she said,
as her sister's head of blonde curls
turned to look out of the window
uninterested.

Impending Taxidermy

I wasn't hunting you
but you wandered into a clearing
and into my sights
blinking - curious - sensing danger
and I waited patiently
for a clear shot.

You moved forward, back, and forward again.
Testing - frightened - intrigued.
I coaxed you gently
and enticed you deceitfully,
all the while
adrenaline
pumping through my weapon.

When the music ended
and the wicked primal dance was done,
we had explored each other
as much as fear would allow,
and found that we fit together
as we cuddled on the Earth's soft floor.
Your heat was healing
against the cold steel of my skin.

I am not sure yet
if you actually took the bait.
And I do not know yet
if I will pull the trigger.

But I know
I am still loaded.

It Didn't Work Yet

We disregarded
right or wrong
not knowing which it was,
and cannibalized each other
by candlelight.

I was positive then
that I'd leave you exhausted
and walk away
sore and satisfied,
having tucked you into
my list of conquests.

But I left you that night
and crawled into bed
with pieces of you pleasantly
all over me.
I have tried since then
to brush them off,
and they won't go.

Your words, your smile, your laugh,
remain persistant
in my heart's eyes.

I hope to love you always
from afar.

Season Over

I loved you hard and fast,
while you covered your face
and peeked at me
through your fingers.

I disregarded the playbook
and ran willingly dangerous
while you analyzed
what might and might not be.

I rounded every base,
hit home claiming victory,
and was showering
in the locker room
by the time you realized
that the game had begun.

I will always remember
how much you liked baseball.

Prophecy and Understatement

I suppose I love you
because you were always
true to me.
You taught me to be strong
and honest,
and you motivated and challenged me.

In the end,
I guess I though
you were trying to change me too,
and I became defensive
of who I was,
even though I didn't like me.

I remember a conversation
in one of my many kitchens
when you told me
I have a long way to go.

I didn't believe you then.
But I do now.

Mary at the Front Desk

I wish I could have told her
in an interoffice memo
to keep him home
on Saturday night
because he was scheduled to die.

My heart aches for her
and her loss.
And every day
that I am not greeted by her smile
and sincere sweetness,
I am reminded of her pain.

It is not right
for a Mother
to bury her child.

Temperatures

I have never felt skin as warm as yours
against my body
through the night.

I wonder
why you are so warm on the outside.
And I wonder
how warm you are on the inside.

I know nothing about you
yet every detail of your body
is familiar to me.

I wonder if I will ever know
what you feel like inside.
And I wonder
if it matters.

It is new to me
to envelop myself in one person for a night
and to walk away
not caring.

It makes me wonder
who warm I am
on the inside.

Tickling Butterflies

A thousand alarms ring
when my mind wanders into tomorrow
and my heart puts you there.

I pull myself back into today
and I have no choice but to smile
at now.

I am wearing your shirt.
I bunch it up in my fist,
pull it up to my face,
and breathe you deep.

Instantly
the essence of you
lets loose the butterflies
always harbored in my stomach
...waiting.

There is so much
I have no control over.
My eyes roll back and rest unseeing
when your fingers lightly touch
my temple, or
trace a line
from my shoulder to my waist.

Last night
you were deep inside of me
in every way.

Tonight I breathe you in,
and the hunger subsides
momentarily.

Moonlie

I do not trust the moonlight now,
you've shown me that it lies.
Words will shine within its glow
and float down from the skies.
Those words that made my heart do flips
have crumbled into dust.
They've soaked my heart with salty tears
and made it slowly rust.
The moon can lie just like you did,
can make my spirit sing.
But when the sun scares off the moon,
those words don't mean a thing.
I'll never trust the moon again,
it's faded yellow glow.
the moon has lied to me before
but next time, I will know.

Miracle-Gro Works on Ninjas

They are both quite learned
in the lack of relevance
between connection and distance,
so he keeps her at arms length
even though she's across the nation.

Almost no one
could fall more in Love with a flower
than her
...except him.
And she's intuitively aware
that the same commercial
that she denied made her cry
brought him to tears too.
Lump in the throat...
Chills from the inside out.

He's not afraid
of what she won't be
if he looked too close.
He's afraid
that she will be exactly what he sees
from that far away.

So they breathe in rhythm
with the Universe,
while the world waits.

Of Children...

(from "The Prophet" by Kahlil Gibran):

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of children."  And he said:  "Your children are not your children.  They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.  They come through you but not from you.  And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts.  You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.  You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.  You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth."

Give and Take

Take away this heartache,
take away this fear.
Take away those silent songs
that I can't help but hear.

Take away your smile,
take away the past.
Take away this emptiness
that's threatening to last.

Give to me some freedom,
give to me some sun.
Give to me the peace of knowing
you just weren't the one.

Give me some acceptance,
some worthy self-esteem.
Let me think that you weren't real,
that this was all a dream.

Take away this sorrow,
take from me this hate.
Give me back the hope I had
that it is not too late.

Take away this topic
from my notebook and my heart.
Give me just one single day
you don't tear me apart.

In His Hands

I am beautiful tonight
safe and sober,
the general scent of alcohol
hovering in a layer of the air.

I have the most comfortable
chair in the place.
Three candles warmly reminding me
of the one light that is everywhere.

I can still hear the crunching metal,
the shattering glass,
in the car that was done
before it stopped spinning.

My baby is sleeping sweetly,
nothing but a bump.
Less than she brings home from school.
And I am bathed in the music
of my solemate,
colorful and eternal
and infinitely more
than any use in history
of the word Love.

My shoulder aches as my pen begs
to speak.
Inspired, grateful, and Divine.
I've never hurt so good.

Undismissed

I watched as you drew closer still.
As your fingertips lingered
half a second longer
with each stolen touch.

I saw my involuntary reaction,
the non-flinch in our embrace.
I felt my breath rush in
as you casually passed by
attempting to disguise
your intention of catching the scent
of my hair.

The absolute history
of us long before we can recall
pulled us together with effortless power
and we watched in awe
unable to conjur
the illusion of resentment or fear.

We are so much more than we know
and we're very aware of our elements
of Divinity.

Everything dark becomes an insignificant nightmare
dismissed
when you kiss me new again.

They can't help it.

Her big diamond ring
clinking against her cold, sweating glass,
ice cubes dancing playfully
like the drunk by the door.

They migrate mezmerized,
an alto awakening
from a within
they were unaware of.

A bright light surprised
and seduced them,
and they ignited from the inside out
as you dropped a clever half-beat.

Charmed,
hey nodded in agreement
and rhythm
and God's fingertips are sore
from speaking through strings.

Adia

I can feel the dance of Life
churning from my center Chakra.
A celebration of resilience,
A declaration of both Miracle
and Miracle Worker.

The product I have paid for
with endless tears and terror.
All the Love I once kissed goodbye
returns with a sharp jab
from a tiny elbow or heel.

Tiny whisper,
I have never felt more forgiven.

Bypass the Drama

Remember that nothing has any meaning save the meaning you give it.  Repeat this quietly in your mind at any moment of stress or upset:  Nothing has any meaning save the meaning I give it.

This is a variation on the words of Shakespeare, and I first heard it put this way in A Course in Miracles.  These ten words can change your entire experience of life.  They can stop drama in its tracks.  They can cut turmoil and emotional distress in half.  Indeed, they can eliminate them altogether.

Memorize these ten words and let them be your mantra when your day seems to be falling apart - or your career, or your relationship, or anything else that you have so carefully crafted and put into place.  Remember that very often when life seems to be falling apart, it may actually be falling together for the first time.

When as a child I would become upset about things, my mother used to say to me, "How important do you think this will be when you're 90?"  That would slow me down a bit, stopping me from "spinning out" into emotional self-indulgences that did no one (least of all me) any good.

"If you think you'll be sitting in your rocking chair on the front porch at 90 worried about this, then worry about it now.  If you think you'll be upset about this then, be upset about it now.  Otherwise, just let it go."  That's what Mom would say.

I Love those words.  Let... it... go.
Let...
It...
Go...
Just breathe, and relax.

What I am saying here is not to jump into "reaction" mode at the first appearance of negative energy.  Work hard with yourself to stay in the space of "creation".  Realize that what you are seeing may be nothing more than the Law of Opposites playing its effect in the Process of Personal Creation.  Go to a place of gratitude as often as you can... and don't be afraid to use humor as a way to get there.  Self-deprecating humor, I have found, is just the ticket.  It is just, absolutely, the very best.  All I have to do to tamp down upset and unneeded drama in my life is to laugh at myself.  It's great medicine.

Happier than God
-Neale Donald Walsh

See the Perfection

See everything for what it is: the perfect event perfectly timed to provide you with the perfect opportunity to express in the perfect way that which is Perfection Itself.  As it relates to you, personally, perfection is the Self that you have chosen to be, and are now choosing to demonstrate and experience.

This is something that most people cannot admit and refuse to acknowledge, yet it is the truth about you - and God knows it.  What I have learned as a result of my direct interations with God is that I am Whole, Complete, and Perfect just the way I am.  And so are you.

This applies to the saint and the sinner, the angel and the scoundrel.  There are no sinners or scoundrels in God's world.  There are only Individuations of the Divinity, some of whom have forgotten Who They Really Are.

Our opportunity in each golden moment of Now is to use that moment, and all that it holds and offers, to remember Who We Really Are - and then to demonstrate that.  Life gives us the gifts of eternity and infinity so that we might know ourselves in our own experience... and then recreate ourselves anew in the next grandest version of the greatest vision we ever held about Who We Are.

This is the process we call evolution.  This is God godding.

What I am saying here is to judge not, and neither condemn, the people and events being placed before you by life, but rest well in the awareness that you, yourself, have drawn them to you, that you might fulfill life's potential, its promise, and its purpose.

William Shakespeare wrote, "Nothing is evil lest thinking make it so."  He was telling us that a thing is what you call it.  With this insight he gave us the keys to the kingdom.

Happier than God
-Neale Donald Walsh

Living Ghost

It was way too easy,
really.

I put your still wet toothbrush
in the case you never unpacked anyway
next to the cologne with the scent
that will someday sweep past me
on an unsuspecting sidewalk
at an inappropriate moment
and make my knees weak
as I taste your kiss again
And your living ghost
haunts my heart with memories
of what was true
and not what wasn't.

You were instantly in my soul
and evolved into my home.
I gathered you up quickly
but I can never get you out.

Evolution of Truth

I am the body once dead, now alive
and what I will tell you is true.
I am one who on your kindness will thrive
and I've paid what could ever be due.

I am the girl once embalmed in her wine,
who's woken from decades of sleep
to feast on your truth and to thoughtfully dine
on what is both heartfelt and deep.

I am the Spirit from far beyond here
and my purpose will one day be done.
To show you that there is nothing such as fear.
In reality, we are all One.

Silence in D Minor

I like the sound of Me now.
Melody,
Rhythm.

I play alone.
I sing louder than before.
Knowing that sometimes,
we play in unison
far apart.

The sun is awake
and the morning coffeeness
is floating gracefully around me
like the ghost of a passionate lie.

I sing a bit longer,
louder still.
Songs I know you know.
Hearing your harmony
so complimentary even when
I hid from my voice and my Self.

I hear an echo
of a classical interlude
you threw in for a laugh,
when we were like
limitlessly powerful magnets.

I am painted all over with you
and sometimes
every song
makes me cry.

Ungrateful

I am invisible when hungry,
silent when I cry.
Paid visits for my humor,
and Loved if I will lie.
I'm tired from my travels,
pitied for my health.
Theirs and mine do not come close,
ideas of what is wealth.
I'm left when I am lonely,
desired when I laugh.
Alone when I am needy,
or am in a state of wrath.
I'm constantly self-loathing,
and violently aware
that this life is an illusion,
but it's radically unfair.

Postal Phobic

To Whom it May Concern (or not),
I don't know if we've met.
But you might want to get from me
as far as you can get.

To Whom it May Concern (or not),
I didn't drink today.
Instead I cried a sea of tears,
then packed, and sailed away.

To Whom it May Concern (or not),
I know I look real strong.
But just like you, I need someone
when everything goes wrong.

To Whom it May Concern (or not),
I'm giving this my best.
But you keep saying it's alright
and I feel so damned left.

To Whom it May Concern (or not),
I'm tearing up this note.
'Cause there's no one who gives a shit
about what I just wrote.

I know I'm trying way too hard,
maybe one day I'll learn.
For now go on ignoring me,
To Whom it May Concern.

Unsent Valentine

The coddling continued
far past healthy,
and now an adult child,
you leave empty plates and promises
in every room
and discard your clothes
along with your dignity nightly.
They are strewn about
close enough to the laundry basket
to be maddening in it's purposefulness.

Justify the daily drunk
by working too hard at what means nothing.
But no one deserves
what you do to you.

Fueled by fear,
gratuitous self-deprication,
inevitable annhialation
at everyone else's expense.

You will have been alone
long before you realize
that you're lonely.

Inhumane Society

Most that encounter me
describe me as memorable.
But not in the way
I would like to be remembered.

Most remember me
as one who forgot them.
Many I've collected
like night-club matchbooks
captured on paper,
bound by ink.

I visit them occasionally,
but not when they're lonely.
I remember them
when I feel
like I've forgotten me.

There's a Saying...

Knowing that explanation
rendered the exotic mundane -

Wanting to preserve
the energy of truth
as opposed to expending it's divinity
toward incapable ignorance -

It stayed trapped within:
no less prophetic or powerful
than if it had
escaped her lips.

No Studio Audience

I get rid of money as quick as I can
and anyone can be beautiful
if they pick up a pen or guitar
and say something honest.

The only time I am really in danger
is when I won't stop smiling
and I routinely cry for the world.

Call me on my shit
and I'll surprise myself
with a brilliant spontaneous copout.
But quote me to me,
and ceilings disappear.

Syllables are my satin.
I am an empty challise
and a notebook without a blank page.
I know more about you than you do.
But would it surprise you to learn
that I am aware of my choices?

Contrary to popular belief,
nothing ever lost it's value
because it was enjoyed.

Neil Diamond's Lost Verses

I Loved your dark hair
(mine is softer, and long).
You always were right
(but I Love being wrong).
Your skin made me hungry
(mine keeps me warm).
Your song made me weak
(but my words make me strong).
Your talent could shame me
(my depth fills my soul).
You have expectations
(I have one simple goal).
You attempted to lead me
(but I know the way).
You came 'cause you had to
(but I'm going to stay).
You gave me desire
(but I taught me Love).
You're always a star
(but I'm all that's above).

MySelf Cleaning

For once this isn't therapy,
it's documentation.
You form words into promises
and hand them to me freely,
claiming the past is sealed behind them.
I see that they are hollow now.
Plastic.
Temporary.
Breakable.
And what you actually do
when it comes time for those words
to be redeemed for truth
hasn't changed.
But what I see
(stepping out of your line of fire)
and my chosen acceptance of this
helps me tear myself from your claws
and run toward peace
when I used to wait until you'd left me
a dry carcass,
then roll myself into a bottomless grave.
You, with your self-indulgent tunnel-vision.
Refusal to cop to your own.
A vial of red-hot resentment
in every jacket and roadcase
(in case of emergency).
I am on the other side
of the detour you've insisted on.

Forme

You are a timeless prophet
of the drive-thru variety.
A thrift store poet,
both frantic and pure.
Your tears and your terror
are worthy investments.
The wisdom they've birthed
form delivered promises.

You cringe at concepts
like hell and like evil,
and fall in Love with clouds daily.
Outraged by violence,
kindness is your soul food.

Words were your weapons
but became instruments of peace.
You say desire brings desertion
and failure brings freedom.
Clean and rested but burning,
you take what you want
whether given or not.

I Didn't Write This

Go away, blank page.
Stop staring at me
   with your hole-punch eyes.
Turn yourself over.
Show me the writing on your back.

Stop taunting me
   with your whiteness.
I know what you want,
   paper persistance.
But he is not my ink
   and my hand clutches my pen just fine
   when not holding his.

Don't scream for semantics.
Stop begging me
   for words of disembodied need
   to drown in his constant torture
   to neglect my bigness
   to idolize him like my God,
when he is my equal.

Sheep Don't Speak

It's posessive, but is just apostrophy away
from that which 'tis, and still it means the same thing anyway.
What is indeed is acted out, which means it has been done.
And when we turn around what's now, we see that we have won.
Matter doesn't matter when there isn't any there.
And we can only be now here, when we can be nowhere.
A suffix ends a meaning's path, enough is to suffice.
And fire is an F from ire, ice an N from nice.
We speak in tongues a thousand ways, yet understand not one.
Some are Sun worshippers, and some worship the Son.
We all will be led to one Bliss if we will not be led.
But follow our own highest thought, and follow none instead.
If you want to find the Truth, then hear that which you say.
For everything and nothing mean the same thing, anyway.

Reborn

Enslaved by my struggle for freedom,
held hostage by years of neglect.
Numbed by my acts of self-treason,
pitiful, wounded, and wrecked.

Paralyzed in my psychosis,
void of both reason and Love.
At the height of my female moroseness,
unsure of all things up above.

Faced with the truth that I'm dying,
riddled with anger and fear,
I finally faced the illusion
that bounced back from every mirror.

I saw only Love and true kindness.
I held the small girl that was there.
I saw I'd been living in blindness,
more hurt than one child could bear.

Suddenly, nothing to covet.
I know there's no thing such as hell.
I know I am perfectly nothing,
yet still I am God, just as well.

11 Months in County

When I arrived I was almost seven months pregnant but still not showing. I was sickly thin, strung out, and spiritually bankrupt. I felt rejected and less-than. I had betrayed myself and my family. For all intents and purposes I had been behaving as a liar, cheat, and a thief. I had no right or reason to expect the support of the people I Loved or who somehow still Loved me. The father of the child I was carrying was still technically my husband and we had a son together who wasn't yet two. I thought this man to be my sole-mate, the only person I would ever connect to on the level that we had. We had an intense history and although outwardly we seemed to be opposites, we were spiritually and emotionally bonded like identical twins. He had forsaken me and commanded my son as his property, denied my current state of pregnancy, and then once convinced that there truly was life created by us a second time, denied his paternity. I was devastated, crushed, and utterly broken.

I don't recall the first few days in any kind of detail. I remember being forced to rise and march in a single-file line, hands tucked into the waistband of the outfit I would come to know as "blues" three times a day to the chow-hall. I most definitely didn't want to put anything called "chow" into my mouth, and the trip to and from that building seemed never-ending. I remember vomiting until nothing came out of me except the bitter taste and bright green sticky bile that came from deep within my guts. I remember continuing to vomit beyond that, sure that I was going to rupture internal organs. There was no sympathy or assistance from my fellow inmates. I was housed in a dorm with a 64 woman capacity, 32 inmates on each side of the building, 16 metal bunk-bed type racks per side, separated by a bank of toilets and makeshift showers. The facility was in the midst of controversy. It was commonly known that it should be condemned but was too profitable for the local government to allow. It was filthy and inhumane, and only kept livable by those of us who had no choice but to call it home. My state of sickness negatively impacted the dorm as a whole and for that, I was targeted. It wasn't until my pregnancy was confirmed and the news of this had spread throughout my new peers that they relented at all. I gradually began to rise out of my opiate withdrawal and became able to wander into the yard surrounding the dorm to feel sun on my face from time to time. Initially I had no cup to drink with, I had to get water directly from an outdoor fountain covered in mud. I will do my best to describe the day-to-day routine I encountered and explain as much about the environment as possible along the way:
The entire dorm was awakened at about 5:45 am daily. The glaring fluorescent lights would come on and a deputy's voice would screech over the loudspeaker in the room. We were to awaken, dress, wash up, and line up within fifteen minutes. We had to be completely out of the dorm and in a line at the gate of the yard fence, awaiting a deputy to open it and usher us to chow. Sometimes it was very cold in the morning, sometimes raining. We still had to stand outside and wait for the deputy, silently and obediently. Once the gate was opened, we had to tuck our hands into the waistbands of our pants, and trudge to the chow-hall staying inside of a narrowly painted path. We stood in line and waited to be handed a tray. There was probably an assortment of about five different breakfasts that were served in rotation. On a good day we would get a small sealed tub of cereal and a banana. On a bad day, dry grits and a cold piece of bread. We were always given six ounces of fat-free milk. Once in a while a small plastic cup of juice, probably around three or four ounces. When I first got there we were given packets of sugar and butter when appropriate. By the time I was released, there were no more condiments given whatsoever. We had approximately ten minutes to eat the breakfast from the time we entered the hall. We were excused row by row. The hall was huge, and served about eight dorms total at one time. They would feed one half of the facility then the other, with the indoor cells, administrative segregation, and medical units separate. The chow-hall's plastic picnic tables were completely surrounded by deputies at all times. When signaled, our row had to stand and take our trays in another single-file formation to three big wastebaskets manned by trustees. We dumped whatever was left on our tray into the trashcans, piled the dirty trays onto a rolling cart, and made the trek back to the dorm with our hands tucked into our waistbands. Most of the inmates would command silence when we returned, because they all wanted to go back to sleep. So we would climb back into our racks, which were simply metal bunks with flat steel bottoms, lined with a two-inch thick mat that offered no comfort to speak of. We were given one sheet to line the mat with and during the winter one cotton blanket and one wool army-style blanket. After the coldest part of the season they would take the heavier blanket away. It would start to get noisy in the dorm around 8:00 am when some of the residents would rise and turn on the TV that was bolted into the upper corner of the room and covered in a plexiglass box. There were no volume or channel controls. Other inmates would start up games of cards, greedily grab up the one censored newspaper that the entire dorm was allowed, or engage in other activities that they almost certainly didn't entertain on the outside. There would be individuals or groups of women singing gospel or top 40 songs. There were some that walked laps inside the dorm or held exercise classes. There were some who became artistically creative beyond the imaginings of most, using colored pencils, magazines, cheap paper, and deodorant to create masterpieces. At about 10:45 am we lined up for chow again, and went through the same routine as the morning for our lunch. We commonly referred to lunch as "circles and squares". It seemed everything served at lunch was in one of the two shapes. Circles of lunch meat, squares of bread. Squares of processed cheese, circular Styrofoam cups filled with soup that was comprised of the last week's meal leftovers. Circles and squares. Sometimes on the way back from chow, we would be stopped by the deputies and asked to "shake down", to lift up our pant legs and un-tuck our shirts. Inevitably, an orange or a stale cookie would go rolling across the asphalt out of someones attire, and the entire dorm would suffer a consequence. The deputies were fond of putting us on lock down, where we had to return to our dorm and stay on our bunks with no TV until the next chow time, save for short trips to the restroom. No showers, no talking, no noise that could be overheard in the deputy's station which was a small office affixed to the front of the dorm. I personally enjoyed lock down. I would sit on my bunk indian-style, either reading a badly dog-eared book or bent over myself flat on my forehead with my arms outstretched in front of me in deep meditation. When I first arrived at Los Colinas I was nowhere near a state of enlightenment that awarded this experience, but by the time I left I could take trips entirely out of my body and the facility, and spent much time in this state. The last chow experience of the day was around 6:30 pm. Same drill, same terrible dining experience.

These three daily excursions marked the passing of every day for me. Initially it seemed like eons from breakfast to dinner, but by the time I was close to being released, I looked forward to them just to mark the passing of time. In between these three daily events there were many other routine experiences. Laundry exchange once a week, where we would line up at the gate after breakfast to exchange dirty for clean. We were allowed to have in our possession at all times two pairs of tube socks, one pair of hard rubber sandals, two pair of large (and largely unsanitary) white cotton underwear, two ill-fitting and extremely uncomfortable bras, one blue canvas shirt and one blue canvas elastic-waisted pair of pants, and one yellow cotton nightshirt. All of these items were loudly stamped "SD COUNTY JAIL" in one area, and "LCDF" in another, which stood for Los Colinas Detention Facility. Besides these items, we were allowed three books at a time on our bunk, ten pictures of a specified size mailed to us and reviewed prior to receipts, and five letters. We were allowed to keep commissary food items that we purchased. We could have pencils and stamped envelopes, and precious few other things that were able to be purchased. Everything in our possession had to be kept inside of a grey Tupperware tub, about three feet by one and a half, and maybe eight inches tall. Other weekly routine events were the ordering of commissary items on Sunday evenings, during which we were told by a deputy how much money we had on our books to spend, and given order forms similar to testing sheets we used in elementary school. You know... fill in the appropriate bubble with the #2 pencil. Thursdays the commissary items were delivered and it was like Christmas to those of us who had money to spend the prior Sunday. Thursday evenings were rowdy and loud, chock full of inmates on sugar-highs who had ingested near dangerous amounts of instant coffee and cheap candy.

I could fill up chapters with details about my arrest, my case, and my ten or so court appearances before I was sentenced and knew exactly how long I was going to be there, but oddly enough, those things aren't what make my story important. What matters and what I want to share with you is who I was when I arrived, what happened, the choices I made in reacting, and who I am as a result of all of it. I'm going to take a moment here to warn you that this story and the intricacies of it are not for the faint of heart. It's no Vietnam horror tale, but it's not a fairytale either. Most importantly, it's all real and true. I will embellish nothing and will most likely struggle to reveal the events and my experience as honestly as I can without candy-coating or downplaying anything. It's important to me that you know what the human spirit is capable of not only withstanding, but under which conditions we can actually flourish.
I spent the first few weeks in serious withdrawal. There was little time to think about the seriousness of my plight, to wallow in regret or remorse, or to worry. I was too busy throwing up, shaking, sweating and freezing, and staring at the filthy ceiling in highway-long stretches of insomnia. For the next month or so I was entirely consumed with thoughts of suicide. I would lay in that cold metal bunk and try to devise ways that I could pull off the feat without being caught too soon. I could feel the baby growing and moving inside of me, and all I could think about was how to rip my thin sheet into strips and tie them together to form a rope and noose. I couldn't locate a spot sturdy enough to hang from with any kind of privacy, so this idea was abandoned. I thought about ways to fake possession of a weapon and rush an officer in an attempt to be fatally shot, but I was honestly afraid that I would merely be wounded and end up in solitary confinement, which seemed worse than the environment of gangsters and junkies that I was already in. I was constantly on the lookout for a sharp instrument or an object that I could sharpen, and dreamed of cutting my wrists in the shower. But I knew that the blood would pool around my feet and be noticed before enough could drain from my body. There was nowhere to hide. There was nothing to do but endure. There were brief and painful letters and calls from my family. My 16 year-old daughter had been flown back to the Midwest after my arrest to be with my Mother. I talked with them and they loved me and hated me with a passion I could feel. My brother and his wife came to visit me, and this was somehow more difficult than having no one come to see me at all. We would sit on opposite sides of a thick pane of plexiglass talking on telephone receivers but looking into each other's eyes. I was sure I .could see my brother's heart breaking whenever I caught his gaze. The Christmas Holiday came. I have never experienced a deeper sadness than spending Christmas Eve lying in that bunk and watching women around me writing to their loved ones.