The Summoning

Soft breath came out in undulose roll, a serenity given to understanding incidences of stolen moments receding. Time time time, just a moment away.

All she ever wanted was a muse by her standards which were seemingly not set too high. It didn’t take much to ignite the visionary exacting that lay inside her, but love was indubitably, formidably, the key. The world could speed up for all it wanted, or creak slowly in orbit, if to when that one would enter stage left. Or right. Or come climbing down downy, silken spun, dream-fire-escapes and just come on in. Come on in, the water is oh so fine.

Her inner workings were a scramble. Try she might, but the holes inside were waxing and waning with the tides and the moon. Her fits of full and lonely nipping at her heels just the same.

Sometimes the vibe was self-evident. A physically provable thing, probable thing, displayed in sights of messy hair, tired from tugging. Showed up in baggy eyes, bruised from booze. Achey muscles, self-induced over-workings, awaiting their holy massage.

Thank the greatest ones for her breath. The flowers were with gratitude. The trees felt younger for it. Where she could finally slow her roll and simply believe… just a moment away.

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Aho

Today I stomped the ground in careless play, noticed the reverb of hollow from below. Pounding above a bomb shelter, a tunnel, a tomb? Above all in absent awareness…

…Calling for a dig exceeds my jurisdiction but if I had the power, the earth would be pocketed in curiosity, and restored rapidly in vigilant remorse. For better or for worse.

I recall clearly as a child, a teacher telling class that the Native Americans we so romantically studied lived where our houses were. My house. A top ancient secrets. Those powerful beings who understood the tangibility of seasons, ran through blue corn fields, made beads of dried piñon berries, lived nobly herding flocks, believing in coyote medicine…

I had the presence of mind to know that their reign extended beyond the small stretches of my yard. Most likely to at least the perimeter of my block, or ”la manzana”, as my pops called it. I came home that day to scour the ground and blacken my baby nails in dreamy hopes of turquoise treasures, dulled arrowhead, bird bones. Nothing ever came of these missions. Time would give way to something shiny, some tinsel or so, leading my excavation, my excursion- to press on.

During the time of year where the leaves find themselves tossing in tiny tornadoes, and the cold makes scarlet our cheeks, I will be greeted by the painfully beautiful scent of burning cedar. Instantly I am transported to the vast expanse of my time living on the rez with the Dinéh people, an event that was lead by the hand of my earlier fascination and curiosity.

I breathe in and hold.

Smoke, providing a background where images dance and bob. Broken relics of poetry and dry dirt. Old woman of long braid and woven skirt. Counting sheep. Snapping sage brush. Being followed by a pack of loyal, rag tag dogs with each step. Awaking before dawn to ensure warmth by lighting the fire…With that smell I am carried, and not a moment too soon. I am living simply. I am living at peace. I am living with purpose. The red earth stretches for days and I revel in wonder about what tales are beneath.

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Saturday Night After

Set the ships to drunken sails and recognize a second rate, land dwelling pirate’s tale as it’s spun from the gallows. The recesses of the places where the brain’s gone swimmy. If it’s that time again, then you know better than to pause and reach for the remote, but to go for a long shot and pour a stiff, demanding, engaging, glass of golden whiskey from the beveled decanter of your fantasies because we are about to tie one on.

It’s what goes bump in the night that makes it worth living. It’s the serendipitous encounters and casual, unhinged conversations laced with unintentional, impassioned, stranger spit in your face, or incessant arm squeezes in the name of emphatics and whoa! that make the night. It’s the soft feeling of ahh, and the loss of interest in being proper on any level where the buttons may be too tight. Where hair comes down and the neighboring table becomes your best friends, never to be seen again.

It’s these moments that make me wonder in their wake. What lies behind being intoxicated- to the fullest extent of the word. What spirit level of the decadent Gods do we submit ourselves to  and is it in safe keeping? Are our soul’s viels spread thin or are we safe in our temporary state? Do we all come equipped with our own self defeating mechanism? Is it a balance regulator? What we feel feels so true and then reason and logic inevitably show their disaproving faces in the morning time.

It’s 3 something in the morning. I drove myself home and I probably shouldn’t have, though it sure is hard to tell these days. My estimated average being 5-6 drinks in four hours. Normalcy? I accomplished a small amount of karaoke and am still trying to get to the bottom of why it’s very important for the human race, but fall sleepily upon these keys at my attempts to spew what have you at what who you. It was a nice night, watching everyone dance and sing. That is some company I can keep and can get behind this every now and again.

Welcome to the feverish swells, in a world where the protagonist, a young woman, had to pull over on her way home and purge-write the ramblings down. These days find her like a fisherman, grasping a giant net and hooping stars to ride, hoping for trails of new theory to push into pockets and come out producing beautiful  print worthy pieces. Under the glory of a squat, humble, halved moon- the only witness to the madness, the love, the atrocities, the unspeakable acts of devotion. I’ll be the first to admit that I did briefly wonder the secrets and what that glowing orb did see and what she knew and how it may link back to me. It was a night of fun where we sang from our depths and drank like sailors, though nothing unknown. Momentarily did I wonder about where the ghost of the heart that is not mine yet and that I couldn’t call for because the phone would ring to nowhere was. But I put my blinker on again and kept driving.

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Distant Lova

Sometimes I’ll begin to wonder, and my wonder will be laced with concern. I wonder if the way that I feel about music and what it does to me is normal; is healthy. Profound would be a tidy, dismissive way to describe it, as 2 syllables can only cover so much ground.

The way that I will feel can be alarming. Like it’s so good that it hurts. My brow will involuntarily furrow. I am completely at the mercy of someone else’s creation and they are singing right to me.

I went and saw The Shins last night. It was heavenly. I felt so much love that it made me uncomfortable. Like my seams would burst. The sound was amazing and his words- uh! James Mercer is blindingly brilliant. It has been a very long time since a person has reached me in the place he does. His prose is thought provoking and ever so delicious. I have a fairly gigantic crush on a man’s mind who I know closest from a 15 yard distance. Love is amazing like that. And reason is laughable.

It’s crazy and comical to realize that you have a crush on the most likely impossible. There’s nothing substantive about my feelings, seeing as I don’t even know if we would get along on all levels, but seeing him live always leaves me levitated. It’s powerful juju, a man with a song. Damn.

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Advice

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No Longing

In one swift motion I set to emancipate the cavalcade of ideas that splintered the air whenever you were released from the weathered barracks of my mind.

I had actively intended on to burying the idea of you.

It was the irresistibility of flirting with disaster when I wrang your number just to hear your name, having nothing to say.

Irony is comedic only in time, where once it sliced.

The question hung: does purging happen in Purgatory, or do thoughts become mute? Paused. I wondered truly.

It was being somewhere on the cusp between “me” and “us” and I was caught holding thin hopes in one hand that we would withstand, and shielding my eyes from even picturing your image with the other.

Duality- a hard iceberg to straddle. Icy waters splash and are no friend, and it’s no fun to slide and fall when you’re all by yourself and not laughing. And there is nobody to pick you up, brush you off, warm you.

The wieght of one steam engine is what it took to pull you out of myself. But like ripping a  weed out at the base, disregarding the roots, your face returned, reliably.

Your face. A smooth pallet of yesterday. A memory of the fruit that never fell from the tree. And an understanding of how delicious I’de thought it could be.

Luckily there is time- the magic magnet- pulls heavy metals from blood. Gravel from cuts. Heals wounds, though occasionally trapping debris.

When you come to me now I don’t tremble anymore, but that doesn’t make me steady. You can’t expect to be let in and must know now that you will never know me. Count that. I am tied up in the back for safe keeping. Your embraces last too long, and you’re too small for this song, and the vacancy bulbs are all burnt.

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A Song I Wrote

I went to Lovetown and all I got was this lousy song. (;

 

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Mist & Musk

If you listen right, you can hear dreams crackling loud. It’s just an unexpected source is all.

 

The air is coated with paradise soft burning scents in exotic spice and bittersweet mandarin.

 

Somewhere not too far- a sultan and sea goddess enact a love scene. Enraptured.

 

Deserted beach shores glisten where giant blue whales exchange several meters off shore, hidden by the protective reflection of the new moon.

Their song mesmerizes hardened sailors, who’s whiskey bites and swishes forth and back.

 

Mermaids whisper promises:                                                                                                                                                        

You can run with me on dry land, my dearest darling                                                                                                                  

Just come swim with me here, now                                                                                                                                                      

The water is divine                                                                                                                                                                                 

Can’t you see the emeralds of my eyes? My ruby lips? My long black hair…

 

Mar dwelling bird’s wings rise and lift. Effortless.

Gone with the wind

Riding on the current

Trusting in the flow

 

The sun and moon are polarized- held to scale at equal, opposing ends of the sea.

Someone somewhere so taken by the beauty of the moment asks no one in particular if such a sight can be too strong and pure to be true?

Can something so simple as a vision be developed enough to lie? But why would it?

 

Tropical trees tremble and shake- slower than sleepy slow sloths climbing in the inky, brimming, green~ where leave’s brushing sounds like~                           yes      yes      yes

 

Bled and scraped by coral are so many knees, intensified from salt intrusion. Stinging. Penetrant.

Little, sinewy, brown boys play games at sunset, invading underwater castles. Little whittled swords. Who would dare challenge?

 

Every wise pirate has their golden mean.

Their imaginations so vivid and true could almost be by sheer will; one day to manifest and walk with their father’s stride; sleek, proud, agile.

The fathers who visit taboo isles of allure with mistresses of the night, debauchery, and tall tales each bigger than the last.

Stepping out in habit to hail the dark, enveloping blue, and scathing the cruise ships for all riches.

Surrender to a life of survival.

Never to fully embody rest, so fantasy must suffice. Sleep fills those pores

Cooling, fanned with palm fronds

Soaked in Kava and herbs

Dancing drunkenly, always with one wild eye opened…

Until the treasure has been knocked up from beneath the sand.

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India Arie: The World Must Know

Can this be any cuter? This woman is hands down one of my favorites.

There are times that I have had where her voice, strength, courage, positivity, inspiration, openness, and heat has carried me through.

Love love love love love loooooove.

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Palomita Amigita

The mornings are the nicest time.

The softest, sweetest.

My bed holds me close as possible while I track remnant trails of dreams behind my eyes …

So often the droned flutter of scurrying, new-day duties carry my mind up to your scrappy nest, or your fictitous body down to my favorite pillow.

-Where I cradle you.-

and you coo to me of your endeavors,

and your take on the world below,

and how you feel about your family,

and what you discuss when in unison.

I get to ask you questions on aviation, hierarchy, and simple philosophy.

My nose pressed against your dusted feathers, perfect puffy fragile belly,

rapid fire heart.

Outside~ where you really exist you are poached, and purposeful, and street wise.

-A real city slicker.-

You will be the last to die. You who’ll consume anything.

Little piggy. Little rat. Little pigeon.

Oh, soiled, little dove, I want to know you.

I dropped to my knees when you perched on my screen!

Did you move in above my window because you sensed my loyalty?

My awe for and respect to you?

Your song makes me feel at home, in summer, on a fire escape, skinned knees hanging down, streets below.

Your hum is my vehicle of transport~

On your wings I wander light,

Inspired to create in your honor.

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