Wednesday, May 16, 2018


even the sun comes down
sideways

it's a shifty virgin world

within a universe so pure
it's holding
nothing back
and has no shame
for what it needs
and what it has to give

so what if the truth
never was perfection
only reflection
for the unaligned
reaching like those
nectared mouths
trying to evolve
enough
to taste the light

and sinking is the aftermath
of the climaxes of flight

and impotence
where the cripple learns
that living takes half the measure
of its steps
in dream

God isn't dead
but maybe love has died

wilted and abstaining
to find its ideality
crossing itself to stop
the opening to the rain
where the bruising of the petals
nourishes the roots

and the world dries up
for the burden of its shame
while the universe
is raging on
no matter how crooked the sun
or straight
the rain

where the copulation
of Chaos and Unkown
is where love's conceived
again

Sunday, May 13, 2018


I want to invent a word
for you
like one of those
ancient words
that only dialectic speakers
can understand
through the secret decoding
of stories pumped into their veins
along with mothers' milk

the type of word
that encapsulates histories
and futures
and one-of-a-kind archetypes
subliminally in its syllables

hieroglyphics formed
from each letter
coagulated into
the summary of you

a manic word
with room for contradiction
and open to interpretation
bursting like a universe
with its infinite definition

but the most sacred
of the mysteries
are the ones we never name

and it only takes a second
of a silence
to find the dream of you
where the absence of a word
is our best communication

Tuesday, May 8, 2018


you're like something
from MacGowan's mouth
the unexpected beauty
slipping out
from between the gaps
of this broken-toothed world

and I said I wasn't going to
write love poems anymore
but then you're always
in my dreams
and I forget to stop

so I thought I'd write you
something ugly
like the dirty streets below
the transcendence
of our imaginations

those rooms we sometimes
lock for days
cages
filled with the unfurling wings
of pages scattered on the floor
and sheets recoiling as the tides
from the corners of the bed

somewhere inside our heads

before we dress
and I step out in stockings
snagged and already torn
and you with tobacco
on your breath

you call that tear
along my leg
a window to my soul
and I say you must be
the hero of Bukowski's dreams
because we take our greys
as opportunities
to see the colours standing stark

the way we both prefer the night
for the way the stars can shine
though we've grown accustomed
to settling
for the city lights

and everyone we pass
is looking to be loved
even us who stand so well
alone

but I don't want to be your beautiful
I'd rather be the ugly
you revere
the way you are the song
the heavy hand
of dawn
can never disappear





Saturday, April 14, 2018


we surf each other
like Netflix shows
leaving ratings for the ones
we like the best
and comments
when we're dissatisfied

our loved ones
commodified
to entertainment
so attention comes
at our convenience
waiting for when we want it
on demand

everyone searching
for that undying love
to sit and chill
turn it off
and on
when connection and life
are too messy to fit
the plot
we're in the mood to find

doesn't anybody want
to just really be alive



Friday, April 13, 2018


I used to cross my fingers
waiting for something
to grow
but my hands were crippled
until I stretched them
deep into the earth

I used to fold my hands
and pray for music
to come into my world
until I set them free
to dance across a drum

I used to hold my breath
hoping for miracles
to lift me up
until I drew the force of life
into my lungs
and felt the bewilderment
and the wonder
of what it is to live



Monday, April 9, 2018


I feel my wings
when I can breathe
full breath
transcendent of the me
and in the end
my cages were never
broken
by the bars I learned
to bend
but through the voice
that rose up from my heart
to find escape
and the ones
who heard me sing

Friday, April 6, 2018

For All That Fell We Rise - Ramo Biber


tonight we climb
the mountain again

some of what we were before
gone and levelled
but this night
the peak is ours
once more
calling us to live

the lights that still shine
from what survived
are asking us to dance
for the times we have endured

we were young then
the last time we reached the peak
not knowing the dangers
coming for the virtue
of the summits of our youth

we are old now
but it is ours to claim
and for this view
not of what is gone
but for what remains
we climb the mountain
to celebrate
and touch the stars

tonight the world is ours

sometimes surviving
just enough
to rise again
is how we win

Thursday, April 5, 2018


I saw the dream
recreated before my eyes
so I knew it wasn't
mine alone
but the rest was skeins
that took two hands to weave
and I had only one
and there was no point
in saying anything
at all
so I just cried

tears are stillborn dreams
seeds if you plant them
well
but I don't know
what pigments they'll produce

right now
I'm only at
remember just to breathe
not everything is what it seems
not everyone can see
what is there for being seen

but there are serpents still
with wings
who drink the tears
of dreams we lost
hidden in illusion's trail
teaching to the seeing eyes
new patterns to be weaved

Saturday, March 31, 2018


if life is really possible
for me to live again
I'm gonna rent a motorcycle
that once belonged to Che
and find a resurrection cave
somewhere south
of south of here
and never ask a thing
no more
except for that my heart
and brain
never lie again
the way they've done before
in a game
of the wrong made right
and right made wrong
when the paradigms of fantasy
substituted
for what lacked imagination
and the voice of reason
drowned out the whispers
of the soul
that needed somewhere
out there on the road
inside the dark
to sit alone
and hear them for awhile
and if this
or any other road
leads another traveller here
to the intersection
of where anything can be
maybe
we can listen
until we find the dance
and love won't be the slave of theory
but life the courtesan of chance

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Plan B

let's buy a motorcycle
and take plan b
disappear somewhere
and find another free
where we're the heroes
of nothing
but the triumph of how deep
the contaminated have
the possibility
to love
dancing salsa in the backyard
with the guyos
beneath the music of the moon
our laughter
like the geckos
and creatures of the night
and in the morning
we'll drink panela
with mangoes and cuca
and give ourselves
to dirty sacred rites
that leave us pregnant
with ancient songs for now
we birth in rivers
beneath the Huila sun
to sacrifice ourselves
for once
for us
and the nourishment
we've forgotten how to take
not forever
just until we are seduced
by the prospect
of the mistress
of plan B
the something else
we want to be
and then we'll drive that motorcycle
to some other kind of free

Saturday, March 3, 2018


we're so old
we left our bones
across more borders
than we can count
our hearts displaced
and always reaching
back to homes
we have forgotten
carrying the realized dreams
of who we are
back to surrendered bodies
of who we were
for just a time
pressing our hands
to touch the ground
and remember the heart
that beats inside
the spiritual skin we wear
beaded with the lives
of every strength we've found
in all the letting go
to regenerate
as something dreamed anew
and you are as much
fortified through the bones
you scattered through these lives
like seeds
as you are a garden
who holds a flower
of a scattered seed
of me

Thursday, February 15, 2018

To the members of the Union of Professional Muses:


To the members of the Union of Professional Muses:

those of you
immortalized
by American icons
who sometimes believe
in the middle of the lonely night
that love is a commodity
of creativity

who know that everyone aces
the theory
but fails the practical
of you

who stare at ceilings
wondering if normalcy
is the currency
of connection
and that to have that too
you must surrender
the wild horses of your truth
to being tamed

who have spent years
or lifetimes
waiting on loves
with checklists
you cannot fill

who have stood at crossroads
choosing between
the path to dance with spirits
or the road of human hearts
thinking there has to be
a choice

the ironic romantics
who harbour cynicism
for the possibilities
of acceptance

those who remain rejected
in a world that seduces
greatness
but marries mediocrity

who bleed words
from open veins
they mean in literal ways
but are celebrated
as fancies in return
with hollow sentiments
to amuse the fantasies
of the insincere

those who fell to earth
to cross deserts
and oceans
but cannot find their way
to being human
or entirely of
this world

those who turned away
nostalgia
and do not count
the wealth of futures
but think that living
is only in the now
you work out
on the way

those who
continue to love
no longer for the belief
in being loved
but only by the faith
of their tuck and roll

oh no
you're not alone





Wednesday, February 14, 2018


sometimes
it is easier to hide
in the idealized nostalgia
of the past

or to wait
with judgement
somewhere ahead
in unrealistic futures

my heart is a clock
it beats
Now-now Now-now
I am here with it
synched with it

I let the other rhythms fade
I have arrived at the present
whatever is meant
is here with me now

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

notes from a dream


your fingers entwined
in mine
it was the deepest
alchemy
I could dream
when you handed me
the hoop
not to repair
what we have never broken
but rather to stitch
with the embroidery
of our love
and all the colours
that we have been

you asked if I could leave behind
the life I've made
to sew these dreams with you
when a life is nothing
you leave behind
but what you carry
in your heart
so that it was more living
than I had ever done
when I chose the loving you
with nothing lost or surrendered
because you gave me the gift
of the needle, the thread
and the hoop

Sunday, January 21, 2018


there is mercy
between these hips
forgiveness
concealed
on the tender inside
of these thighs
redemption in the breath
celebration
as a drop of sweat
rolling across the throat
foundations
that strengthen
with the tremors
beneath the skin

dreamers waiver
before the gates
man now flown by kite
philosophies and fantasies
in pursuit of perfected paradise

there is only here and now
deliverance to the other side
through what is found
in the holiness of the flesh
and the eternal dream
of mortals with desires
in dirty sacred rites
beneath the sky
and on the ground





Saturday, January 20, 2018


once upon a time
Lucifer
couldn't make up
his mind
if he wanted some of me
my sin and my liberty
so I stabbed the poser in the heart
with the nine inch crimson heel
of my spike stiletto shoe
haha
motherfuckers
jokes on you
there's no one living
you can blame
for your own depravity
but then there's ones like me
hedonistic as Hell
so sinful
we don't let the church proclaim
what pleasures
make our anarchy
cause there's a whole lot
of free
the Vatican trademarked
just to see
how much emancipated
they could claim
when you try too hard
it's fuckin lame
so I got a game
I like to play
it's come and find me
in the fire
and if you don't want to burn
you better show up naked
and dressed
to earn
exactly whatever
you want to be

Friday, January 19, 2018


my heart
was set a drift
in the seas of all the nows
travelling through all
the ever beens
on the currents
of all the yet to comes
when the moon and the ocean
conspired
to carry this message
in a bottle
with some part of your soul
sent from the shore
of the universe of you
to travel inside of me
so I could return it
when you might need
to remember that part
of who you are
and the poetry you sealed
inside the depths
of me

Wednesday, January 17, 2018


it's OK to be scared
that they don't love me
it's OK to be scared
they never did
it's OK to be even more scared
they did once
but I did something
to change their heart
it's OK to be scared
of all these things
again and again and again
as long as I never lose
the courage to love
wether someone did or didn't
or does

Tuesday, January 9, 2018


we lose
nothing at all
save for the illusion...

and a universe
politely dies

starved as tragedies
that pass
by market windows
their pockets full
only in the night

like
stars with grace to die
in the second
the telescope takes
to wink
its eye

and still

crumbled
like a fledgling
erased in the collapse
of its salt cake
nest

the grains and dust
it carries
by its back

the remnant
the souvenir

the fragile and the private
the internal house of cards
we build of our assumptions
and our hopes

abrased by sidewalks
on the tender knees of hearts
as if the illusion was balance
and gravity
the gravity
of truth

Saturday, January 6, 2018


you know the song
spinning in my head
the way the yearning
vibrates
between the ears
because it matters less
if you will
than if you do

it doesn't always have
to be a verb
when karma
was the heavy
fickle thing
we drowned by
in the river without hope
but we danced by
just the time before

so do you
do you still
after all the breaking
in and out of darkness
we have done
do you remember still
when it begun

so do you
do you still
I promise
by every woman's
sacred heart
birthing resurrection
broken through
in black
it matters less
if you will
than if you do

so do you
do you love me still
this time
we both came back


Wednesday, December 27, 2017


there was a night
one thousand lives ago
when our hearts
together birthed
the inspiration of a star
in some distant galaxy
we did not know

look up now
into the sky
to find the light
that's travelled
all this time
to deliver itself
from darkness

a cosmic
message in a bottle
on a night
in this life
when we forgot
that kind of love
and the power of our light

Thursday, December 21, 2017

Scribbled on a Sunday coffee break


you are my presque vu
on the tip of my tongue
behind my eyelids
a beat in the heart
a memory I remember I have
but not a memory I can recall

and we are divided hemispheres
in this reality
the strangers who know
they belong to the whole
without perception
or conception
of how it should fit

to eclipse
requiring the synchronicity
of choice
to choose the in-tandem
of the difficult path
that leads to reintegration

when it is easier
to remain the stranger
and under the illusion
the perception
is whole on its own

without adding the depth
of seeing
the dimension
of the left
in conjunction
with right

I have no words
for what we have been
it is you who carry those
but I have the dreams

the altruistic necessity
to want for your best
in however you journey to vision

and the trust
each drop of water
is united again
when it returns to the sea


Saturday, October 28, 2017

Monday, October 23, 2017


Something I wrote this morning, but didn't post, because nothing I write is heard with the love and gentleness my heart intends...and I thought this would be the same. But...Synchronicities...

I said
    I need you
you said
    you're needy
but the thing about the darkness is
you can never tell
who comes as shadow
or as blessing
so I must have loved you
because I risked to never
draw the lines
of the borders of your light
or chart where the darkness
fell inside the complicated territories
of your heart

I said
    speak to me
you said
    I owe you nothing
and you were right
but then you gave me bread crumbs
to watch me scramble
for what could never fill me up
when I was the girl who crossed deserts
without a drop of my own sweat
to even quench my thirst
so I must have loved you
to need what it was
I didn't really need

I said
    don't fear me
but you heard
    don't trust me
as though it was doublespeak
and in return you invited me
to decipher your cryptographs
never bothering to explain
which were written
in poisoned ink
and when I got those wrong
you said I never loved myself
and when I got them right
you said I didn't love you
when I was only tired
and wanting something straight

I said
    I'm laughing now
you heard
    I'm laughing now at you
but it was me
and then just as always
everything I ever said
never got to be about the heart
or what came from my tongue
but only just your ears
so that if you thought my need
was need
or my love
something serving
for itself
you were never ready to be loved
but not because I didn't love
both you and me

there's a difference between attention
and connection
I could drain this well to dry
but you're not going to drink
some lovers like the sound of water
others take the taste
into themselves
and let it grow

if my heart is spilled now
on the sand
it was your hands
that did not cup
the love I came to give

I am draining to a spring
evaporating into rain
after I crossed deserts
in the cold and burning dark
and I will cross one million more
just for the glimpse of stars
and how they shine

I say
    I love you
    don't be afraid
you say
nothing
but do you ever hear

hear me
here
please hear some heart
some day
somewhere



Saturday, September 9, 2017


I bet you love
like a refugee
preferring intimacy
to trust

and I'm
a territory
conquered out of lust
and violated by every
hungry hand
that ever picked a fruit
to watch it rot
before it reached a mouth
then withered into dust

bombed out
and poisoned
and turned to civil war
against myself
until all that lays
buried in this flesh
are ghosts of ideologies
and the politicians
and guerrillas I used to be
and some lines of ink
the poets that were me
scrawled in red
against the whites
to map these tired
and bloodshot eyes

so that when you come to me
I'll have nothing left to fight
a state without a border
or a flag
nor a tree left standing
to give you fruit
and you will have to dig
deep into my earth
to find the roots
if you are needing to be fed
and listen to my eyes to hear
the anthems of the dead

until you can confess
that you're a poet too
taking sacrament
by the graffiti you tattoo
into these crumbling walls
with the only truths
that carried
too much weight
to have been abandoned
on the road

and you can paint me
as a whore
in caricature reds and blues
so we are both
beneath the mask
of nothing to repent
where our peace is made
with greys and ashes too

and from the foundation
that once was garrison
empty and splintered
ammo crates await
to be your home
something you can take
when you decide to go
or something that might hold
the things you leave behind

but if your train
will rust awhile
and you will stop
in the territory
that's left of me
let it be
where the treaty
of the sadness and the joy
was never signed
but branded on the tongue
and you can love
however the stateless heart
must love
a land that lost its name

where stories and stars
and dog eared cards
and the little
I have left to give
are treasures
that bring you songs to dance
consulting constellations
over constitutions
to tell how long you'll land
and how long I'll let you stay
with forever
only a wish
away
for us who cannot see
beyond today
with survival valued
just as much as hope

no more conscription
no duties to declare
of social trust
with this
the earth
bombed and levelled
once by lust

only a place to lay your head
and find forgotten dreams
in the way you colour me
with whatever we want to be
in the intimacy
of this anarchy
between the refuge
and the refugee







Friday, August 25, 2017


some of us
greet the dawn
from the backside of the day
homesick for the stars
we got calibrated
to just turn out that way
so let us meet
to sing the sky awake
with backwards lullabies
to bring the light
into to the sky
not in the 9-5
between domestic prisons
of four walls
that chain us to the floor
but out the open door
and somewhere beyond
the just beyond
where time is of no matter
from the backside of the day
we who dance in darkness
because it is our fate
we forever reaching
toward the growing light
walking in reverse
of fading with the night
the wormhole ancient chorus
the homeless cosmic tribe
us orphans of the stars
who rest when sun returns
then fill the yearning
to belong
where dreams ignite
to burn




I name today
forgiveness day
there must have been
some kind of hurt
to make you see me
in that way
and nothing ever healed
by what we take away
except the hurt
except misunderstanding
forgiveness
for the giving
even if it ain't our debt to pay
but then I also owed you too
in ways I can't set straight
and I'll always be
a galaxy away
a stranger
because you wanted it like that
but I'm the skin
and then the centre
of the universe of me
maybe too far
for any astronaut to reach
but a sun that burns
at the apex
of everything that's me
and you are like that too
but still so much forgetting
the light was never lost
by what we give away
so I wish you do discover
eclipses you can see
without ever going blind
and for you I give
the only thing
you might ever take away
and name this sunrise to the dusk
for your forgiveness day

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

surreal life

my birth canal
was a rabbit hole
I fell a long way down
sometimes I'm too big
sometimes too small
but never quite the size
of where I ought to be
so I skipped class
to read the deeper books
and stole hours from the day
to chase down canvas dressed in paint
for the medicine it made
and sometimes I look out
into the world
like Jodo or Marquez
hijacked the train of thought
inside my head
and the surreal is all
that's really real
perspective is the strangest thing
because sometimes
the things that I see clearly
don't see me in return
and yet there are creations
who salsa in between
the then and then the future
to reach the shifting now
to touch down for a moment
the inspiration on the head
it was the garden that told me
you have to know
when you are dead
before you germinate
to rise again
and evolution is for the dying
as much as for the growth
and the flower sees the underneath
but often not the height
unless it's looking down
and all of us are just like that
sometimes too big
sometimes too small
and nothing has a point at all
least of all these words
but size is quite irrelevant
to any kind of light
when it's made up its mind
to lose all of perspective
and only just
to shine







Tuesday, August 22, 2017


resilience is more useful
than the being optimistic
I got concussed
from the hierarchy
of love
when I want it
anarchistic
and complex
and beyond my understanding

but in the wide open
of the spaces
someone always
has to bring the pen
to write the propaganda in

and I am just the kind
who needs to find
my balance
in destabilizing
the something always said
about the faults of me
when the first step to being free
is emancipating
from the concept
of naming or being named
with shame

this is an evolution
so fuck the system
of the rules
to tell you what you gotta do
when we only gotta shine
to illuminate the path
to find our better way

not plugging in
to shame today
for the hope that fate
might be my benefactor
like positivity
over clarity
is some kind of currency
I can trade
and you're gonna get concussed
if you don't stand in line
waiting to receive
what was taken
to begin
but I got anarchy within
and a wicked tuck n roll





Saturday, August 19, 2017


this world that spirals around me
I'm bigger on the inside
folding and unfolding
in universes
the eyes can't see
in dreams
and in journeys
that transcend the borders
of flesh
the definitions of mind
bringing eclipses
of spirits of the sky
and ancestors
emerging from the heart
and the only sense
is that no sense
is the clarity of all
from every fall
and hit the ground
this rising to transcend
the heights I knew before
breaking
to break free
and be more than
what has been confined
within the mind
and the illusions of the world
bigger on the inside
than comprehension
can perceive
and somewhere deep inside
a galaxy of free
spiralling in me

Monday, August 14, 2017


I wanted their warmth
on the top of my head
like sunshine pushing
through the clouds

your forever broken hands
fractured by the rules
and the ruler
of the rule of the come-to-colonize

your forever broken hands
that grew like trees
always facing toward the ground
always prepared
to fall

forever broken hands
with fingers that could only clasp
around fishing poles
and garage sale ten speed bikes
and tits
and bottles of Black Label Beer
and bibles
and keys for spam
but never me
never grasp the concept
of what a daughter was

your forever broken hands
that pointed a crooked path
to my forever broken heart

I followed those hands
to the shattered places
you left behind
and pried them open wide
lost myself inside
along the forever broken path

and found my medicine
weeping out

Thursday, July 13, 2017


it makes no sense
to this world
but it makes all the sense
to this connected soul
to want to join you
in the cave of Filippov
to free ourselves
to free the world
or seek our wisdom
as mute and painted dolls
of grand Marceau
with some kind of
agnostic psychomagic voodoo
like Bowie caked in white
and breaking glass
to prove we do not bleed

I don't need a lover
I've got nothing left to ask
of anyone
including me
I only want to share a breath
with one who understands
the thoughts my heart
can dream
and how she keeps me
wide awake for days
swimming in obscurities
of the fluid world
beyond the rigid walls
of tomorrow and yesterday
in the cabaret of intellect
of whores
for the lack of shame
these thoughts could care to have
and apologies that wouldn't matter anyhow

I can light my way
but for a moment
just be unrepentant by my side
for the feel to be
a band of thieves
stealing back our dreams
to feed the starved out
and alone
we who feast
the bread from corpses
because we've got the strength
to know
there is no sin
so you don't need
to feast from me
and I won't feast from you

we'll just transmute
to grow
stitching our wounds with poetry
and offering healing
disguised as show


Friday, July 7, 2017


this between us
was birthed in the darkness
so what could ever take this shine
the indomitable of love
found in alone
the resilience of harmony in this song
burst between the notes of silence
like seedlings burst through the portals
of their sidewalk cracks

time
it takes time
for some things to grow
and more yet to bloom
but there is nothing delicate here
to wither with the passing of the days

these roots have reached
through darkness
to touch
the centre of the earth

Sunday, June 25, 2017


crawl inside the window
of my mind
some trickster
Peter Pan
my heart is growing old
to know
that love won't come tomorrow
or any other day
so share a little magic
of how to opiate
with the joy and with the now
where evolution isn't found
in wishes or in echoes
but only in today
I'm tired of growing tired
I want to wake inside a dream
where everything stays lucid
once the reference point
is found
and youth comes in the shedding
to reach the baby skin
and the fountain of the cleansing
that washes off the pain
is an ocean made of drops
of every internal connection
we have obtained
and to fly we only close our eyes
and focus on the light
and rise to heaven
with the stardust of forgetting 
to remember
and the joy of now

Thursday, June 15, 2017


I am envious of the universe
that has so many fingers
to forever touch
the alchemy of you
and the sun and moon and stars
who watch you shine
and the earth and sky
who hold you between them both
mother
father
joyous child

but sometimes I walk
in the still-warm footprints
of your light
and dream myself a dream
the universe is having now
and remember in the cosmic psyche
who I was dreamed to be


Thursday, May 25, 2017


these fingers are blistered
and calloused
reaching with sign language
that can't be heard
for what can never be touched
when what wants to be soft
must defend itself
in the battles of miscommunication

I have so little left to say
these hands of mine
making shadow puppets
in the dark
when darkness tells its story too
and shadows show
there must be light

if I could love you
then there must have always been
a part of me that held
those things too
but in the juxtaposition
you see what isn't there
instead of what there is

the shadows tell a story too
they tell there must be light
if you could look beyond
what is cast against
the armour of your wall

my medicine has never been
the bringing of the dark
but the stories one can make
of the resilience of the light

stories only understood
in the context of the glow
haloed in the outline
seeping from the blackened shapes
stories understood not only
by the unafraid
but the ones who do not hide

I am not the dark
but darkness always comes
and all the spirit can ever do
is trust in its own light
and the stories it can tell

darkness tells a story too
of tomorrows shadowed
by what we never face
or monuments painted
to stands against our fear
to leave yesterday behind
and risk the future
of kissed again by light










Saturday, May 20, 2017

The Stain on the Livingroom Lamp


when I was a kid
there was always Indian blood
on the shade of our lamp
something about a nail and a board
and the redneck neighbours
from the apartment below
who let me watch soaps
when I was sick

I never forgave my mother
for trading my dreams
of an elegant foreign father
for friends who never were
but I made my own intimacy
with the stain
of the Punjabi man
I would never meet
but knew like a Rorschach
for seven years

because the Indian father I never had
left me a message
in the code of his blood
and so I always knew
I'd rather be the evidence
of a beating for the difference
of who I was
than the lost chance of love
for acceptance that never comes 







Friday, May 12, 2017

Notes on a dream scrawled on a sleepless night


your sacred revolver
I found it in my hands

you who are not
a violent man

you who honour the ancestors
with your mother's name

the trickster who placed it there
with the medicine that knows
a gun is only holy
when it can be
and yet is never used

and I wanted to
but I didn't have to
so I never gave it back to you

because all the power
and the answers are in me
and you were joyous just to watch
how I could discover this
for myself

and because you were
I did

with your sacred revolver
in my hands
kinda like a sacred trust

you trusting to trust me
because I did not give it up
nor use it to replace the power
of what I already was

me trusting you
because you didn't ask

Monday, May 8, 2017


I want to know why
but I'm too tired to ask
for answers that never come
when the stories I tell myself
never seem to shut up

I am scared when bitterness
does not emerge
that this is no great state of evolution
but only the growing comfort
I've found with disappointment

I want to turn back the clock
but I don't belong to time
and somewhere in the ghost realms
something else has slipped
over through the other side

and I am learning now
that dreams can only 
live their lives
in the shadows of the light
when I have closed my eyes




Sunday, May 7, 2017


find me the ancient spell
that makes a husband of a man
who can love a crone

the one who holds
the alchemy to understand
now is not the time
for florals and polka-dots
but for nipples that have suckled
the future generations
and bellies that conceal
their wombs stretched out by love
naked and dancing
beneath the moon

find me the one who knows
there is dangerous and vulgar magic
between the lips
and between the hips
of a woman far past
the visual of her long dead
fuckability

because my vanities and sanities
and apologies
are all drowned
in oceans of where I couldn't belong
but had to learn to swim

and now I've found my solid ground
these roots run deep deep down
though still the girl can weep
the memory of saltwater
for hours or for days

but the woman can also laugh
her magic too
just as manic as the wind
and wide awake for days
just to be in love
with what it is to be alive

find me the man
with nothing left
to teach the girl
and I will be his crone
and student
and inspiration
and in the dark
his maiden who forgets
that younger women are mostly made
of the modest and the shy

it should not take a woman
so many years to be full grown
and so many sacrifices
of the suppleness and glow
to stand before a mirror
and see her beauty
between the sagging lines

but I will cast a spell
to find the looking glass
that sees the secrets that I see
and I will name him Eight
then tell him back the secret
he maybe does not know
that the power in a prophet
is to understand the truth
of what it is to love
and not to claim or conquer
the flesh of woman
nor the earth