without notice

vines contorted

through fences rusted

the odd flower blooms 

she sees what others pass

without notice, roots shallow 

in soil under stones 

“I think I thought I saw…”

when we walk without 

notice we naught

the beauty protruding

growing in cracks

crevices and fence lines 

in the between - minute 

go as careful with your your thinks

as you would with your steps 

my thinks my knows

I

I think a thing I do a thing

no one to it - entitled 

unseen unknown

no proof of presence 

footprint in the sand

did I think it did I do it

if no proof came forth 

11

my thinks my knows

filling hours shared with hair

shook from four legs 

breathless my heart 

swells for pitter-patter

in still corners cooled

humming lulls lightly 

little paws kneading 

in slumber she runs free

III

the tether tied to whence 

I came is whence I’ll return 

take me to your river 

I wanna go home 

sing, sing a song, sing it out

haters here haters there

hating hate-hate haters everywhere 

hating you hating me

what we think is what we’ll be

happy in the white space unseen

holding space 

for others

in their heartlight

gloriously unfolding 

into a gray medium 

of existence 

without announcement 

happy in the white space 

unseen 

Shaka, the walls fall

at fifty-3 I shredded

decades 

of journals and files, taxes 

burdens weighting-mooring 

opting for impermanence

space between landscapes widening 

divides

eye-off any prize save life

I tried-try to root but couldn’t settle 

at fifty-6 I shred

longing 

for where my blood lay in ether 

morning lulls

I-a

flailing in the figuring 

on my own in the quiet 

reaching for the buoys

I found I could float 

but can’t really swim 

II - segue 

cutting chords 

on glass tables 

I consume the sings 

a high slow and low 

 I-b 

nevertheless in the stillness 

of the quiet I calm

and inhale deep the bright 

through eyes wide shut 

I do not want: I do not need

where existing is a chore

the daily go-about devolves

make no sound

do not move  

the fucking fuck

fuckers will notice

then you’ll get it…

something to really cry about 

Yup

girl power: girl boss

the infantalization of women

just another self-societal imposition 

of Wonder Woman Syndrome

some of us are done with it 

walk softly, go easy on yourself 

it’s okay, Ladies, to stop and take deep breaths 

bean shaped things

I

those bean shaped things 

in my body, royally fucking-up

the rest just trying to get by

II

the exhaustive lull of napping 

in cool rooms half lit, twice

sometime before noon 

with thinks singed by fog

III

my longest love eluding 

even the most creative ways

of consuming, unappealing 

hunger unconsumed 

the bouyancy of water

when we love we see

with eyes wide open 

light in cracks and crevices 

through the quiet lifted

by the buoyancy of water

without judge and jury 

Fahrenheit 105

I’m not sure why I moved here

when it was the land there

that always calmed me 

and water that renewed

perhaps I needed a walkabout

when suadade hit hard

and hindsight struck

a dog named Birdie

there’s a tiny red car driving 

back-n-forth in the square 

below my bedroom window 

where chirping echoes 

another on the sill lays still 

from heat or failure to fly

six am, the cacophony began

the tiny red car, chirping nonstop 

‘bought being woke by the car;

Sweetness sleeps on the pillow 

beside me, gently kicking in her dreaming 

why half my photos come out blurry

in one hand 

I hold a squirming dog 

on a leash tightly 

feet planted firmly

but the flora beckons 

amidst stone cracking 

vines in a rusty fence

manifestation and the wind

if I meditate on a thing it will….

well fuck me, here comes a tornado…

the accidental poet

remember when I meant to write 

paperback novels - frayed at the edge

but the heaviness of my world 

laid bare a soul crashing on rocks jagged

blackened and bruised, ink from veins spilt

closed-off rooms confuse me

the ringing in my ears

is inordinately loud 

amidst the stillness 

of unconditioned air

if I move to the room 

cooled by an oscillating fan

it becomes a humming

and I can breathe, shallow 

drowsily with a bit of vertigo

I’ve never needed 

alcohol or pills to feel afloat 

She’s is a GenX b- screaming, “YOUR MOM….”

weather and its forecast

seems to change on a dime

or a nickel - if they still make 

such a thing - and it’s not 

where I live but everywhere 

I have lived - it’s the Earth, the 

Omniverse…

rock n roll and lunch

the way we speak to others 

are we kindly supporting 

or do little jabs surface?

 

the way we speak to others 

the assumptions we make 

says more about ourselves 

you never know another’s

thinks and thoughts

they could simply be

rock n roll or lunch

once a thing

if I weren’t lost then, I’m sure lost now

difference is, I stopped my lookin’

an’ embraced the ambiguity 

of my existence 

tight to the chest

I see bits and bobs

laid out neatly-etched 

a-long a winding road 

in fact they-lay

in the peripheral 

where I cannot grasp

tight to the chest

utterance ephemeral 

will they solidify soon? 

everything is contingent 

on something else 

if I don’t move maybe the world will stop

growing over decades, two-ish

we then begin

decaying over a lifetime, unknown 

of maintenances of denial of regret 

I sat a moment with a book just now

the stillness, calm, quiet 

of a Sunday morning with a sleeping dog

cacophony diminishes

in a space I cannot reach

where a storm shade sits

derelict, no rail-guides

chirping birds have nestled 

one trying to fly now

on the windowsill has died 

but we both like to sleep

some say some pets 

and their people resemble  

appearance-wise, but no!

my Birdie gurl

is too beautiful, too sweet 

the final frontier

what incredible space, we say

then fill it up with bits n bobs

that bang our knees 

Memoria

 Wearing a t-shirt and shorts. Sitting on a (wood) step, bare feet on hot concrete, sun on my face, wind a bit chilly, drinking a mildly cool coke from a green glass bottle. It was maybe ‘77 or ‘78.  I was 7 or 8 at my grandparents house. The world was simple. I still do this. My drink may be different, the scenery different. But the sun…always there for me.

two to too

I

If a thing didn’t bother me before I knew it, 

why should it bother me now I know it?

II

in limbo sweetly

she presses painfully

into me as she sleeps 

III

yerp

Shaka when the walls fell

Gilgamesh on the mountain 

Gilgamesh by the sea

is this a haiku? I think it’s a haiku…

the things I have thought 

brought of importance are not 

what I’m taking home 

wringer

on the verge of tearing 

constantly while sitting with pain

I begin to understand

craving for a thing I will not touch

wayfinding

I

were you ever there

or had I dreamt it

those sixteen years

spent with you never present 

II

we didn’t actually share space 

I was in it while you were out

spending laughing chatting up

young girls on yahoo

out living while I worked 

III

recollecting places 

and spaces instead of people

connecting came much later 

after the Shattering 

and the shedding of you

when the alarm woke me not the sun

I

when walking was the warmup not the workout 

when salad was the appetizer not the entree

when the alarm woke me not the sun

II

when I was young my worries were 

insecurities weeping and self-second-guessing 

confidence in the logic of working to the bone

III

what is age but the awareness of living askew 

being told your existence is wrong 

yet in your Twilight not caring 

not all my genes fit

Mother was a 

leave it half done 

thrive on drama

do that this the other 

my way or the highway 

se ya later - wait! come here

I could get money for you?

Daddy was a 

don’t leave it, finish it

drama-avoiding 

get ‘er done: up an at em

you know where you can find sympathy?

always doing showing

independent go your own way

months and now I can’t open the jar

over vanilla beans halved and scraped 

whiskey poured slow to the brim

side-eyeing salivating patient lip-smacking 

as I walk past again and again 

months and now I can’t open the jar

I was today old when I learned

overwhelming is not the more powerful 

embellishing, emphatic of whelming

whelming is the worser thing to be

I was today old when I learned all along

I have been wrong about my entire existence 

floating

slightly more than half my life away 

from the Shattering of losing you

of making decisions I second guess 

and I’m still lost, that elusive self

dodging around every corner I look

she learnt stillness and hands to herself

for if you catch her in the quiet 

lists and lyrics treading, trudging 

through the muck and mire

of a mind ever-tinged by the Breaking 

and a youth spent whence 

she learnt stillness and hands to herself

you will find her setting with the words 

she drew-draws as lines in the sand while 

she watches as the waters wash away

every chance took or not 

I can’t know what in the white space lingers

not loud, rarely voicing 

thinks and whats uncomfortably 

taking time to muddy through 

crafted trippings off the tongue

never a quick fire but still 

voicing when required and

in the hearing, rare 

assuming, seeking, requiring 

clarification and confirmation 

say what you say; mean what you mean

for I can’t know what in the white space lingers

ain’t no up an’ at ‘em here

can’t just come and go

can’t just cancel things

ain’t no up an’ at ‘em here:

why say it once when you can say it again 

and so on and so on and so on…

whence

spring melts the ice of winter

(I am a winter baby)

March, April showers bring May flowers 

and the remembrance of births and burials

the assist of Angels

I have a list 

longer than a string of days

a very complete list of to-dos

down to the tiniest screw

this list is so filling of hours

I will not complete it - ever

even with the assist

of Angels heavy lifting 

2002

Making decisions for someone else’s living -

second guessing for decades to come. 

In hindsight, it didn’t break me.

It’s broken me every day since. 

It will break me every day to come.

I may not go to heaven…

It took moving half the world away

to understand where I want to die…

someday when I answer the door

to a familiar face in blue jeans 

while old songs I’m a hummin’

I am…weary, bone-cold and tired - have been since I was in nappies

most days in the peripheral I glimpse 

some…thing hovering, silting below the surface

inertia and gravity dragging at my heels 

tugging at all and sundry downwards

still, I pulled …pull..myself onwards through shear will

and gumption, spit and duct tape on the ready to mend 

skinned knees and broken bones 

existing is a chore

a life lived tinged

with a melancholy borne 

into a third child fending 

figuring, flailing observant 

quietly backing

into the white-space warmly

then the phone rang…

I was fit to burst 

with stories I dreamt; 

calm eves of puzzling 

night sweats into coherent 

língua from the tip of my tongue 

spilling from wrists bleeding ink

nourished by black tea and biscuits 

licking melted butter from the plate

you, in the other room gaming

just past thirty, I had dreams 

prickly pear jam

I admire those with Identity 

those who know themselves enough 

it’s a thing I never thought, found

though I searched low 

never finding the high of life

in books and inwardness

acquiring knowledge;

am I what I am or do?

and what/who am I anyway? 

am I my likes or tendencies?

when they are middling to fair 

neither here nor there

easy going…until I’m not

am I simply the science?

I cannot say, I never could 

the only sure thing I hate

- besides raspberries and bigotry -

is being told who I am or what I’m thinking

Birdie

the awe of her existence 

puts pressure in my chest 

air in my tires

where to do, what to go

this life is not a real life 

if it where a real life 

I would be told 

where to do and what to go

piddle-paddle

there are no regrets

decisions are not un-decided

there is only The -  

perpetual motion of moving forward

A - zigzag line that loops and twirls 

in the crisp air of spring

are the starlings angry

or joyful

… in the crisp air of spring

their chirp protrudes 

amidst the awareness of aching bones

my heart beats slow

shallow breathing laborious 

another precipice looming

since November

it’s in my bones; toes first -

months of little blue piggies 

no sock nor wiggle working;

now that my toes are warm-ish

it’s migrated to my knees,

nose, elbows; daily hot bathing 

huddling near the heater space 

a momentary reprieve;

I didn’t sign up for this…

this being cold since November 

kitchen drawer

twenty-4 years later an’ I’m still sittin’ in a drawer with the odd things that I had planned to use or fix some day, gettin’ tangled in my own cord

redneck city girl

suddenly missing 

the sultry smooth

of a Texas boy’s

intent and the ease

in which I was me

I teeter on the precipice of a forced calm

I thought I had settled in

was settling - in the process of

rooting - envisioning 

implementing the vision 

of the life I would lead

after a life too determined 

a segue in the midst of the trying 

of the boggling 

down in the mire of figuring 

and establishing - hit in a frenzy