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  • 11/17/13--14:51: Nesting Doll



  • Some days I’m still her
    she is inside me like a nesting doll

    some days I split open
    and there she is

    still that crass and skinny cast off
    a pre teen beauty queen
    learning to work
    in a halter top mini- skirt
    and leg warmers
    swaying and twirling her way around the skate rink
    to Journey
    Rick James
    Joan Jett
    lovin rock n roll in her glitter stained roller skates
    hair feathered roach clips
    and teased lips
    red and her high heels waiting in the rental locker
    lights swirling
    she’s thinking
     I’ve got this
     I'm ok, ya know?
     just ok.
     the lights will save me
     the movement will save me
     I'm worth saving
     a bigger me will grow
     up and around this mess like armour
    and having stayed alive til puberty
    having carried it all
    like a bag of knives
    this girl will get to rest
    she’ll get to nest.










                                                                                                                                                                                                  

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  • 11/17/13--16:43: Article 3
  • -->

    after the first hard freeze everything rattles
    what was flowers and swishing green is now stiff and seedless
    shades of brown and yellow
    rattling in a wind that says to me
    gather some around you
    stash some elsewhere
    hammer tight the roof nails

    burn something.

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  • 11/23/13--19:23: when dogs

  • dream and their feet paddle and their lips twitch and snarl
    they are fighting chasing hunting playing
    I dream about pretty young men wanting me
    wake heart racing
    chasing youth
    I dream about my animals
    wake crying out
    I dream about home
    I know board feet   I know rafters

    dogs dream like water carving a desired path
    play  fight  chase

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  • 02/11/14--15:29: Article 1
  • i like to paint trees! this is watercolor.
    image: a watercolor painting of a leafless tree, mostly a view of the trunk, offcenter, with a few long slender branches spreading out parallel to the ground. tree is ribbons of orange red and brown, the sky is ribbons of bright blue.

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  • 05/22/14--19:30: Article 0


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  • 10/25/14--08:30: generating


  • well...it's scorpio season again. yay!! so once again I'm offering up a poem to the dead that reaches for the rest of us living folk....


    Generating

    I’ve got my grandmothers fingers

    thin and long
    weirdly strong and almost always cold

    my time with her was her cancer years
    just into her forties
    she dyed her hair pitch black
    painted her lips a blood crimson
    never smiled because her teeth were bad

    I remember a stern face
    a buried distress
    her bones rising to the surface
    I remember thin

    then nothing

    she was diagnosed when I was two
    I was seven when she died

    and here I am with her fingers
    her cancer hands
    were the hands I knew
    with her fingers I make
    as many beautiful things as I can

    she haunts me with her stubborn self destruction
    she haunts me with her grief hard beauty

    my hands feel my breast free ribcage and sternum
    where all the complexities
    of self love and survival converge

    her hands played the banjo
    her hands cradled endless cigarettes
    her hands
    didn’t touch me

    I’m learning to touch people with intent
    as I would touch animals and plants
    with ease and open need
    Its hard to remember that it’s important

    human touch

    as important as making beautiful things
    as important as inhabiting
    ourselves
    as important as illness
    that thrusts impermanence at us
    with all the pain of change
    with all the beautiful things that bloom and wilt
    and bloom again
    it is the poison
    it is unwanted touch
    it is the hard cold and weirdly strong world
    that moves to break us

    and so we smoke strum paint and die
    we inherit bones and grief
    we make do
     make hard choices
     lean into pained beauty
     pass everything on

    we make things grow
    and neglect them

    and sometimes they grow anyway

     in memory of  Gladys Fink-Ambrose



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  • 12/15/14--08:54: love poem to depression
  •  


    hold
    me in your deep
    dirty pockets
    smell like home
    help me once again slip
    into that threadbare shirt
    that’s worn itself down on my stubborn frame

    cloak
    my thoughts till they curve
    beneath the weight of all that
    insistent one on one
    reliable
    if you’re anything at all
    but vapor or an occasional smoke
    occasional pen in hand

    on occasion
    I make a list of things to do
    then as I cross them off  you’re roused
    to reach for me
    but my poems
    they make you slow smile
    sit back
    and wait

    it’s a chemical love story
    we are unspoken tracks in the flesh
    we are bloom and wilt and bloom again
    til death do us part into stars
    complete
    a dirty pocket dweller
    a high beam burning up
    a fleeting springtime bloom
    of this won’t last

    there’s nothing to fix.

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  • 03/04/15--11:44: the balm

  • is in the foggy river valley
    the budding cottonwoods 
    teeming with bird song
    the train rolling through

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  • 06/04/15--14:49: sap rising
  • -->

    cottonwood comes slowly
    to green
    first the buds
    swell beaded with golden
    healing resin
    then catkins
    bursting tassles of femme
    birthdays
    laughter
    and parades of gay
    then the leaves
    bright lime unfolding
    lace fans of vitality into a waxy deep green
    that reflects sun on shimmering rivers
    then the hearts rustle the hustle of being alive
    a money tree shakes with stars


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  • 07/21/15--15:09: years of desire

  • in the dark of your mouth
    where the words come
    up to tell me
    Hold very still
    Show me
    how good you can be



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    this outta me in the brilliant Hard Femme Poetics class I'm taking with Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha... xoxoxox



    femme has already bloomed
    boldly to the sun
    finds rest in the wilt
    knowledge in decomposing
    desire fermenting the air
    beneath apple trees
    fruit all over the ground
    teeming
    stumbling over ripe seed
    dropped
    toxic, reeking and gorgeous
    bees gather just above the loam
    hum a thick chorus of devotion

    femme moves my tongue
    roams my mouth habitually counting teeth
    pushing up against them
    checking their grip
    finds rest in the sum of parts

    femme counts teeth like loose change
    blooms at moonrise
    ripens in the dappled light
    on soft ground
    femme
    swallows whole.







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  • 01/10/16--18:43: grief is a beast

  • a hard lover

    smoke

    that leaves
    debris lodged
    unseen and dangerous

    inside

    a deep calm body
    of grey water
    grief
    is bodies becoming
    battleground
    ghosts
    becoming
    only hearts
    only blue suffocated blood

    circulating through us just lookin for holes

    grief is a hole

    vacates
    whenever

    returns
    whenever



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  • 01/10/16--18:48: Article 1
  • watercolor.
    image: text reads "immigrants and refugees welcome here" on a light orange background with a large pink wild rose in the center and smaller dark green leaves of a rose bush with buds and rose hips framing the text.

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  • 03/10/16--16:43: when heartbreak

  • puts your back out pulls 
    an endless supply of ocean from your eyes
    and hot water makes you howl and moan
    makes you take inventory counting bills
    in every hidden envelope
    means you lie flat on hot then cold turned carefully 
    so some of that shit’s gonna be ok sunshine
    soaks the soles of your feet
    when ghost cats purr in your lap
    when time drowns in shock
    and love is root stock, terpenes and salt

    heartbreak rolls stone
    exposes grief curling up shocked at the sudden light

    decocts tannins and flowers with thorns
    boundaryless body pain that stops you
    means nothing at all
    but steep and wait
    stroke ghosts
    don't drown







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  • 07/03/16--07:25: I am not Orlando


  • I’m a lot of things survivor
    one bad turna luck from hungry
    I’m sick and low class and as queer
    as it comes shocked and I’m grieving

    but I am not Orlando

    colonization did not destroy my homeland
    demonize my heart
    leave me lookin for sanctuary
    on a dazzling dance floor of family rhythms and tongues
    leave my open joy a target

    and yeah,  
    I started hitting the bars at 15
    twirling under lights or tucked up in back corner darkness
    riding out something horrible in the humid n heaving
    safety of the club

    but whiteness took me takes me home safer than most
    handed me the power of citizenship at birth

    hell, even in the welfare line I’ve got “potential”

    and my fellow white trans and queer folk
    while we mire in rainbow slick pools of grief and privilege
    let’s remember this
    white supremacy is designed to strip us of depth and meaning
    leave us empty save for that unspilled lavender blood
    eager for narratives that simulate connection

    since privilege only disconnects

    whiteness always harvests trauma

    serves it up with heightened security
    rainbow cops
    gay friendly prison TV shows
    and how quickly all the queer and trans black and brown ghosts
    are woven seamlessly into grant deadlines and no fly lists
    right along side our most tender truest bleeding hearts

    and I’m a lotta things,
    the colonizers daughter,
    a sick and useless casualty of capitalism,
    a bottom feeder
    and I know death and I know loss
    but whiteness gets me through it safer than most
    less a target and not a ghost

    so my fellow white queers
    lets not harvest lets not honeymoon
    and call it equality
    lets not settle down on top of black, brown n indigenous lives and consume
    lets not whitewash this trauma and hand it to profit
    lets not whitewash 500 years of resistance

    lets not call the cops

    let’s check our legacies
    shift our resistance to deep foundational change
    let’s call each other over
            call each other in

    cuz while we are a lot of things all tender,
    fucked up and beautiful

    we are not Orlando































































































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  • 10/15/16--19:10: femme full moon


  • I’m with the witches
    and the whores
    the seeded queens
    the beauty makers

    the rusty dragons
    downers
    and loose change

    I’m with risk

    and a bad turn

    I eat the rich

    like a spell casting
    pre- internet harlot

    I’m in it for the cash crop

    I’m with thorns

    the stay the fuck off me

    the make a wish moon

    the seeded

    I’m with water

    and the rusted beauty
    she creates
    the seeded
    queens that teach us love.




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  • 10/26/16--14:33: negative space

  • the morning is cloudy
    smells like water
    and the sky is full of cranes and their cooing
    song says
    stay warm
    move as you must
    sing

    I need the sky full of cranes to fill the space you are not in
    I need soft steady companions
    I need purpose
    and as the mundane and the routines come slowly back
    into focus
    I realize they are the remedy
    the dirty dishes are there to ground me cover my hands
    in warm moving water

    the laundry waits for me
    in warm moving water
    the bath waits for me
    to come clean
    come back

    move as i must
    stay warm

    I need to fill the spaces you are not in
    I need to feed the cat
    I need to warm water
    for a tea of roses
    I need all the roses
    I need my lovers soft steady hands to bring my skin back
    from following you out to the negative space
    that waits for us all

    I gave you my softest steadiest hands
    cooing to you
    as you died

    I caught it all in a
    small cup of water

    I poured it onto rosemary
    this morning
    beneath the cranes.


    -for Agatha



                      




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    I want to know your pain
    hold it up to the light of my own
    let them touch
    lean linger
    love the familiar
    bones of honesty
    the world hits
    hard breaks bruises
    and terrifies
    delights in our masks of able
    while we drown
    wears down bone to sea glass
    so let’s celebrate our sea glass survival
    beautiful
    spill all the broken worn and translucent remains
    out
    onto the kitchen table between us and weep salt
    in our knowing
    no masks


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  • 08/01/12--07:16: let go.
  • -->


     And all of a sudden today I leave here for good. For the second day now, I woke up in the morning not feeling well at all. Can’t breath, eyes crusted shut, glands swollen.
    It’s the mold. Too much for me. While all the rain has been lovely, this old house can't handle it. What began as a faint musty smell has bloomed into east coast basement smell. The point of coming here is to feel better not just a different kind of sick. So that’s it. Such a quick turn around, but I know in my bones I have to go. So I’ve spent the day packing up when what I thought today would be was sketching and writing and –breathing-.

    Methodical and too familiar, I begin with my clothes, towels, bedding.
    Then books, arts supplies, movies. Boxes. Bags.
    Moving mode is like a ghost at my back. Triggering.
    I’ve done this too many times. Too many.
    Adrenaline arrives to carry me.
    I’m efficient, numb to my surroundings.
    Can’t rest til its done.
    but the land keeps poking me , piercing the numb with humming or blue birds, tiny horny toads or a soft warm clean wind across the open endless grass.
    and pierced, I weep.
    Then gather myself and push on...toothbrush, soaps and lotion.

     Lastly, I dismantle my little shrine, bury the  contents of the bowl (dirt, seeds, a small petition, a blue candle ) in the yard at the base of the fruit tree sapling. I drop the coins down the old hand dug well in front of the house and make a wish.
    Actually 2.
    Country home.
    Enough.


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