cotton candy soup

i talked to god
she said she would do her best to find our family
between This World and the Not Yet
no promises, though, these things are tricky
i said i appreciated her effort and honesty

anticip-

the clouds say you're coming

but the wind changed direction and that indicates an unknown variable

four out of nine leaves on my tree are leaning towards the door - perhaps they know something i don't

three boxes of animal crackers say i was expecting you
the wrinkles in my sheets feign indifference - "we don't care, either way"

the forty-five thousand thoughts that crossed my mind on the elevator
between the second and third floors suggest
that i care about you, and whether or not you
show up

the nonchalant fork left dirty in the sink is my method of
convincing myself that it doesn't matter, and
the breeze through the window reminds me that i have
no say, no right, no part,

and yet
and yet
and yet the pace of my breath, the flush in my face, the jam in my throat, the thrill in my hands betray my logic

and i am overjoyed at the prospect of you
for a few minutes, just you --
overjoyed at the prospect alone

salted kisses

but this, this is a new animal.
this is a different kind of
bittersweet. this is
new.

before, my yearnings had been
obscured, vague,
yearnings to get away
instead of yearnings toward,
to name that which ill-suited me,
and to grasp, indelicately, at
what I imagined my desires to be.

now, as the tide turns, comes in,
I throw myself towards the things
I want, knowing now what they are,
because they've taken reality's form.
And they haunt me, those things I want,
because though I see them, though I lap
at them, drink them in through
words and voice and starbursts of the heart,
I know I cannot have, I cannot truly
know.

I will be beckoned, once again,
towards the weary, worldly sea, I'll ebb out
and away, pulled by the moon, dragging
myself slowly, gently releasing my
grasp of each grain of sand, leaving salted
kisses where they lay.

At least, at very least, I'll have tasted.

dreaming of

dreaming of long paths in a green wood,
i'm one of a few finding my way but
we're separately seeking. i fly low,
at some points.
i come to the top plateau of
a waterfall, and realizing i can't go down, i must go back
up over a slate rock ridge, and as i realize this, others
show up. we help each other back onto the path.

another scene, i'm traveling - on a ship or
a train? - with a wealthy, haughty, older crowd.
and sitting at a round dining table in a dining car or
room, and one individual is more alone than the others,
and for a reason: he's a bit obnoxious. but he makes a point:
he went from world traveler to all alone in an airplane bathroom,
and someone mis-interprets and finds him even more obnoxious,
but i re-interpret on his behalf, and make sure he is
understood correctly. and i'm happy to play that role.

another scene, much like the path, i am with some friends,
some strangers, in a massive, gargantuan home owned
by two older women. dark wood, dark rugs, antiques, all
old and stately and dark. we are let loose in the house for the night,
and i explore room to room, we all do, as though there is
an endpoint, though we leave once we find a way out.
more helping each other, and a laotian boy becomes enamored with me
when he thinks he hears me speak his language to a young girl.
and as i so often do, i allow him to project upon me, and
see what he wishes, and be pleased, knowing that i may one day
break my back arching so far to be what i am not. i never admit to
what he suspects, but i never deny. just smile my knowing smile
and let him be.

one other piece: at the end, in early morning, we leave. but there is a
very very very tiny dog. a golden retriever or some other long-haired
classic, standing on a very tiny book by the foyer. he's small enough to
palm, and quite alive although my instinct is that he's really
a human in canine form, and that he understands
quite well human action and speech. anyway, the owner of the
home encourages me to take him with me and keep him,
and i seriously consider it (he comes with a short paragraph of
instructions printed on the back of the book, including
"wet with finger twice a day" to keep clean, and i've so been wanting a
dog and this might be the ticket to a low-maintenance pet),
but the woman senses my hesitance and decides not to push,
but offers to keep the dog there for me if i want to come back.

wierdwierdwierd.

to be warm

to create space, to make love
tangible, to scatter powdered sugar
over those i love and have before.

to sink down in feather-fed
pillows, to eat with gusto,
to breathe with spontaneity.

to forget with patience and
remember with my head
tilted to one side, accepting. to bury the
memories in years of sand and dig them
out from time to time, to find
the images scratched and grainy now
and the words muffled. to wipe away the
sand and see the rough sketch,
the general significance, to let the details go.

to sit on the sand, over memories,
to breathe in the sun and be
warm.

fruta de la muerte

I requested from Ashley-
friend, confidant, newly practiced in
matters of health-
that she administer a lethal dose.
I lay face-up on a hospital bed
in a starched room, and accepted first
from her a raw egg, which I swallowed
dutifully, and then a purple ball,
fruit-like, perfectly round and cut
in half. Just as I finished swallowing,
the darkness closed in and I focused
on the sensation of losing sensation,
calm and ready to end my life.

Later, I awoke. I considered what I had
done and determined that it was better
I live, as I had accomplishments yet to
attempt. I left the bed and sought
out my friends at a local eatery; others
at a bar. I hugged and thanked them
for their support, but announced that
I would be living, for now.

No one was particularly shocked one way
or the other. This was comforting.

oh, the magic

This morning I ambled a bit awkwardly
through the market, peeking
around bundles of green
onions and over piles of Japanese
eggplant, searching for someone.

She was a middle-aged blond at a small booth.
Spying her, I burst into tears.
Sigh, typical.
An older man shook her hand in thanks,
took up his cane, and
walked away.

I, being quite brave given enough
time to prepare, ducked around a corner.
I cried, in preparation, and had a phone
conversation with the one person whose
permission I sought. I calmed down,
sidled up, and sat on the folding chair opposite her.

After establishing the facts, she allowed:
Your sign is opposite the sun, right now.
That is to say...you're searching for light,
in darkness. Brilliantly, she concluded after
my face crinkled, weeping, that I was in
a great great deal of pain.

Money is flipping you out, she said.
Check.
So what would you like to know? Relationships?
I asked what options were on the menu.
Well, she said, I'll just start talking, and
we'll see how it goes. I learned the following:

My current love(d) is not so new to my soul as I might like to believe,
but rather, our love is recycled, 248 years after the fact.
That's right: in the year of our Lord 1761, we were
together. My great loves are destined to be Cancers.
Astrologically speaking, that is.

Some big decisions October 10 of this year, and
I'll find the great career of my life in January 2011.
I'll be 25, and that's much ahead of the 28-year, 8-month
point at which most regular souls find their callings.
(I'm recording this for posterity and revision at a later date).

Anyway, what struck me most was her inclination that
I AM A HEALER.
Yep. That's right. A healer.

It sounded so right and sweet to my ears. The matching
of "you" and "healer" infused me with a confidence
and a patience and a power I hadn't felt in ages.
I am more sure of my capacity to heal myself, now,
so that I can work towards opening myself
to my own healing powers. I look forward to both.

She said, at the end, that I needed that. And whether
or not she's full of malarky, I agree,
wholeheartedly.