generational healing

Sludgy socks won’t keep me this time. I’m treading through though you cannot see we slipped past into the next. I heard it tastes like water so sweet you find gems below. It sounds like crystals hanging from a large tree clinking and tapping hello hello welcome dear one. We felt tender for a while then dipped our toes. You know a good sandwich helps with that. We only eat strawberries here. We dip them in sugar so sticky it stays with our lips, you can see it in the photos. And that field. I want us to go back there. Before any of this. Do you even feel it anymore? Was it ever real? Will I continue waking up from illusions that once were but never was?

pleasure in the process

I’ve recently realized I’ve lost taste for Body. Leather stings on chapped bones. The moon brought me wisdom on a lilac plate and I thanked her with a kiss. Sweetwater fills joy like jasmine. A cup too many too little for the stone. I carved my Pain into the stone I brought the pitcher down, sweetwater home to beam moonlight down our throats. Sing the glory spew the dawnsettled into dusty corners for one more night…

Chant for an evening of memories & wishes.

Thrice repeated thrice recited.

I wish I could go back 3 years and tell the woman I met in the bathroom at work that I did in fact go to Montessori school 22 years ago – she was correct about my hand-washing. I wish I could tell the balded man I see walking around the city once a month that I can see his meditation. To the squirrel that visits my living room window around 11a.m. with a peanut butter cracker sandwich: I see you regarding me, and you know we both eat. To my grandpa it would be something about me being an artist, and then realizing the nostalgia he lives in. To the trees I see (and sometimes curse), something like I love you.

I wish I could go back 3 years and tell the woman I met in the bathroom at work that I did in fact go to Montessori school 22 years ago – she was correct about my hand-washing. I wish I could tell the balded man I see walking around the city once a month that I can see his meditation. To the squirrel that visits my living room window around 11a.m. with a peanut butter cracker sandwich: I see you regarding me, and you know we both eat. To my grandpa it would be something about me being an artist, and then realizing the nostalgia he lives in. To the trees I see (and sometimes curse), something like I love you.

I wish I could go back 3 years and tell the woman I met in the bathroom at work that I did in fact go to Montessori school 22 years ago – she was correct about my hand-washing. I wish I could tell the balded man I see walking around the city once a month that I can see his meditation. To the squirrel that visits my living room window around 11a.m. with a peanut butter cracker sandwich: I see you regarding me, and you know we both eat. To my grandpa it would be something about me being an artist, and then realizing the nostalgia he lives in. To the trees I see (and sometimes curse), something like I love you.

We hail ourselves to the sunrise at dusk

We’re too afraid to skinny dip in the night or in the day

we slip to the phrase I don’t know while tugging at satin skirts

we know the butter returns at sunset under the pink float sky

the feet that get muddied and stuck with grass are the feet that

say I know

the scraped knee maybe bruised certainly burnt knee says me too

that bewildered face connected to yours with its tongue hung out

it’s saying body hurt body not butter skin anymore

the healing bush stings at its application and we tell it no

slung back shoots and chugs we find the feet the knee that knows