phantomdream

delirious bliss, panting
on top
that feeling when you
realize you did it
now you can exhale
goosebumps
over oceans
alone and empty
a vessel, a breath
like open windows
cool summer breezes
the smell of cedar and smoke
the soft sound of fingertips
hitting characters
water boiling
bird sounds
planting seeds
watch me
fall in love
with the world
come
time expanding like
an open chalice
heartwide
sunshine dripping out
the windowpane
home again
sweet space
between nature, nurture
ripples in the skyline
safe earthly haven
awaiting

lonelull

shaking satisfaction in the quiet

scattered gasps inhaling to

the soft mouths of no one

finding the fine point 

of balance between two circles 

undulating at different speeds 

along my palms

when reiki and coconut milk

don’t work 

but sodium bicarbonate does 

fuck white people music

put on that Memphis rap while I 

finely slice mangos into diamonds 

on the living room floor 

push blueberries into bottles

pinch up fresh rosemary 

while words are slung seductively

about eating ‘dat perfect pussay

top it up with that bubbly tea 

let me pour you stone fruit cider 

or cultured swirling ginger beers

feeling slightly fermented while I 

stare at the window out to the alley

drunk cries of delight seep out 

from the edges of glass and drip

into the deep baseline that lulls me

even though this city doesn’t sleep 

she only blinks her eyes

for one hot second 

while the soft pink moon slips her 

hips out from the rain clouds 

and I find peace in the soft tap

of the streetcar pattering 

like a heartbeat 

peace in the hollow empty

of waking up on the couch at 

6:11 in the morning 

patience is not a common quality 

for kittens like me but when I 

slip into my soft, pillowy blankets and sheets

I find peace 

Paper Doll

I’m looking for my paper doll. The one that I’d put super hero capes on. I’ve had it forever. Tucked away in a little box somewhere. Where the fuck is she? I used to draw these Wonder Woman outfits, sometimes she’d be an Amazonian goddess.

It really was the coolest thing.

I can’t find her anywhere. My little paper doll. The one that used to be so strong for me. These little outfits that I’ve drawn. They’re not big enough for me.

I drove this puttering, white convertible in my dream. She wasn’t a doll. But she was paper. Flip flapping when I looked into the mirror. I had this crinkly face, but not like wrinkles, I wasn’t old. I was her. I was paper.

I’d park the car and open the trunk. All the outfits that I’d dream up as a kid, they were real and I could put them on.

It was in the middle of the desert. There was this spinning contraption, this hobby-horse of sorts. It had these streamlining, spinning whirls of colour. It was this levitating sort of alive box. I was headed straight for it in the middle of nowhere. Like it contained all the answers.

But that image kept distracting me. My face as paper. I guess the more I focused on it, the more this world would shatter. The corners of reality coming undone. I stopped trying to get there. I couldn’t control it anymore.

I pulled over and starting tearing at this paper all around me. The skies, the distant contraption, whatever the hell that thing was. It all came undone. Then I started tearing at me. Pulling and ripping apart the very fabric of my being.

It was just this whiteness. This blank. Nothing.
The peace of it.

I found the doll. She always looks so different than how you remembered her.

I’ll rip her up into a million little pieces and let the quails eat me.
What happens when I don’t have the totem anymore.

When I am her?

Pretty Little Thing

SOLTAU SPINNWE2

I don’t think I’m precious. Not much beyond dancing dirt buzzing with animistic instincts. Sometimes the gaping scream inside, it gets too wide. The dark empty. The void. The dance between everything has meaning and nothing really fucking matters.

I’ve drifted here. To have this now.

Ironic, it’s a game. My body is merely a play thing. My thoughts are only to entertain. Dungeons and Dragons, no guide book, no master.  Trotting around on this spinning sphere. Like it means something, like I’m lucky. Like I should try. Futile. A quick lightning strike or a car crashing into a bike.

I get why the monks do sand paintings. Then they wipe it all away.
Like writing a poem and letting the wind carry it over a cliff.

It’s silly to think I’m some kind of God or something. That’s far too much power. I want to be like the rabbit or the snake. I want to just lay in the sun because it feels good. It’s only slaughter, I’m only a liar. It’s only love.

I just wanted to tell you that you’re really special to me.
But nothing lasts forever. It changes like the weather.

And while I’m here. Just for this very brief moment. I’ll allow myself to just be. Breathe.
The urgency, set it free.