I was walking around my dining room last night, holding heaven in my arms.
For the past 31 days, I have been high on love.
I was given a promise in 2009, and it took until 2017 for all the pieces to fall divinely into place.
I am fabulously tired.
I’m outrageously joyful.
Her name is Grace Carole.
I am her mother.
She is one month old today.
“…And the world thought I had it all,
but I was waiting for you…”
It could be an oxymoron
Like Decaf coffee
Or democratic racism
Or just words on a page
A tattoo on an elbow
When you draw on rocks
What does that change?
You, I think
There are ghosts in the machine
Or smoke blown up an arse
Perhaps this is too political for a morning sip
I am lost in this country
Only for old men
Complex like milkfat
Begging to be allowed
To do what I want with my own stuff
To be complex
To love and lovingly disagree
To rest in Psalm 23
To think in lines of poetry
Perhaps this is too sexist for a morning sip
I am tired of blatant disregard
Of being unequipped for the job
you just told me to do
As if you had the authority
to tell me that your way is the right way
Caulk the hole in that wall
And pretend it is pristine
But you work with hands of hammers
Judging as you bring them down
Perhaps this is too corporate for a morning sip
I don’t like being lied about
Especially by the self-deceived
You don’t have to like
You don’t have to agree
But at least have the balls to tell the truth about me
Someone digested stupidity
Wrote it down, like that made it true
I have to laugh
Perhaps this is too unforgiving for a morning sip
Sometimes in the night I have the artistic dance with word-description-images that ping me. I’ve had a couple snippets pop up that I wanted to share. They are not related, but they’ve been hopping up and down on my mind and so I figure I’ll place them here, and maybe they’ll seed.
I am an elephant, trying for you to dance on teacups.
Am I not beautiful as my own natural largeness?
As he spoke words I couldn’t hear
His white gloved finger drew a chalk line
Down the center of my breastbone
My heart pulsing on the inside
His intention on the outside
He opened me up with the chalk
And ran his finger over my heart
It burned when he touched me
But he didn’t give a damn
About my rights
About the skin
He cut through to my heart
I still don’t know what he said
Knowing is deeper and more grounded
the very word comprised mostly of motion
the foundation of Knowing is something
you cannot fathom without work
it takes work to change a Knowing
it takes circumstance to change an Emotion.
I see a connection…