that's mrs. mediocrity to you

i’ve burned through all the memories

walked through fire
sifted ash

blackened fingers drawing hieroglyphs
to guide me through the grief that buries living

i light candles at dawn and bonfires at dusk
build a fortress of flame
and sleep on embers

i’ve been phoenix so many times
my house is strewn with feathers
(ankle-deep and sharp as quills)

i’ve put you out and opened windows
always feeding the desire to breathe
(which i think is the same as freedom)

i remember the night i woke in terror at the blanket of smoke swirling over my bed
i remember the way i laughed later, when it turned out to be a dream
i remember the way it still feels entirely exactly undeniably

real

truth always finds a way to be revealed

watch time float by
on the whisper of living

breathe in blue sky
and never exhale

light the candle
of forgiveness
and forget to blow it out

speak the song
of the silenced
or rather, start to sing

watch a heron
kiss the water
in a solitude of sunshine

stand taller
than the mountain
you just climbed

ride the train of broken tears
that barrels down
each side

embrace the clouds
that hover close
to the places you last cried

.

give it all away

.

and watch time

float by

on the whisper

of living

…

the avenue where
you ate the last fish

as it held your lost stare
(contemplation’s false glare)

and the dark apple
current
pulling luck under

in the back row seat
of certainty’s corner

we fed our fill
on the silence of empty

and burnished long scars
still shiny with memory

until sky led to sea
in the bed that was always
losing its way

we reached for warm hands
over-stuffed
with the blind weight
of grief

grasping for sand

as it spilled down
clean sheets

and returned to the water

salt bled us

…

eating nothing

but these hours

that devour

and the

black hole distance

between full

and fortified

in the night sky

lost eye

feast

of raw

subsistence

…

scarred scared and disrepaired
the tagline of last soldiers
loss holders
heart boulders

we are the collection
of collectors
gathering bones and
burying stones

building cairns
in bare memory
corners

and backing away
ever so gently
despite the premise promise
of tumble
and tremor

. . .

it’s dawn
and the mockingbird
is spinning

suddenly i want

to fly again
straight off the ends
of this square peg earth
into the winding path
of freedom’s glee

burrow deep into the heart
of day-blind skunk
and know the strength
that builds red bricks
from beasts of prey

ripple down
across the shoulder
of this rolled-boulder current
pounded smooth against
a blanket of doused flame

no longer
broken
but
broken open

open

and mirrored
plain

yet again

i climbed a mountain to return a heart-shaped rock,
walked a forest and forgave the past of everything,
broke a leg and knitted living back together,
skirted vulture cliffs and jumped only with my smile,
buried crack-lipped hallelujahs beneath the twisted tree of pain

it’s morning
and the mockingbird

is singing

. . . . .

in that hole in my heart
(you know the one)
left behind in the wake
of a wave

core scoured clean
scored by sand
and detritus
scars scratched
into every blind surface

echo etchings
scratched
into permanent
reminder

water always runs
to the lost lowest point
filling crack and crevice
with surface reflection

magnifying truth
and creating mirage
in the desert
of dutiful
destruction

the way it all shifts
when you learn
to walk through
rather than running
astray

the way trust
is a shell
balanced on backs
until we outgrow
the idea

the way a heart
always knows
its measure of weight
and its own
constellation of scars

the way hope
is not hollow
and just holding on
is more fragile
than strength to let go

.

.

listen here

i’ve got all these pieces
shard sharp and jagged edged
heart blood dark
and silence hole

splayed across
this worn wood floor
tracing steps and trapped pretension
as it all rolls uphill
sideways

mirror mirror
pasted smile
fallen glimpses in the corner of reflection
shape shifting
loose oil carnage

and the dream I had
before
our room filled with smoke
my mind-body
shaking us both awake
certain there was fire

i still see the haze each midnight
floating right
above the quilt
i bought
to shelter the you
(or me)
i can never quite
remember

.

listen here:

the year I became
an old woman

was the same year
the snows never came

the same year
your heartless mirror
turned my skin truth-brittle

the same year
black birds refused to fly

and i remembered
(at long last)
how to cry

heart and hands
bent and broken

scrabble-holding
weightless forest

neither you
nor i

but the (w)hole
damn mess

the same year
water taught me
how to whisper

the same year
i spat bitterness
back to center

washed myself clean

the same year
as those that marched
in pattern-dashes
of before

you always leaving

me always loving

someone
never there

and only trees
know the last
ancient riddle

bearing witness to the scars
of hollow hearts

still standing

(always standing)

shedding leaves
like tears
at the threat
of yet another

dark-buried
bold-cold

winter

.  .  .

.

.

listen to my reading of as it turns out below: