she called it sculpture

In the pay-what-you-can gathering where i previewed the format for the art of writing, sharing and performing poetry class i'm offering on thursday nights, 8-10pm, beginning the 14th, 4 thursdays in a row--she called it sculpture. she called it something there in the wet set of yest that makes itself whatever it is when it makes itself up. i am, what? exactly? thinking about editing. about organizing. about throwing things away. about making product. about making necklaces of story and sitting quietly on the ground and being myself, like mama tree, there on the sidewalks of san francisco, making and teaching and doing her unobtrusive thing. i am not brave enough for mama tree's life, but i am learning to be brave enough for my own. and this poetry offering is a beginning. and i am full of expectation and hope and possibility and joy and desire and willingness to grow for four thursdays in a row with the gathering tribe of willing participants edging toward sculpture. an elegant solution.

i wish i could want

i wish i could want it
the dissolution
i want
the freedom
i want
the courage
i want
the life
i want
i wish i could want it
more than wantlessness
floating on a salty sea
of expanding horizon
where
is the other side
of over there?
now that i have jumped
the fence
collapsed as it was
the barbed wire
not even ancient
but rusted just the same
fence post
laying
face down
in the muddy truth
of sacred ground.

i lay in the sand
face down to the tiny particles of
remaking themselves
bits
of dirt
and bodies
of crusted dead
shells and seaweed
and underwater worlds
of pure alive

why isn't it easier
to discern
who
the predators are
in my life?

how i can curl
up
into
sleep
and make the world
go away
for as long as i
can agree
to sleep
in this
peaceful state
of still dreaming.

i want something else now
what is it?

recovery

words
write themselves
on virtual pages
of non-existant
existing still
in the uttered unutterances
of throat chackras
full of unsaid things
unsayable even
in the day
of this night
of this day
of this night
of this day
of this night
so many string themselves together
distracting from the essences
of whatever it is that comes
from wherever it does
whoa
to finish the un
of not
what?
why
must i
put his
memory
in
the
metal
bin
of
thisturday
thaturday
what
makes itself
as offering
in the middle
of the
holy
knot
untying
its unbreakable
broken
promise?