Whoo-Wee, Now That’s A Car!


Listen up, now boys’n’girls, I have a tale to tell. It is the beginning, middle & one of the truest endings of the American Dream. And it’s all about a car.

I never, in my most crazy-assed dreams, thought I could feel this way about a vehicle. Cars belong to the practical means of achieving an end: getting from one place to another. Basic, yeh? Other than earnestly desiring a plum Challenger in my earliest married years, I cannot recall paying much attention to the auto industry.

I’ve had any number of cars & all have been memorable. From the second-year Honda hatchback from the days when they came only in gray & maroon & the guy I asked to check the oil opened the hood said, “Hey! This engine’s sideways!” I have not attempted to stay afloat in the sea of car fashion. I’m a firm contestant in the dog-paddle Olympics of Intramural Car Ownership. So, you get it, right? Economy, fun-drive, limited but sporty, serviceable…a landau roof being the big splurge on decorative touches.

But my Chevy Volt is in the shop. And it needs special handling. I think there’s about maybe three techs in NM certified in Volt repair. Something about the battery containing the energetic potential pulse of a nuclear reactor & the battery light is what came on. They need someone gloved, aproned, safety-spectacled, etc. The Volt tech at Bravo Chevy in Las Cruces must be in big demand. I’ll lay odds he wears a cape to work & his button-up blues have a big, red, triangular ‘S’ on the back.

Well, while I miss my li’l Sparkle Plenty, topaz blue, four-stroke, low-to-the-ground baby, I have achieved the playoffs of driving here. First, they loaned me a new Malibu. It was so silver-grey, it disappeared in full daylight. At night, it was a gleam with red lights in the rear. The doors opened so widely my short arms wouldn’t reach, I had to undo the seatbelt, lean out, grab the door & apply some bicep to close it. (You may scoff at this, but my passenger had to do the same thing.) I tell you Truth. The Malibu had a lot of class, some great features, one of which being a back-up camera I couldn’t decipher ‘cause the lines made it look to me like checking the end zone for a touchdown run…backwards. Good car, but of limited comfort for staid little ole me.

The guy at the agency hadn’t pointed out the 500-mile limit on the contract. So, when I called a week later to check status on my car, he asked if I was close to that. I ran outside to check, and yes, I was within 71 miles. (The agency is 83.3 miles door-to-door from my home, & I wasn’t at home.)

He said, “BRING IT BACK! We’ll get you into another loaner!” Now, to me, there’s something eco-unfriendly about driving 83.3 miles on a mileage allowance I’ve already inadvertently exceeded, to get into another car where I get a second shot at 500 miles. Don’t they have a fax machine? In New Mexico, everything of any high brand name quality (Natural Grocers, anything other than “Wonder” or “Ferdinand” as movie of the week, Staples, Lowes – you get the picture) is 70 miles one way. It’s not like I wasted the miles I was given. But there was that one joyride with my girlfriend when we went to Las Cruces as she needed a jeweler other than Walmart to assess a collector’s item. In my defense, I didn’t know about that 500-mile clause then.

Yesterday, I picked up my favorite passenger & headed for the stadium lights. Car sales is as much of a sports contest as any NFL game, so the wattage seems appropriate. It was late in the day when we left. We planned a dinner out of town & a stop at aforesaid Natural Grocers.

My service rep, with whom I am developing quite the relationship, cheerfully calls me “Miss Borsello,” causing me to look over my shoulder for someone else – I’ve been “Yo! Carol!” for a long time now.) Anyway, he put me into a brand-new, nipple-hardening bright white, 8-cylinder Impala. We’re talking top of the line here. I felt my canines growing immediately upon adjusting the seat so I could see out the windshield & over the steering wheel. Then it got more serious as my right foot developed a lead coating & I think a penis started to sprout somewhere down below. (Sorry for the sex analogies, but I am talking such a sensuous experience with driving this car, it was one of huge proportion for my Life Without Hormones since the 80’s (when I went through menopause three times while withdrawing from HRT.)

I do believe any American between sixteen & eighteen years of age will tell you the same, with perhaps more forceful language. There is utterly nothing in my life that got to me like driving this car at this time & I’ve been married thrice. My friend said, “Carol, I think we passed the turn for that Italian restaurant two streets back – you need to get into the left lane.” I was in the third lane over at the time from left-most. I smiled, said, “No prob!” And goosed my new “John White” on the green light…we made the next left. Lead can be worth more than gold sometimes, yeh?

Coming home, the Sirius radio offered us some, like, polka from Japan, so we listened to comedy. I’m annoyingly picky about music. I hate Steely Dan, can’t tolerate Frank Sinatra, & set fire to EZ listening CDs for kicks. We listened to comedy which we carefully turned down while going through the Border Checkpoint 20 miles out of town, lest we unintentionally smile.

But after I dropped my friend off at the meet-up parking lot & checked out the stations, I found Pink Floyd. I was GONE. I felt like I was in my personal jet en route to some island. I turned it up beyond ear-splitting (OMG! Actual volume without winding it up to a max 32!) I pinned the volume button, applied my right foot & passed my friend who was already tooling down the highway before I began my research. I think her car spun around a couple of times. A languid wave of a lifted hand, a murmured “Hey” & was at the exit for town in a blink. Going 40 after getting off I-25 allowed me to find a few more stations. By the time I pulled up in front of my apartment, I sealed the windows, closed my eyes, tried unsuccessfully for even more volume & blissed out on “The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys” as the car & I vibrated happily together.

This morning when I woke, I thought to walk to our regular Wednesday Coffee Klatsch at B’s house. Then I went outside. My salivary glands overflowed, my canines extended over my bottom lip, my hand involuntarily flickered over the remote fob. Devoid of conscious volition, I pushed the ‘unlock’ button. John White responded with a flirtatious flicker of the lights & walking was suddenly stupid. Who needs exercise?

We coasted down the hill. What a shame B only lives 1.5 miles away. I was ready to take a serious bite out of that 500. Parking demurely, still humming “Locomotive Breath,” I stroked his flank as I left the car, went inside, had my coffee, chatted up friends on topical stuff & left. All RIGHT! Let’s go to the library (sadly, even closer than 1.5.) I forgot my library bag, & when I realized I hadn’t returned my movies, I immediately drove home, turned around & took them back. Don’t want to be late on returning them, right? I only had 13 more days until due, after all.

I love my apartment. I love my little car. I love my life. I just have this fantastic Grand Opportunity at the Publisher’s Clearinghouse of cars in my immediate future. Who am I to argue such a present? I don’t know about looking a gift horse in the mouth, but, baby, I ain’t even opening the hood on this one!



Believing is Seeing / Seeing is Believing

People listen to my viewpoints with a kind of fascinated disbelief. Their eyes say, “Oh, come on, Carol, you don’t really believe that, do you?”  but what comes out of their mouths is: “Where do you get this information?” This said, with a peculiar emphasis which is almost threatening. I am challenging their belief system, after all.

When I suggest sites for them to  peruse to form their own ideas or opinions, they shake their heads quickly… They want for me to come up with proof of what I consider my proofs. Of course I cannot do that on my own – I’m telling them what’s been shown to me. Just because I have read that big Pharma is the most profitable business on earth, I am suspect. Because I have seen that there is research showing that computers, iPhones, Echos & other such devices are extensions of the Big Brother Spy State, where does this conversation then go if they are unwilling to watch a video about the Georgia Guidestones, or look at Q Anon posts (or their many explications), watch “Snowden,” or somehow begin to assimilate the twenty-plus years of following such info about which I speak.

I can’t possibly introduce them to all of my sources. This matches that they can’t possibly believe what I am saying. I have watched eyes glaze over for far less info-share!

Are their mainstream media sources any more reliable than my conspiracy theory ones? Thing is, how do we tell? Isn’t this the same thought processing that denies harm in the way Monsanto degrades our foods, Naval sonar testing is destroying marine life, pedophilia is being “normalized” as a disorder instead of a sickening aberration of raising children?

I understand many will not share my beliefs. I am not convincing them, nor doing otherwise than introducing the topics for consideration. To dismiss them out of hand is to simply accept that there may be dragons where the maps don’t draw any more lines. There are forces out there which will put paid to disseminating such beliefs as I have read about, thought about & developed a knowledge base around. These forces are actually paid fudge things up.

Me? I’m just your short Italian debt slave who’s had the opportunity to make a more monied lifestyle only now in later years. Even so, I don’t own a house, a car, my furniture or some of my more recently purchased clothing. I dabble occasionally in paying for food with a credit card when I don’t have the cash to stock the larder. While this is unfortunate (possibly unnecessary) & by no means different from how a large number of citizens live today, it’s the paradigm in which I live, move & have my being. And it is only my beliefs that all of this will improve into a possibility over a probability that keeps me on in that joy & peace that passes understanding.

There are those three stages of belief: 1) No way, 2) Well, maybe, 3) Of course!

Where are you?


Look Both Ways

At the two ends of my days, I still my mind & whisper inside it, “Thank You!”

The mornings sing with promise & the evenings with premise. When I have slept & awaken to the expectation of another day, I choose to have it be orderly & full of life. When I lie down to sleep, I breathe in the now-deflated activities to bestir them once more. In that minute, I can see the what & how of my day’s deeds. Usually I achieve clarity on situations which set of the railroad crossing arms, clanging internal bells, & bringing down barriers in the moments they unfold.

This is where the proverbial “shoulda/coulda/woulda/if” dragon rears to flicker its tongue inside the brain. The witty reply you should have made, the idea you could have brought forth, the best possible behavior you would have taken to settle all once & future doubt…we don’t even have to consider the “if” because you have already experienced it as you’ve mentally closed out this sentence.

A recent example of this is a fella I met who told me he felt the people he met here in T or C did not get when he was being “jocular” (his word.) My midnight consideration of this pronouncement brought up his continual smile. Do you assume someone is joking when they only smile? Is that accurate? Perhaps as accurate as his feeling we were all too serious. My midnight consideration put together many later facts that emerged: He grows marijuana & makes a living selling it. The rapid speech, the soft voice, the simple grin were probably all indications of his being under the influence. Am I wrong? I could be; but this made the most sense to me in my retrospective of the situation. I have little respect at this point of my life for dope dealers. They interfere with life.

The shadow & the light are at play right now, as in some cosmic tennis match. We are served illusion & disinformation as a matter of course. I keep hearing that I should be discerning, but I’ve lost the meaning of the word. Each time I tune into something in which to believe, an equal, opposite case is made. So, I reserve judgment, observe my perception of reality & live by my truth.

In the movie, “What The [Bleep] Do We Know”, Joe Dispenza introduces his idea of creating your day. Here’s a link to a transcript: “I Create My Day” (Joe Dispenza)

If you don’t care to read all the words, a video interview is available: Interview with Joe on topic.

Singer/songwriter Peter Mayer says, “the gift is to realize that everything is a gift.” This is neither simple nor easy to do. It takes a suspension of current events (kind of similar to what it feels to smoke marijuana), to reinvent the world into Divine Order. Or it takes simple faith. Faith can be impossible until you are no longer hungry in body, mind & spirit. Hunger in any of these inhibits that cosmic flow we are to go with.

It seems that society itself is “jumping the shark” – a phrase I had to look up today online as I was not familiar with its true meaning. It means a kind of exaggeration to the point of losing the point. As soon as I read the definition, I realized it was familiar: I used to call it “bringing in the dinosaurs.” When the story line ran out of plausible situations, dinosaurs were written in & it was time to surrender the series to rightful oblivion.

Don’t let the dinosaurs get to you. Don’t let situations become so unstable & ridiculous that you are squeezed out of your own reality. Have that faith in what you have created. Investigate the causes of your emotional switchbacks along the mountain. Observe your thoughts. Did you think these before? Are these what you surround yourself with daily? You may be living yesterday today & offering up your tomorrow to the same discomfort.

Break the routine of being yourself once in a while. It pays off…and if the new becomes more fulfilling, you’ve won big.

I try to do this though I love my comfort zone like Wimpy loved hamburgers. (Remember his line: “I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today”?)

I highly recommend the video “Stroke of Insight” on YouTube as an example of a singular, incredible example into change.

Let’s go for the new thoughts together & re-create this old world into the reality most satisfying to ourselves, most productive for all, most protective of that which is precious & most loving in sheer gratitude for what it can be, as we make that what is.

A Blessing:

“For food in a world where many walk in hunger

For friends in a world where many walk alone

For faith in a world where many walk in fear”

And so it is.



Cast in Stone (No Rewrites)

Times are, when no one believes in me; I cease to exist. I become invisible to the naked eye, such a marathon of years mapped across my face, no one sees me clearly. Or if they do, they take in the gray-blonde sand of my hair & wander away from greeting. I’ve said it before: to go gray (as a female) is to go stealth in life.

“Another old woman; another useless eater,” I almost hear the thought. No longer fecund of body, no longer generating taxes for a ravenous System, I am a bean in the bean-counter’s world. Into the slot of disposables I go, but still being alive, I vociferously protest the disregard.  

If you’re going to dismiss me, you’ll have to put me in the red bucket, the one with the radioactive syringes, the impossibles, the distortions in the fabric. Put me with the zippers that won’t close, the dress with crooked sleeves & a pulled hem. I’ll never fit your mold.

I cannot sit with a TV remote in my hand, watching dreams in which I have no place, no time, no empowering feelings. I don’t have a favorite show anymore. My internet radio features some two dozen channels I wander among. My values are invaluable & unsettling to the crowd. Everyone looks quizzical when I announce my decisions. Many ask for explanations I cannot give, for my value system is not theirs.

Some reach out to fondly pat my hand. One accused me of having a non-working brain, which so hurt I snapped immediate walls up against her. Many friends melt into a landscape where I can walk no longer; somehow discernment has barred my path. My hours are no longer stolen from financial productivity. But I’m not like B, walking her dog seven times a day because she’s forgotten she walked the beast as he manipulatively pants by the back door. I’m not like G, who sits smoking on her porch among the refilled oxygen tanks. I’m not like R & K & C who work every day for earnings, putting dreams on a ticking blinker hold. They may never take the call, and this frightens me for them.

I’ve answered too many calls! I’ve moved too many times, I’ve worried too much about how I can do things just before I did them because the worry was so fractious to my heart. I’ve run out of money & watched as sometimes it flooded back & sometimes trickled, but there has always been enough.

I no longer expect understanding. I’m patient in the face of others’ doubts about me. No one else is walking the miles in my shoes, finding my opportunities, holding the pens I write with. Feeling lonely is redundant when I am society’s answer to becoming obsolete. I am no longer useful in the worldly ways I once was. I support no one, believe in an omniscient range of possibilities at which others roll their eyes just before launching into a list of why these are actually impossibilities.

But I’m not ossified or moribund. I’m not helpless in the face of change. If one thing does not suit, I’m on to the next with a blink & a nod to circumstance. In a world frozen in place, I bring the sun that cracks open the ice & frees the fish to swim. In a sky gray with worry & layered separations, I peek through a ray of the only light there may be that day. I ride the beam in delight & blessing.

There’s no question for me anymore about all this. I am not one to surrender & simply sink into a chair. I love to be a part of it all, but only on my own terms. If this is my definition, rewrite the damn dictionary.

My life energy is mine to spend. My coin is not of this realm & whether I am right or not about that remains to be accounted. Others can sing “My Way,” but I have a legitimate claim to the phrase, & the ability to write an explanation in fifty words or less. I don’t do shades of gray! My life is vivid with color, light, sound, fullness, creation & walking time around like a crow on my shoulder. It repeats, it requests, it demands, it prays.

What I collect cannot be pressed into books or slipped into glassine envelopes. I am who I am with an expectation of being more in every moment. So it may seem to the casual observer that I’m doing little, while I am actually rolling full steam ahead on so many levels.

Even with all this, people argue me: you have to charge for this, you shouldn’t think about that; you’ve got to love [fill in the blank], find a man, find a life, find a lost city of gold in the Peruvian rain forest & taste the fresh ayhuasca.

Leave it! Just take me as I am or put me aside for the next good deed you want to accomplish. Not much is gonna change here. I’ll never be a specimen you can pin down or predict.

But I’ll never be bitter, resentful, hateful or unmystified by all that/about all that life offers. I’ll always share the humor in any moment of blessing.

I’m tired of being disapproved, tired of being criticized & ostracized. It would be nice if someone else were in charge, but there’s only me in this life. I don’t know about the rest of you. Where would I begin to find out? But I can extrapolate how people have lived by what they’ve left behind. Just check the secondhand stores if you want to find out about that. Pretty few surprises here, but always something useful…no way to know if it’s the people or the stuff that smells so musty. Very likely both.


Owl Morning

I squint like a mouse

When I am the twitching tail of the cat set to hunt it.

I gaze at my life with a pauper’s hunger

While I live as a queen within it.

I have light, food, cash tucked in a blue sock

While I rattle the pig-bank to gauge my wealth.

This sums up what it is to be human

To live duality, even breathing in & out.

I cannot claim silence while music leaps from my pen

I cannot fear the words will disappear as they burble over the cookpot.

 There are horns from afar summoning me to war

Yet this has been a hard-fought peace to choose.

Let the winds of change breeze my bird’s nest hair

For all I have not done, more rises to accomplish.

As every day leads to every night

I gather up my life & wander on.


The owl wakes me again this darkling morning. She must have found my window alluring, yet there are no trees behind me at all. She sits, perhaps, on the crest of the warehouse roof, or upon a rung of the antenna tower. Her call is soft but urgent.

I protest: it’s too early! But I shift in my narrow bed & stretch my toes out straight. Would I climb with them to her perch if I could?

She has been silent up till now. She has eaten the mice in the storage yard; whence her eye fixed on my window to whoo-whoo to. She is calm, insistent, steady in her calls for me to waken.

But what will I do with such a cold morning? Too dark it is for even a streamer of dawn bringing light. I want to keep my eyes closed, listening. I cannot regather the shreds of sleep for wishing a dream. I rise & tuck my chill into a shawl.

I pad downstairs to a silent kitchen, flick on a nightlight. I pull everything out of the cabinets & begin to rearrange the contents by its sparse illumination. First, all the sauces are put together, the tuna stacked up. I take inventory to attend to restocking later: two cans of mismatched beans, a package of stiff spaghetti. I seek a pen & pad to make a list.

Dropping the emptied, crackling bags into the trash, I return to the counter to use up the last of my empty honey jars, a medium for the Farro, a small for the Panko, a large for the unsalted pistachios (how can everything end in an “o” this morning?)

I open boxes of teabags to place these into the big jug on the lazy susan. I pull out the frozen chicken to have it defrost by Sunday dinner.

I wet the sponge & blot the spills of grain. The coffee is ready now, its aromatic heat a blessing to a half-waked brain.

Last night I washed my laundry late. Returning upstairs, I fold & sort & in the sleepy darkness, put away the clothes. The dreams of my neighbors brush up against my silent walls. I feel their steady breaths over my feet, along the floor.

My house is tidy, tucked up & softly gleaming in the streetlamp’s outside glow. The owl has gone quiet, has her morning winged away?

I’ve made the bed but eye it in longing. As a meal unfinished, that last dream awaits.




When I left my room in Hillsboro, I predicted being left to my own devices; I did not realize this meant no devices…

Half-January & I am out of data minutes on my phone. A fit of craving momentarily seizes my frontal lobe. No! Back to writing with a pen! After speeding all over the keyboard, after being reduced to pecking with a stylus at tiny buttons on my phone…I am wading out of the river of data in which I so recently immersed to a dry & sandy shore where the water is just a wash of noise behind me. From the swift whitewater current of following a dozen blogs & vlogs, to the shallows of a few daily emails (with occasional swirls of enabled research), to this dry stretch of a scratching pen on real paper. O, Lord!

My home is ultra-quiet. The heater turning on is a rumble above which I quickly subdue, turning down heat & reaching for a jacket. I moved here in the primal drive of having heat over the winter; however, the temps have been so mild as to almost preclude the need for this miracle My 40-watt bulb blinks in a Morse Code, telling me it is a refrigerator light & not a real bulb…and in its tiny filament of estimation, I’ve had the fridge door open far too long for it to sustain all 40 watts. There is such a thing as over-saving, perhaps? But all the times I was snide about the cranky words flung at me  “I’m on a fixed budget” are crabbing at me now, pincers clicking brightly, pinching on the checkbook.

Scribing on in the dark is easy; I’ve written in semi-darkness for years as the drive continues when the light changes in either direction.  For if the Muse is pushing me to take it all down, I pay no attention to ambient light.

It sounds relaxing. Yes, it bestills me to be in this way isolate. This original habit was overtaken by tech, like driving after walking. With walking, though, more details come into view. I yearn to fly on the keyboard instead of this careful forming each letter, almost drawing them one by one. There, I use profane abbreviations – “n” for and, “tho” for though…I leave words half-formed & uncooked. By hand, I cannot bear this untidiness. It becomes the omission of parts of a recipe. A pinch of salt ignored may mean the bread will be lumpy.

Sadly, January 15th sees me with a phone to be used as only a phone (here an old lament rises, I hardly ever get calls); a laptop to be used as a typewriter only. None of the connections so benevolently granted by utility companies are affordable right now on my budget (as I’ve said, consisting of one lightbulb burning at a time.) I even bought a battery-operated lantern at a yard sale. It is more reliable than my refrigerator bulb straining to fulfill the function of a real light.

All this, and the world breathless with change, my alternative news sources screaming from the cusp of Great Transformation, pension funds refusing to invest in oil (what a predictive indicator), indictments vibrating in pouches of process servers, big-name politicos wearing camouflage orthopedic boots supposedly covering their GPS trackers.) I am news-less, praying friends will notify me when it is time to plant good seeds, check my account for the prosperity funds, release thoughts of nuclear fission powering the grid, bombs & chaos landing ‘pon the heads of my fellow world denizens. It is somehow fitting to my fate that I am learning to release tech at a time when it is releasing its severity of need to us. For indeed, two steps back from the brink can never be enough. We need to turn our backs & seek peace, love, & compassionate living in the most human of ways, simple touch, divine regard.

So, my descent into handwriting is more of a hand-made handicraft than a cybercrime sin. The flowers of an over-perfumed garden have devolved into a dandelion seeding a field.

Tech is convenient, seductive. Even though its blue light hurts my waking eyes, I was drawn to its 6 a.m. crystal gaze. What I lose in quantity, I gain in quality. Vocabulary assumes importance, thoughtfulness chivies reaction right out of the ring, squeezing it through the ropes with a “pop!”

The river well behind me now, I click the top of the pen, just as final a move as closing the laptop clamshell. I re-shelve the journal as I eagerly stuff the computer into its black carry-case.

I’m on my way to the computer lab, ostensibly to volunteer – a thin excuse to re-entering the seductive world I am missing with every written word. Back online, submerged in a room marinated by the radiation of fifteen-plus computers, a WIFI box in the cabinet, a server steadily lub-dubbing its beat on a desk.

Addicted, after all my fine words of freedom.

Twelve steps closer to my world…


Of Ruins & Resurrections


 My angels wring no hands together…

No palms clasp in prayer, no eyes downcast,

My angels do not wear robes of saffron & rainbow

Or tilt their heads, listening to prayers

My angels are bare-breasted,

Afire, ululating atop mountains

My angels are ridge runners

Light-footed & glowing.

My angels are powerful,

They carry spears.

They have no time for the puny wants of men

The small prayers of old women…

They carry orders from God!

They drive us on with buffeting wings

Like northern winds, they bite & tear our only flesh

With unholy voices they demand & command that we also

Become angels, they

Cry out to us in terrible thunder, rumbling

“Get there & do this & DON’T YOU DARE GIVE UP!”

Don’t you even THINK about that

I am behind you, these are my teeth & claws,

Don’t you dare but that you dare all for love!



I do not go gently into this dark night

I plant my feet & my hands against the doorframe

& I scream for the devils of hell to surround me

To give me strength to fight!

Even though the angels have not yet given up on me

I need the kind of raw power used when devil fights devil

I need the kind of atomic strength

And nuclear decision-making ability

That blows apart unaltering planets &

the worlds where small-minded people dwell

for this is not me,

I am Eternal Survivor,

I am the basket weave trunk of the royal palm

Dancing in the Category Five hurricane of now.


The morning breaks open

Like a dozen eggs dropped on the floor

As my conjurings arise from their yolky mess

Of raw & yellow ooze,

I will derive a sunshine of words such as has never lived before,

From ruin to resurrection,

Back to the light from which my soul began.

I know now I did not arrive on a sunny day,

Sequestered in a sweaty room while my mother dreamed of the beach,

I rode in on a storm that breathed darkness

Into blankets of rain

Shadows threatening all alive.

I know this, how?

Storms create days that enliven my soul

I speak poetry as though reciting nursery rhymes

Every stick a sign, a message,

Every hope a dream of worlds

Daring to be spoken aloud.


I walked to the beach to cast myself upon the water:

A crust of bread for fishes to devour

For gulls to scrap over

For salt to consume.

I walked to the water & I walked in

And the water spoke thusly:

Get out of here, leave me now!

I am not your sin-eater,

You have nothing to do with me

You are here to partake of me as friend? Lover? Confidante?

A sequestered cloud upon which you walk at will?

I wish none of your molecules dissolved in me,

I want no DNA from you, no “sharing”

None of your mud-thoughts to cloud my pure waters


I want none of your shit-ass perspicacity

I am pure, as you were before you took all this upon yourself

& decided to carry it as a life.


Now, if you want to come in here, get clean

Go out & fix up the world,

That’s a diff’rent story:

Then I’m all yours, Baby.

Enter at will.


I don’t know anyone else will ever hear these as I’ve said them

I do know that when they went through me

They were filings roughening a smooth surface

Acid drippings across my soul, ripping shreds of my life to raw,

Rendering me impossible to live with

Untenable to remain with

Beautiful only in the way of a volcano is…

Lava scraping away a mountain is…

In a way all terrible & delicate & tender, a rendering to ash.

I know I will never be forgotten for the world herself has heard these words

I’ve cried them all aloud today, bowing to the rain

I watched her take them in, smeared across her face,

like runnels of tears, a striped tattoo

Or the scars of strip-mining

And I knew these words were never mine,

Nor belonged to me,

But only sliding across the furrows of my brain

To elide from my face, finding their way

A blind man headed downhill

Surrounded by mischievous goats.

They were only a blessing for I could not bring them to be a curse

To use these to destroy would implode the world.

would destroy civilization

But then, we have never been civilized to our memories…

(For Christ’s sake, we have not ever had civilization

Tho we pretended, pulling & tugging on just the one string

Till the whole thing unraveled

As we hung onto each other’s throats

Ignoring the scrape & itch of the hunting knife

Sliding between our ribs.)

We have always shaved our dreams to blood

Too closely down, pushing into places they should never go

Where others come upon them unaware

& leaning in to see them, all are burned.


My broken halo is scattered at my feet.

I tore it off my head this morning, I stomped it but good

I will no longer be the representative of God’s grace

Having turned into her most terrible wrath

In a day when my beauty no longer sustains who I am

My face a roadmap to new lands & languages,

When my breasts stand no more, but flat

Against my chest like twin sacks of rice

I know that I am old. I have accepted this

Because old is only on the surface, never reaching the inside

Where the bright of me lives

And the soul of me dwells

And the answers to every question I ever asked

Glow like sparks in a fire of my own making.

I will not give up.

 I will always be here, doing this

And I will have done forever.

As You bring me forth each day,

Awakening again to earth,

It will be to dwell in the past I have created,

Through the future I have not.

I am a ravine down a sharp shale hill

You can ride me to the bottom – woohoo!

Or you can scale me to the heights – Aha!

So here you are, God, here y’are,

I don’t want it anymore!

Just can’t handle it.

Just don’t want it.

Here’s the soul – take it back

Do whatever You want with it.

I don’t care

Give it away, bury it

Stick it with the stars & make it shine

I really don’t care.

The life you gave me

Has been too beautiful for words

And the life I claimed to live

Has at times not lived up to this

And the world around me that was fine

Has turned to bargains in thriftshop windows.

But you know I wore them out my own damned self.

I put them there,

Here you go, God. I am but Your face in this world…

I have moved oceans & torn down heavens,

I have grown trees & plowed meadows,

Digging up Your holiness & scattering it about

For others to find.

I’m done now.

I’m done.

(To be blinded with blessing is not the worst of a life

It is a one more in a world of one mores.)


For the price of a tank of gas, America lives

Lives in its cars & campers & broke-down trailers

Still now, with not a round tire among them.

And who has done this to us?

What heinous crimes are committed against us

That we are washed up on our glorious beaches?

Bent & twisted, medically unsound, mentally unfit

From wars not of our making

From meds not of our shaping

Whitened by the salt of our tears

Twisted by fear & lack…

How do we overcome this?

O come, God! Bring us into our living aloft as angels.

We will bend the light no more, pour it out upon us as love!