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Once you know how to make a good soup its fairly tough to mess it up.

Salt, fat, onion

garlic – oh! I forgot a vinegar to top her off. No wonder.

Learning these things, syncing along these things, once you boil down human particles deep enough there is only One particle that composes us all. Every Romantic would spit from their tree, obvious! Science need no assure us of the Soul, of the rhythm and hum of all the Sleepers, of the grand life force that doth compel.

Obvious, still all the science in the age of science doth persist.

All these bits and bits boiling down to one. This is a lot like soup. Teaching me the holy unity and truth of all things. Once its clicked, once the One is understood and the basics can be manipulated into a world of flavor and delight, it just keeps rolling.

composite nutrients needed for a hardy sleep? the same.

for an idyllic and nutritionally supported pregnancy? You know.

Our ancestors bled this knowledge down through millennia. Despite the corporate overhaul, the few-decades-old knowledge our once teeming minds possess, the body holds this so much deeper.

Sit, think, feel, release. The guide of our noses, the lust for fueling truth. It is in there. I have sat so firmly, finally trusting and settling into the needs my body communicates, there is no way I could turn a blind eye.

She calls to me through womb.

Up the vagus nerve and portaling into my physical reality, I only idle myself into the glorious mercy of it all. Guide gentle, guide full.

From moment I was unclogged, my poor suffering cervix trapped and unthought of cleansed in a short, cough of an instant. This was a rebirth. This is how I have come so far into my knowing.

Only months! Humble I sit at the base of a lifetime.

My children will have nice, strong, straight teeth. My children will release their anger and grief in ecstatic, full form dance. Their children will know a life free from pressure to form, free from loans, free from aching bones of sitting on stones for far too long.

Their long sunlit limbs will frame the next world. Nothing sits as true as this.

For so long, at all costs, I avoided facing this reality, this poignant, gut held truth. I was larger, uninterested and unwilling to conform to what so many women grew to resent. Imagine.

How lifeless was I? To be out of touch with the Natural Biologic Law, to not heed my power and feed a future worth living?

I am grateful always, praying and outreaching to my sisters and brothers who may pivot into a wholey righteous life. Accountable, becoming, dissolving, One.

So grateful to have learned the wisdom of soup.

Two days now the snow has hung heavy in the naked trees like fruit. Wet, we need this.

I don’t want to grieve you

she said

And I do not want to grieve her either, though I sense I’ve been doing this for months. Now that we have breached, began the construction of a new bridge (leaking of a large dam?) it is odd. I grieve her in a new way. No longer in the distance, unreachable, pushing me into boxes alike, all scummed up in doubt. (dribble dribble will it burst?)

I see her as she has been lately. My truth has been tested and prevails, though I do not know her much anymore. Strange ebb, all things keep moving and between us an entire world lies, great chasm. It is not one I will drench yet. Immature. A word I have felt but she herself used. Why would she let it all sway so quickly? It’s been a strange, shadowing few years.

I hope you can open

I said

Let the new world in, colorful and varying. She is lost, not listening or on her own pedestal. I do not need this. She has made that clear.

It’s been that bad? People truly treat you this way?

coo coo she is in tears

What do you mean? If you treated me this way, imagine what others would do?

I respond, in batter brilliance. She was my soul,

silent now, face wet

blotchy.

All this, all this, blotchy blotchy disrespectful

Mess.

To see you, know now in confidence you simply haven’t thought. There lies, in the great chasm, a removed form of pity.

You are much larger than this, I know. Insolence is an ugly color but is setting me free.

Again, I am in your dreams you say. You cannot sleep me off or write me away, and it is tantalizing, strange how and what we are becoming. Our journey, drifting worlds apart, and still binded in the muck of our energies. This alone confirms my path. It is our permanent product.

I can’t remember you either. You, true as daylight, wandered with me through the thicket of my dreams last night, too. Funny. I woke up to this funky morning, large spider lurking and falling off the wall frazzled just like me. I dreamt of him them when I went back to sleep. You are my whole body. I can not remember you until these moments. I am washed with your person, tethered to a feeling of us and the looks we share. These days it has been a torment, your curling glowing hair.

You are dreaming of me, I come to find. We must resolve because you dream of me, because all these other times I dream of you have not been enough to compel. I miss you, I do not want to hold all of this.

The whole time I know I was with you, have been with you, in your dream. Just as you have been with me and seeking something, pecking at apologies. Sisters, I remember.

It has been you, inside me, for some time now. I have been sincerely shying away, not hoping for our conversations to bloom, trying to nudge off and onward. Aiding the break you seem to want. Many, many months, not shrinking. I want to talk to you so badly, more poignantly than anyone in my life, but I cannot beat my soul dry and let you in, not at the convenience of your whim. Blessed by the length of my arms.

I know it is you, your words are not my words and though I have forgotten you, never more clearly in the past year have I felt you. Have I felt you than these dreams. What is coming for us? Spiraling sick, I hope you are getting love too.

“I know you probably haven’t felt love from me but know it is there.”

Tears well in my eyes. I am silent.

This wasn’t who I expected to be.

My wisdom guides me like a beacon. It carves well ahead of me, as night and dimness collide, and I follow like a small deer. Road way, bright lights, my mother – scurry and I am free again to follow her, glowing with the moonlight.

I do not know her well or have the language yet to even speak, but trust binds us as vital as the cord of life. She is patient with me, her luminescence hovers calmly around each bend. Even as I quicken, or as I lose step and ripple, fall into the fragility of being, I hear her. Lulling, lulling, just before sleep and never more rested do I wake than this, in compliance to her whim.

Grateful.

I am grateful to see her, graze her, become smaller and more vast each moment, like air and sun across the plains after storm. The more I learn her, the less I become, exceeding my bounds of self into the ether until I am no discernable particle. Wisdom, then, has become. This remains my pursuit of life.

2/9/22

trying to decipher waking and sleep. more bland, most certainly, is the time spent now, writing and waiting, thinking, stewing. waking. it percolates, my dream world. fumes through my day in a haze that won’t shake. among the sleepers I remain actually articulating the world in my frame. not here, in the sun, am I sensing such bond, waking firmly and in love, still to wither grey and gaunt.

and yet the best, still I find, marks its place as I doze. vibrant colors seal the night, sinking takes the body whole. pass each hour drawing near to this release, have I made anything of my days? redirect and grow myself, I still will likely never know.

2/10/22

How quickly I find myself changed. Just a slight blue in the sky, following the wisps of cloud banks into one another and watching the sunlight soak up each morphing structure. Yesterday brought me low. Dream leaked into the stench of life, not till I got home was I sent into the depths. Moments, some sweet smoke in my lungs after the grey evening.

Cloudy days are odd, and even more strange as the light leaves. Rocking any part of equilibrium, like a gutting. They stay, a golden, heavy type of grey as evening creeps in. Linger, sink down into the bowl and suffocate us like one large ghost.

I am overcoming. The lack of duality, lack of longevity in so many of my peers and their peers peers, it’s like no one here can think. Challenge does not meet them readily, or they expect they’ve already got the golden ticket, less all else fail. She is with them, bouncing and curling, smiling I am sure. For the first time, yesterday, I recognized in the sprightliness of her sustained youth she may not be willing to morph. Grow larger, collective, lonely as the clouds. An enabling vice, locking her to people and places that dull her light.

Funny so, in high school she adamantly avoided such a provocation, adjusted her life as to not fall into this exact trap. Become immobile, stir in the same pond, fall in line of her own sisters, beautiful as they may be, but much too sensitive and suffering. She knew this, held this fear so irrationally in her system it became her. I do not think she can face me, not in this rendition of self so far off from who she yearned to become.

Young young, I remind myself we are young and infinite time lies ahead to reconcile each woe. It is just so funny, just so strange. Pick me Pick me really is the jargon, I can’t wrap my head around it. Float on, it is outside of my self, I am misting.

A poem I wrote back in my New Yorker life…

And I’d follow too, I think

A hawk swings skyward

through the distant slant of windows.

Thick and bellowing Light hangs in the air,

nuzzling herself deep into the cloud belly –

few stragglers escape.

Each thin and beaming tress

swept off before rooting to this earth.

If I rest here long enough, 

they’ll take me, deposit me

elsewhere, she must think.

I don’t blame her. 

An airplane casts overhead

and towards the distance.

The hawk follows. 

–

Even reading now, sorting through my archives of a different time I see myself, different now. As I should be morphing, and perhaps it is as simple as a drift. She and I are not meant to be, impossible to be in unity right now. No qualm meets me here. I just wish she would talk.

You texted… lingering

/

Last night and today I have been thinking of you

in my dream we were together and as real

as all the times I have seen you before

like memory, months, and I was still angry, holding

an arm’s distance, quiet and soaking Us up,

it has been so long.

/

I reckon it is less than dream

I met you there very real,

very real all I remember is Us,

a clear, fused sensation

not of where or what around

just Us and the white space

/

Your emotion, your energy was outside

of my body, one or both of us visiting the other –

no longer is dream

our most holy plain to convene

Where have you been?

/

I could not, have not ever wanted

to control you, to push away your change

Maybe these times, this is how

we meet, we touch. Funny though, you are just as yourself

all glowing and golden and gasping to be liked

/

You do not think of me this way

anymore, do not seem to

hold the life of Us, to be had or to have

with warmth and trust

Touch; our principal alignment

/

We are a long pang, energy

reverberating in every ounce of blood –

this enough like proof of flesh ties Us

or hunger I chase it madly and wonder,

just out of pure sweet wonder, do you

stand and feel it rumble under sole?

/

Blind and lying face up to the sun

You are, across a lifetime of months

when once, shared bed and catalogues, newsrooms

of thoughts all we did was rattle

on and on of Us, a source to so much song

/

Do you hear me, tender to the wind

I have been reaching, singing finally

at last in long months of lull

Free and hopeful, rebirthing

waiting for new form, new life

You know not yet of

I know You hear, You always hear

wonder when You’ll listen

tail to nose this week dragged in stripes

as a tiger (only you wouldn’t get that joke) hilarious

staking claim in a small life

for now I build and work for

a life of sun, work to build (literally)

paths, wall to wall and a cellar for root

growing, grow as tall as I have

and still, off floats the sky

I dream

Grey day, in candor and self

I am becoming, each slow moment

unrolling, as the thinness of a sheet

slept time and time again

leaks light, floor to sky

all white and glides

gentle as a kite

I cover the ocean and cloud bank

cresting cragged peaks

to the open air, now just breath

Evermore I float beyond seconds,

sight met with a glimpse

up so thin and high

the form of tomorrow,

early somber light

spills down the contours

like being pulled in wind,

trees and rivers,

I hold like skin

You can sense it slipping. The space and breath a mind can occupy, can expand if given proper nurture.

It slips at its edges and withers into the abyss of voided matter, without purpose or place, then funneled into the growing mass of tech. This all came from somewhere. All this matter is missing from our larger source. This modernity grows and grows, yet somewhere in turn shrinks.

Man in his creation, vaster by the second, withers his own soul to a pulp. The sheer mass, the amount of energy. What poor saps zapped their entire consciousness, their identity of self and ancestral wisdom to support this bane? No wise mind would welcome such a drain, still evil lurks in the grip of power, our world turning towards a black sun. Persuading, duping till the weak crumple. ‘Don’t listen to the wisdom in your bones. Mind body soul are paradigms to manipulate, all separate stripping strings!’ Feed you waste, fuse you to screen, you are growing, break down your ancient knowing and my, more fluoride? You are glowing!

Diagnose your antiquity, there is a pill for that, not a matter of breathing or eating good fat

All they can to make you forget about our Mother. Plow her, upend her, the wind blows somber.

Suppose it does stand all around us, shapeless and bulging, begrudging its own existence. Fumes in air, poison in water, siege the elements, we slip! The man begs you to form, commit to a lifetime of trauma and alteration since you were made to feel like an outsider in your skin. Who let you believe any part of you was wrong, any expression did not fit? You alone stand at the gate. But oh, acceptance! Finally, centuries of strife and now the docs will proudly wield your knife!

Wracking up the hollow expense, where did your love go? The one held in the wisdom of your loins? Did you ask first, gentle and not to judge to the call of your skin? Sick now, fading like sun not towards Our horizon but instead when clouds overtake and only a willowy grey haunts the eve. I pray for you, for us.

The shame and question your body must move with now, lacerated and churning to reconnect to its mind. To each their own, of course and uphold, but still hearth of the Source, a black liquid pools at Our ankles. Your cavity, once a prospect of God’s own work, shrivels. No amount of meditation, introspection, deep, transformative breath will realign you, perfect as you arrived to this earth. Last holy moments of the tormented womb.

You slipped, believed the masked man who dangled cruel words and let you believe the world was the one punishing you, a golden orb, exemplar of life.

Somehow, to operate and dismantle the form one grew themselves is an early meeting with death. Death to the body that served you in all, death to the opportunity to come in to your most true, embodied self. Harrowing, I sense your plea and hear how you loathe. Tell me now, I hang with open, willing arms. Can you hear your body? What does she cry?

A blooden and brutal point where your love went awry.

Red hill that rose form the land as a vessel, as a breast, rich and withering. You are fading on top, stretching now more towards the evening sunlight than I have ever seen you. Among this snow you are God, a face.

My birthday is soon and I do not think I can see you. It has been months many months and now you are like a ghost swimming in this great big pool and the air has no sun, the pool is dark. Lingering slightly like freezing spit of the trails of blood in water, but there is no more light to watch your hair. My stomach is heavy at you.

I want there to be, wish there to be, but no bearing do I, moth, have grip to you.

You do not know me or do not wish to know me like a glutton and their angel. Not so special do I imply I am, in sin and glow, certainly my own shriveled angels remain.

I do miss, mourn you though.

Birth day. Forgetting this, understanding this, forgetting this, understanding.

Moth and flame am I

This, lonely, is birth enough.