“You are not your poem”, and other constant evolutions.

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My new teachers ask me to leap in my writing. Ask that my words allow composting and cultivation.

I am living in my fingers lately.

They type. They drive these new streets. They cook dinners and they pour coffees and they pick wildflowers. They shake and wipe new tears

they stroke his soft dark hair.

Yet there are ponderosa butterscotch pines

this giant unicorn of a fucking bathtub

new poetry books to ingest

and a kitchen to step heavily into

lavender, sage, mint and yarrow around each street corner

what if I lose?

What if I gain?

Both terrify my throat and leave a strange anxiety

lingers like dog shit

has the similar pleasantry in handling

“Accept Loss Forever”.

I am here in New Mexico

My skin is tightening and browning

my feet are happier

My nails continue to grow strong without the interference of my anxious chipped teeth

music plays

insence burns

the bath bubbles

The canyon rocks beg to be climbed by

shaky limbs and jagged breaths

tepid little boat of mine sways in this dark desert magic.

 

Bill Murray-ed

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The constant ache to write a something so worthwhile, speeding toward greatness, feels like a dull pressure in my heart and it invites a haze over my daily comings -and -goings.

It feels like my  hubble contacts rubbing on my rounded blue and blind irises wrongly.

I’m sick of thinking about thinking.

My nightmares revolve around my teeth lately and how I once read that if you dream of teeth falling out it meant that your fears are chasing you and you are hiding from them in a way that makes them stronger. 

But what if I hit them so hard snowboarding or lived without health insurance through those years of rocks and tents and backpacks and starry nights and sweat-covered hikes that my body will eventually pack her bags and walk out, without a glance backward at the young vibrant hopes she left behind.

These fears of mine follow me from state to state. I find them in a dust-filled bin of gear or the Sorel shoebox filled with old journals and ski pass employee id tags and photos and old letters from the past fifteen years. 

Then I think of the weird lizard people and of not giving a real ingestion of any of it. I think of the lunatic hearts I admire and of the real bonobos out there who never understand it.  I think of Hunter Thompson and my mind calms back to the essence of what it means to do something. Of liking yourself, and doing something of passion…of knowing everything is going to work out. Even if it does not. And it might not. But it will move you forward. 

I remember that my mind thinks like a writer, without force, pretension, or proverbial action of my own. 

It visualizes the stories and fills in narratives of the hues. The memories drift in and out the my present like an interstellar dimension where linear time loses its edges.  What is left is a circle of questions and lazy and big thoughts all living in unbalanced equality.

Being alive is a beautiful mindfuckery.

Maybe detesting and denying mental mediocrity is a man-made water pressure hose.

Turn it off. Be yourself.

on doing

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Intention and foundations. I want to build my strength in steps and to fall asleep at night knowing I tried my best and gave it all in goodness

I want you to feel how special you are

How you make my heart lighter and safer and how I feel refreshed each time we connect

Each hug and squeeze and understanding look

The path of life is winding and full of ways we can become distracted, tired, despondent.

I am going fill this world with my truth, not the blurry intentions that fill my clouded head

I want live to live in my feet

And I want them facing yours forever

on the golden dust

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We are staring into the dark and pooled orbs of every multiverse in the center of our irises. The magnetic pull of all the questions in all of these layers.

Where will we go? What do we do with our days? Can we make it?

and so,

We clasp our palms together and exhale with raised eyebrows full of hope.

I think that hope is as okay a virtue as any to cling to.

A rising tide lifts all boats, I am told.

The ripples of feet firmly resolute in their desires can span through many souls.We steadfastly hook to the horizon. Change always come in waves.

Maybe there is a golden dust speck that has risen from all the bridges that we have walked across and set on fire? The ashes and flames and red-hot specks become the particles to build a strength that will last. “The only way out is through”, he says.

How can anyone understand the fathoms of being human?Are we aliens, visiting ourselves in dreams and nostalgic inklings to stir up some dusty path to for our feet to follow?

There’s no question to ask that doesn’t feel big these days, and I am opening my eyes to braver horizons.

 

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She said that we should be mindful of words that tumble fast from our mouths.  The questions we ask. The wishes we beg to be granted. The needs we cry out to be met.

She says to be fully ready, because once we put our desires out into the energy force, our intentions are heard. So they better be damn solid.

She smudges us with palo santo and drops oils on our palms, inviting us to believe in healing.

Gratitude for the ways in which our manifested questions show up as if to say, well, here I am, are you brave enough?.

 

May(be)

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There is a space in between the folds in my fingers and yours.  Those mind puzzles at the lake house can only fit a certain way, as so it seems to be with the way yours fold over and around my palm, as if you cover empty canyons of my questions with a solid form of your own..

 

the unknown predators around them.

There is a newness to this thing we are creating. I’m not certain that that will ever go away. This is enough. This is more that enough that any human soul could ask of her life, of her days, of her breath and of her collection of warmth that surrounds.

We cook dinners and we talk of history and of the days that came before and of temptations and of the ease and of being whole.

I sleep heavy next to your body, in every bed. I sleep in colours of swirling dreams and I wake with the energy that is grown in all of the hours of missing your voice while you’ve been asleep

Maybe it is the hazy humidity of Texas

Or the laziness and ease in understanding that I understand nothing

 

 

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/It is strange when we get far from a situation it becomes at once very clear and at twice very far, the nearsightedness of space makes everything shimmer and glow. I listen to a podcast and she tells me, it is the distance and the imagination we are able to keep in terms of our lovers that keep us in love. It is the ability to continually see them anew, and on their own all at once.

Our familiarity to one another is the very thing that faults us. We too soon forget who they are, and then forget who we are. Until we are just strangers in the same boat. To be forever intrigued by the mystery lying next to you, is one of the greatest things we can do for ourselves./ Rose Blaque

“You gotta have rocks in yer brain to like rocks”

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On making this life;

Stealing popcorn shrimp off bus plates in the sunset light of the riverwalk

mezcal on the deck of the old 1933 bar.

-“Where ya’ll from?” …

-…”Topeka”.

His tiger eye beads from his vacation home in Bali are a stark contrast from his watch on the other wrist.

He doesn’t understand things. “What does one bring in a backpack?”

 

New bar. “Kitchen open still?”

“Yea it’s right over there” *Points to an almost empty vending machine*

Leave that sin in San Antone… and don’t forget to not forget the Alamo.

 

Happiness can be so simple if we breathe.

“Hey, wanna put a bunch of stuff on our backs and walk a long time?” Yep.

Dirty butts and diaper rash and big views and blankets of twinkling stars and celestial tumbleweeds of heavy new ideas.

Sun river road drives and Chaco blisters and downhill waddles that make my stomach ache from laughing and blue bird company and black bear encounters and broken tent pole and windy eyes and hot spring shivers and Tehana ghost wails. With you.

Big motel bed and and spinning on the white desert rocks in the heat of midnight in our dusty fancy clothes and and lsd talks and graveyard walks. Never take it for granted.

“you know they’ve burned witches at the stake for less”

Terlingua.

Saw our future selves in the form of a tacoma truck outside of the starlight Theatre. Mezcal rejected drink makes a fine birthday margarita and patio eavesdropping of unsolicited ping ponging beliefs. It’s all the same if you tilt your ear and squint.

The manifested hopeful form of the old couple walk slowly down the porch steps and he patiently wipes his sunglasses from the perfectly dialed, running truck.

She adjusts her rainbow shawl over a purple dress and shuffles her moon socks over to talk of movement and progress and protesting mediocrity with some young parents.

He lets her pull herself into the passenger cab side by the hand strap he has probably installed with love.

Morning. Motel.

We talk of selfish moments and sometimes question intentions. Manipulating realities and then coming back to the center with wiser hearts.We squeeze the hurt through in our motel bed and drink it out of shot glasses in ghost town bars and grey scale Marfa.

It all comes back to love.

Miles of dirt roads and beers and guitars string songs and bumpy blistering laughs and symbiotic psychosis.

I love you I love you I love you. Happy birthday.

-Cass T. Royale