as i sit here knitting
i think of the one who had me laid out and feeling jubilant on a friday night passed
then i think of how it ended so abruptly
how i won't see him no mo'
i think of getting things done that are important to me
of how i don't like leaving my house in the rain
how i treasure many things, including freedom

i value redundancy when i'm the one dishing it out
through hands
fingers
kisses
hugs
touches
whispers

i think of how my poetry is just my thinking
of what i choose
when i choose to think of both the joy
and the pain
and how my poetry is just that
mine

confession #0869
i create confusion in my own head even though i know God isn't its author which is why i am aware that i am th eone doing it
and i know doubt is the devils' cousin and i know that i could do better than i do
but my brain works in overtime and maybe one day someone will stick along long enough to make some sense of it or help me stop what it is i do
which is too much for any one person

but it kind of does work for me
sure it gets sometimes i bit redundant
lonely-ish
but i appreciate solitude
i live in its box and have for some time
i built it up so pretty and nice
even painted
and i'm so comfortable here
i can know the sound of my own voice without being confused by anyone else's hand in my pie
i'm the head chef and i know what i make is healthy so i can eat it

and i just don't know what the rules are anymore outside my box because i haven't left it in so long
so i don't know if i wasn't supposed to kiss him the 1st date
and maybe he shouldn't have seen my place but it was cold outside and i know i don't yet want bitter so i let him come in
and then when he left it feels like part of me went out so now i'm a little scattered and woozy
and i just wish i had something to take for this because even though i'd like to
i don't know when or where my next meal is or will be or coming from or not

and it's a little blistery out here being alone in my head

:looking for shelter within

if you aren't human
then what are you?
if you aren't touchable, then when can i see you?

in my dreams you will come to me
riding on the back of the silver colored pegasus the little girl wants for christmas
you will never have touched your lips to chocolate colored papers from a country whose name only holds 4 letters

heavy with knowledge but not weighed down by the brunt of who you are and how you came to be
you will be beautiful with skin toned for love
tinted bronze by the same sun to which i have prayed for warmth for all these years
you will be born of a king whose name you call daily
giving thanks with your whole self

[work in progress]

teach me how to write poetry

teach me how to rhyme with my legs shut
teach me how to spell backwards in a different language
or with a different lilt on my tongue
cah oo aalk iif oor ouf o-en iike iis???

not really
i think we ought to start out with a shut case
ending sentences without pencils
beginning them with punctuation in the living form

i could curl up lazy
like a comma
and then you could come right up behind me
, and continue the story

or you could twist me into a basket of french terms
to make it sound good when you stretch me wide
enjambement
fall me from here to the floor and keep the pace

piña colada my syllabic count
smooth me out to keep the paper neat

translate this into twelve different languages and send them back to me after penning the pulitzer

or...
or you could just come close to me on a sunday or monday night
sneaking up to my left shoulder
whispering something nice into my neck while i peel the fruit...
what about a movie tonight?

make me scream

i used to hate the visual of curled up toes
under sheets
next to a lover


ew
is that my bizness?
is that my job?
i'll pass

but tonight or last night it felt like the cold that comes after being out inside an oven
toasted and then set free without fulfilling purpose
ain't i supposed to be feeding somebody here?

tonight i wanted to be made to scream
from some kind of holy ecstasy or pine-scented pinnacle
i wanted to get high with my eyes closed

i ended up writing about it a few hours later
still somehow satisfied

she is sitting in bed
pretending to be someone different
pretending to be a poet
pretending her eyes were hazel like the boys all the girls used to have crushes on in grammar school
and yes she is still from chicago in her dreams
because it's just right to say
"pop"
maybe there really is something to being different

she is sitting in bed on the same sheets where others had come
before

she is listening to your cd
the one you gave her
the one you exhaled love into
the one you breathed life into before you slashed you down
timbered you into the lake where you drowned your former self and became the monster beneath her weaker self's bed

boogie don't feel the same when it's a yellow monster in a children's book

you know,
just because you think poetry is beautiful doesn't make you
just because you think poetry is beautiful doesn't change yo' ugly
an' if you don' fix it soon, son
it may follow you til death
not to be confused with def

she is listening to the sounds of where she was when she said yes before she said
let's wait a while
before honesty was the actual answer

sometimes we fall before we pay attention
and that's ok
there's a mirror in every corner here

she is still alove
and awake
she is not hopeless
not a penny
not a coin at all
she is a living breathing sheep
waiting to to be led somewhere
she doesn't know where yet
but when her leader comes

she will know

right now, she is praying
for direction
and for the wisdom to know when to follow

minus the rhyming scheme--back to bare bones honesty

so i watched beaches tonight
i think it's supposed to be every girl's favorite movie
tonight i became a girl

and just now
i think i decided that i am NOT ready for love
it kind of makes me want to cry just like i did at the end of beaches when the mother is so close to dying that you can see it weeping away from her
i don't think i watch enuf moving images
or am not surrounded enuf by the things that will affect me to the point that i will be moved enuf to create my own version of interpretation of life as i live it

how depressing

but now, i listen to india
tell us she is ready for love
my mother said i was in love with love
i am
what's next?
how do i move from here?
how do i move from this knowing of myself
that i am selfish
i am wounded in places i don't even know
i am silent when i should scream
i am sad when i am disappointed when i am let down when i am wanting to be wanted but am not wanted enuf
or am not shown in the way i think i ought to be shown

how do i move from here?
and why is it such a problem for me to say these things out loud and who can i say them to?
who of body AND spirit...
who of body and spirit and flesh can i tell these thoughts to?
is there a one?

and does it count if it's my girl?
if she understands me, am i simply preaching to the choir?

....
....
.....
just a few questions to the mini-masses on a saturday night dawning into sunday's goodness...

rings and things and chicken wings
all on a saturday night
i sat in a car in the dark of friday
and saw a certain light

today on my middle i wear a beautiful brass piece
sculpted just for me
tomorrow i'll wear the promise of life
i'll wear it flauntingly

dictionaries and basements and scary stories
are frightening places to some
to me they are the embers of life
directing its script towards fun

i didn't have too much to say
but knew i needed to write
so right now it's an exercise
no sense in putting up a fight

(what i was thinking about on the busride this morning as i finished armmitt 1 of 2 -blackandgray-and listened to dianne reeves and bobby mcferrin start my day)

i could write a song about skin and toes
eyelashes and nose
the way the sun dances with the moon

or i could write a book about the way i smell
or how i cook with garlic
and red onions all the time

i could even write a poem
maybe short, maybe long
with a rhyming scheme
that only a poet would know....

[in process]

today i will recommit myself to myself and call me queen
and from now on, i won't stop myself from being exactly who i am when i do my thing
ashe, ashe, ashe

(i really do wish it were easier to do accents with PCs)

it sure has been a long time since something made me wanna write
even when i'm writhing in soft daylight
grey skies
rainy hearts
galoshes and crushed fantasies
nights shared that shoulda been spent alone
men who kept on callin my phone!

what if i wrote just because i was thankful to be alive?
and what if i didn't shield my light from others' eyes?

so many answers to be questioned by
i'm just thankful to still be here and alive

(i usedta didn't bother rhyming--now it won't stop...a bit corny i'd say, but hey! HA!)