you name it

curiosity insatiable somewhere within
borders on obsessive
crossing lines into otherworld
where dark shadows play
(may or may not be mine)
where light hidden in the bellies
of small children doesn’t dare go
ancient light masked as new light
not malice but doubtful
am i really more than skin
can i be more than they say
why would they lie
look through doubt eyes, doubt seas
put on faith eyes, doubt seize
dumbfounded shadows stilted
upon first light
but only once
after that, they see it coming
they inject bones with purple-grey rot
until skull cracks open
insane bluejays peck at fat noodles
God help us if first light is early, early
my curious nature
undermines a faith eroded by violence
infinite curious relegated to shadow
jumping through circus hoops
believing i will get it one day if
and innocent curiosity
becomes the cuffs i despise
anchoring me far from my body
in the mystery of quicksand
while my doubt climbs to the helm
why can’t you get it
what’s wrong with you
you’re not trying hard enough
and my divine comfort meets me
in that state, more reassurance
of not getting it right
locked in hell
after being raised by fear
fear never lets go
it never allows solo flight
and teen birds outgrow the nest
adults sick of pretending
as pecking order makes young lunch
to jump with flaccid wings
to stay is to be murdered


SONGS FOR INSOMNIACS: with my top hat in my hands

song 8

Here is me in my body, looking down on a girl I’ve known for centuries.

Wait. No. That’s not right. Is it?

What is body?

Fingers? Arms. God, I need help to become armed. And legged.

Ew. Yuck. Woah. Slow down. Too much. I’m out.


Here is me in my body, standing beside a girl I’ve loved for centuries.

I wish she could hear me. She thinks she can hear me but she can’t hear me.

She doesn’t know what it’s like to be comfortable in her body. She feels needy but she hides it.

She attributes needy to her incremental deaths. Tiny deaths as the French have said.

She knows to truly flow she must stay in her body but to be in her body is to walk, yet again, through another charnel ground.

She resists the torture. She has started to believe she deserves more.

But there is still torture. The way out is the way in and it’s always harder for these beautiful creatures because they’ve been there before.

She told me that once. My beloved. She tells me everything. Even when she isn’t sure I can hear her.

This blessed child loves us all so much that she tells me in great detail the hell she walks through so we can work together to make this kind of suffering less difficult.

I am divine. I am worthy of love. And up here it’s not even hard to believe.

Up here everyone shines like Love. Up here we are all beautiful and flawless.

It’s where I belong.

Some days, months, years, I believe this.

I don’t belong down there with the people who are critical and judgey and cruel and lacking hope and filled with sorrow.

The grief is the worst, God. I can’t stand it. I have to sit it each time and it’s fucking terrifying.

I know I used to swear a lot and that part of me still swears a lot, but this is my now self swearing, you know.

It is fucking terrifying to approach the yawn of grief on this earth fully in my body.

When it gets too heavy I zip back to You.

It’s even hard to cry these days, you know. I cannot feel this grief run through me and wake up mid sob in these aching bones, these reticent thighs, this simultaneous awareness that tells me that this experience is hell. That it could be better. That others believe it should be different.

Here is me in my body after waking through the sobs. Coming back violently. No need to remember my breath when my body is working hard to push this weight.

And I say, I can’t do this anymore.

I need to know what it feels like to be held. I know the grief will be easier to allow if I can be held.

But I can’t just walk up to a stranger on the train and say, hey, I’m feeling sad today. Will you hold me.

And I can’t trap some poor man on Tinder into a first date not knowing that when I say string-free snuggles, I’m not using a euphemism.

I said out loud recently that it’s been four years single. Free. Without. He laughed at me. But, of course, he doesn’t know why. He wasn’t laughing at me. He was laughing at being single.

So, I kind of feel stuck.

Half in, half out. I need to be vigilant and it’s just me and my divine guardians here, so I’ve split myself.

I’m not sure this is the best way anymore, God. But which way is through? And of course I’m going to resist when it’s so fucking hard.

What do You expect? Has it been that long since any of my angels have been walking on hell?

No offence, Earth. You’re great, really. It’s just that, you know, once you know viscerally the intense beauty of a plane where there is no suffering, no fear, no anger, no violence, everything else looks idk like an opportunity to hurt or get hurt.

I’m so sick of both.

But I can’t do this alone. I can’t.

And I know that I come across to people I meet – for the most part – as a person who has it all under control all by myself.

At least from afar. At least to those who haven’t seen me in my ugliest neediest most terrified moments.

But that’s part of it. This being me alone, working my security almost fully alone. I know Mikey has my back but that’s not what I mean.

To be vulnerable for me isn’t as easy as oh hey by the way, when I was a teen I dropped out of school to travel the world and I didn’t really finish so I faked my diploma to get this job.

It’s not as easy as you know the time I told you that I think reading is awesome? Ya well, I lied to feel wanted by you and now that I’ve known you for six months I want to drop that facade because it’s exhausting.

It’s not as simple as, this is harder than I thought, being with you, and I don’t feel like I’m getting anything anymore, I don’t care if my friends think I’m a total dick.

Vulnerability is me trying not to cry before I’m ready to let you hold me, until you’re ready to hold me, because those are things you can’t ask for.

You can’t ask to be loved. I know. I’ve tried.

Vulnerability for me is finding the balance between sharing too little and too much at just the right times and levels of intimacy.

Vulnerability is trusting myself to see and heed the red flags of those who would take advantage of the stories I may one day share.

Vulnerability is even showing someone I want them. Because if I want to be with a person, I can be rejected, hard, but even more than that, when I have really wanted a relationship with someone, it’s disappeared.

Here is me in my body now, for sure. I think. I feel the weight of grief through out the top of my deltoids. I feel my belly rise and fall with my breath.

I’m looking around me. Taking notice of the birds through the window, the blue of the sky. Ignoring the chatter of people around me.

Letting go of all that no longer serves me. The fear. Needless worries.

Surrendering. For now.

After working hard to get there.

Believing, in this moment, that there is a future already that doesn’t have so much pain or work. Where things will come so gracefully that I might even forget what this hell was like.

I don’t know what the bridge looks like.

I only kneel before God, now. But I’ve never experienced saying sorry on my feet.

And who wants a broken heart? Not the kind of broken that comes with being rejected or left, the loss of a loved one.

A kind of broken I fight every day.

Not something to talk about on a first date. But when does something like that come up? I can’t have you feeling invested and hooked on me before you know the truth about the demons that haunt me.

I won’t trick you. It has to be real. It has to be pure. I’ll have it no other way.

I wish I could go back and start with that light. Know where it came from. Not be so confused.

That light has the power to guide me right to you. And I’m not afraid to let it shine anymore.

Here is me leaving my body, not ready to face the barrage of judgement. Not able, yet, to face the consequences of my vulnerability.

Because so far, vulnerability has brought me more pain than joy.

Here is me looking down on my body. What a sweet child. What a darling. She needs extra love right now.

Here is me holding my body, mimicking the angels that always surround me. Folding their wings, their gentle, warm light, around me.

A comfort without expectation. The pure love I lived to get through hell. The love that has never abandoned me.

Goodbye, Year of the Vulnerability Hangover

forget nachos, bring peace

Dear 2017,

I come to you with my hat in my hands.

2016 was hell.

And I can’t understand why. I began 2016 with a perfectly clean house. The counters were clear except for a letter, some coins, an orange and a pen.

The beds were made, the toilet sparkled and not a dirty dish could be found when 2016 came sneaking through the back door.

I thought we had a deal.

I thought it was cut and dried. Every book I have read about manifestation, every movie I watched about living on this dual plane, and every guided meditation I participated in has taught me that I get what I put out.

You know what I put into the world last year, 2017? I gave hard work, respect, honesty, compassion, dignity, cherishing, wonder, clarity, generosity, hard-earned knowledge.

I gave my full authentic self, 2017. I gave my fucking heart. I loved every minute of that hellish non-stop rapid ride with my whole mother fucking self.

I loved everything the only way I know how.

I cried when I was sad, even when I was terrified. I yelled. I poured my fucking soul – my bloody fucking soul, 2017 – into my art.

I sat in peace and enjoyed the god damned peace even when it came as I shook with exhaustion after warding off the fear to get to the anger which lead to the sadness, the sorrow, the grief.

I grieved with every fibre of my being that I knew existed. And some particles I wasn’t aware existed.

I allowed intimacy. Intimacy! I faced the vulnerability hangovers that Brené Brown talks about. Some were gruesome. But I got up off my face and I tried intimacy again.

2017, you don’t know me that well yet, but letting people into my inner circle is terrifying.

I did it anyway because 2016 told me that it was going to be okay. That I was working toward something amazing.

2016 lied. Almost every single big goal I had did not manifest. Some small ones, a few really big ones sure, but what about those other ones, 2016?

I put all I had into life in 2016 and all I got was healing, connection with good people after not trusting at all that good people existed anymore, sprinkles of happiness with mostly hardship and frustration and pain and a feeling like I was spinning my wheels.

And I damned well found gratitude for that feeling. With gritted teeth and resentment some days, but gratitude all the same.

So, 2017, I hope you don’t mind that my counters were piled with odds and ends, junk mail, empty boxes meant for later crafts, glue, sparkles and scissors when you blew through the front door.

I hope you don’t mind that there were dirty dishes piled high in the sink.

I hope you don’t mind that I hadn’t taken out last week’s newspapers to the recycling, or vacuumed the teeny bits of sparkle and other junk from the carpet, or made the beds.

Fuck, I didn’t even do laundry.

I was tired, 2017. I put my whole heart into everything I did last year. I went hard. I took carpe diem seriously, though I had to walk through the healing fire of fear first.

Be gentle with me, 2017. Please bring to me peaceful, easy and joyous intimacy, fun, laughter, serenity, lightheartedness, celebration, playfulness, gentle encouragement and love.

Love that comes to me with wholeheartedness and understanding. Love that is patient and accepting. Love that is authentic and tender. Love that is exciting without making me feel like I might throw up.

2017, bring me peace and joy and harmony and grace.

Bring me greater power to manifest the fruition of my goals that align with my true divine purpose.

Thank you.