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Pentecost :a poem

straining at the seams is what i am bursting out of my dress towards you
there is a small whimper at the back of my throat and i wait for the moment when
you will reach in and take what you told me long ago was yours for the asking
i give it up willingly, come get it, bluster me out of the same old shit

you alone got the cadence of my cha cha cha, only you can make me brave
enough to dance it. lusting for you , like a deer pants for water, i am waiting for the
ringtone that says its you on the phone, no copy-catted phony, there is no time now
for counterfeit.

Holy holy holy is the Lord of hosts they are singing in the closed up cybercafes, hoarding their
supposed joy as if it could be tainted by throwing it about as you do. Oh we rolled about in the
grass that day and you told me my name, whispered it into my ear, with your hands on my head in blessing and seduction. How you seduce me, lord of hosts with your wildman eyes and the unquenchable passion you unfurl nanoseconds before we deem it impossible.

You made me, roiling through the streets singing at the top of my lungs, you made me, voluptuously in love with your side kick, you turn back laughing and beckon with a crook of your fingered outrageousness, totally true to every promise you reluctantly made because we prefer promises to love, but you give that too, pouring it out over our heads while we sleep

grace. like we never wanted to know about.  filling us to bursting in our dreams.


God and I get married and move out the the suburbs ( the Biker God collection)

Two years ago I landed in Peru. Not much money, no plan, knew no one but the family of an acquaintance of mine ( who later became my brother).

I was recovering from a series of completely unexpected losses and disappointments. Not just  ‘ i didn’t get the promotion’ but more like’ i didn’t get the promotion and got run out of town on a rail’. The worst of it was i couldn’t quite figure out if i deserved it or not. i wasn’t as confident as i had been in the midst of the conflict whether i was right or not. Or if it mattered. i lost people i didn’t even know i was in danger of losing. People i thought of as ‘unlose-able’.

I learned there was no such thing as an unlose-able person. Unless you count God as a person.

And i wasn’t sure i had been counting god as anything.

Out of this place came these poems.

they need to be gathered in some order and published soon, but i am not all that comfortable with them submitting to any order at the moment, arriving as they did out of my chaos.

so in no real apparent order, and in a random heartfelt desire to share just in case there is someone out there who knows what i know and doesn’t know what we don’t know…

here they are.

Mercy and Justice, people



i fell asleep at the wheel and god drove

I fell asleep at the wheel and god drove.
I woke up in a land I knew and would remember as the
birthplace of all my dreams but there were no tears
in this land.You were there. You had a different face and the faces of my
children had changed and it was all the way it
was dreamed and the dream took the wheel of God
and it turned my life into a spaceship
bound for the outer regions of the heavenly suburb
called earth in some tongues but no one remembers that ancient language anymore
I fell asleep at the wheel and God drove me into joy and happiness,
dragged me off of the streetcar named Desire,
Desire being the one thing we cling to
,it tosses all our fearful anchors over the
Side and stops us, keeps us from experiencing the organic joy of
It, the thing we dream and call
The life that pulses and tells me a story that happens in my dreams, erupting into
real time redemption time, the dream manifested into bliss,
When I fall asleep at the wheel and God

Life on the Fringes.

A tide of rigidity, self righteous anti-intellectualism threatens the American population. But its not the NPR debacle or the spector of Sarah Palin that worries me, not the one American characteristic that makes us vulnerable.

Its our penchant for taking our selves so seriously.  America knows how to laugh at the whole world but it has lost ( if it ever had) its ability to laugh at itself. To submit its youthful cockiness to the scrutiny of the world opinion, who is often chuckling and clucking and shaking its head at our moral outrages and our lack of commitment to a global solution to the problems that beset us all.

Or attachment to codes, schedules, black and white viewpoints, crazy as it sounds we are becoming.. fascist.

what is the definition of fascism? hmmmmmmmm.

Fascism (play /ˈfæʃɪzəm/) is a radical, authoritarian nationalist political ideology.

Fascists seek to organize a nation according to corporatist perspectives, values, and systems, including the political system and the economy.


a. A system of government marked by centralization of authority under a stringent socioeconomic controls, suppression of the opposition through terror and censorship, and typically a policy of belligerent nationalism and racism.

The Untied States of America,its general population uneducated in Constitutional law, unfamiliar with the Bill of Rights, receiving its information from TalkRadioAmerika,  embroiled in a collision course with karma, bursting  with geo-political road rage, has lost its bearings. We are confused, frustrated, desperate, defensive, aggressive.  Frightened.

My pop used to call it boiled frog syndrome.. you know, you try to put a frog in boiling water and it will hop out but put the frog in cold water on low heat and it adjusts until it accepts  death as a natural consequence of being in water.
We are boiling to death in a pot of oncoming fascism while denying that there is a fire underneath.

We have been indulging in our little boiled frog experiment for quite some time ( the recent wikileaks miracle has shown us just how much and for how long ) but as long as Americans can entertain themselves while the world burns, we care little for the impact of our massive consumerist on the rest of the planet. And take serious umbrage at anyone who will call us to task for it.

With the advent of the Reagan administration and that infamous ‘trickle down theory’ ( you remember the one, if the rich get richer,then this will ‘trickle down’ to the masses… erm. not in our lifetimes).. we stopped pretending that greed was bad, though we had been  hot on the trail of economic world domination since the industrial revolution. What we forgot?  Real economics are about people. Not big business.

Our most successful presidential administration to date since has been  Clinton’s, who left office with the highest end-of-office approval rating of any U.S. president since World War II and our coffers in the black, digging us out of national debt, restoring our sense of the common good, our obligation to repay the world for some of the legal pillaging we have indulged in at its expense- ( The greek root of the word ‘idiot’?  idioto- having no sense of the common good’)-only to hand our well being over to the Fox in the henhouse.

The Bush years raped and pillaged our most precious resources; our civility, our intelligence, our tolerance, our global intuition, our generousity, forfeiting our progression into a nation that can stand alongside Europe educationally and economically.  All that expesive war toy purchase has its costs including an education system that has dropped in ranking in the last twelve  years from number 3 to number 27.

yes. you read correctly. #27.

Hannah Arendt writes  in her brilliant discussion about the public life and world events, published in 1960,
”Economic growth may one day turn out to be a curse rather than a good, and under no conditions can it either lead into freedom or constitute a proof for its existence. ”

That day has come.



I started keeping a journal, like most girls my generation, when I received a beautiful little pseudo-leather book with the words Diary emblazoned in gold letters and a .. gasp!… lock and key.

I was 10. And I was hooked. For the next 30 years, I kept a journal. If not religiously, at least regularly enough that I could track the trajectory of my life and loves. I dialogued with  the ideas in my head and reported the events of my life. I filled at least 12 notebooks a year, sketches, poetry, lamentations. I told my secrets and i obsessed about my fears. These were detailed. AGonising. Prolonged.  My joys were one sentence on a page with exclamation points.

‘DAvid ANDERSON sat next to me on the FRONT lawn AT LUNCH TIME !!!”

hearts and flowers. DAvid Anderson in bold and beautiful letters. Mrs David Anderson written prettily 10 times to follow.

My first songs, my first poems, my first kiss, my first cigarette, my first drunk.  My marriages, my children, my disappointments, my dam dam dam uncontrollably impulsive,sweet, funny, sad, manic  life.  The ricochet of betrayals. My own and others.

That hope thing. Some new world, some new name.  and then one day,

I stopped.

On my 43rd birthday in an apartment in Oregon, between jobs and countries, I got out all my diaries, journals, notebooks, sketchbooks and read them from beginning to end. The ones that had survived my 900 moves at least.

And you know? I kept reading the same story. over and over. From the time I was 12 til i was 40. The same hope, the same disappointment, the same restlessness. Someone had given me a Mary Engelbreit card one year on my birthday that went:\

‘Wherever you go, There you are.’ And there i was. a different coat of paint every year or so, but seemingly, not much progress.

It occurred to me that if I was repeating myself, it might be   that I was so busy observing my life that I wasn’t really living it.. and I was also scripting it without my being aware of it.  If you project in black and white the outcome of a certain situation, there is a good chance you will subconsciously manipulate your life to make that projection a reality.

I was a keen observer of some thing called my life inside my head. But it wasn’t getting too much further outside it.

and ugh. ugh. self self self. self.

I started reading the journals of women like Hannah Arendt, the beautiful diary of Dag Hammarskjold, the courtship letters of Robert Browning and Elisabeth Barrett Browning. People who loved the world they lived in, had keen senses of themselves and their limitations, who loved with intelligence and passion.

A journal can be a self revealing river or a window to the world. What I learned in the next decade of reading and observing, made me want to try to write about it.

Rivers and windows.

We are going to opt for a combination of both, if possible.

Sei Hei Ky, people.

June 2018
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