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words and poems written by me.
Sent to eat the world.
Hey, did you hear?
We were sent to eat the world!
Knaw on every crevice that hangs limp -folded over sideways-
broken,
bent.
Eat it all.
Munch the seeds, beads and glittery machines -
the silly cookoo locomotion things,
and all the beings who pretend to be too proud.
Let's go ravaging!
Fill your tummy with local goods,
earthen dirt, sod and sand -
until the earth stops turning
since there is no one there to turn for.
And then, with one big hiccup,
Spit It All Out.
Relish in the release.
We only control our very being and even this is decided for already.
Relinquish yourself.
You eat and eat and eat
but must we remember what we eat we become-
and I don't want that chocolatey mess up on me.
Not now,
not ever.
To change the world is to fill it with songs and
smiles.
So eat up all the sadness, then
regurgitate it into
LOVE.
Friends, we've got work to do,
and I'm already knawing on some bone.
Raspberry.
If you bite down on these seeded clouds, do you not feel that intense life source flowing through you?
A shade of pale yellow, a novel color.
Are you, like me, dreaming of that sugared berry torte?
That dribbling slice in the mid-summer heat served in that overgrown garden we cherish so much.
Is this not everything you asked for and more?
You told me you wished to always be acutely aware of all the beauty that circles throughout!
Feel it now as that juice makes it way down your freckled chin.
That stain is impermanent but the lingering heart skip, that stays with you forever.
wine drenched lips.
She sits by fireside, and tells herself that those frothy musings mean something to her.
So tell her a story...
Of wine drenched lips that spit phrases like,
‘i’m fine’
and then later,
‘it’s all too much for me’.
She says the feeling is so addicting,
but damn it son, I just want peace.
So this might be it, but I know it's too soon.
I fear these stories ring too true.
Oh dear, in a word, I cannot say.
But this is treasure to me.
so tell her a story...
of deep purple lips soaked generously in over ripeness.
teach 'em
Gypsy girl, will you teach ‘em how to be free?
You tell the little one:
‘dream big dear child, I see those brown eyes bulging’
On a desert mount you recite one prayer, then another and in truth and lightness you relate these teachings.
You say to me:
‘In wind I pray, in softness I travel.’
For she has no place but the world to roam.
You say to me:
‘It is not vanity precious, but rather my inner spirit telling me I deserve more than this.’
gosh those eyelashes...
You say to me:
‘We run in fields to find ourselves-the self that always runs further ahead.’
I can free myself.
So
drench me in ethnic patterns, fill the tub, and let it permeate my skin.
Lessons upon the mount:
This body is a shell and we are not related.
And they ask me, Gypsy girl, teach ‘em how to be free, and I just laugh…
Freedom comes with struggle and this too, is blessing.