thoughts that come about when in yoga land.

graceful inspirations drag,
draw trails in colored sand
(meaningless when organized +
bottled ~ chaos
is my home.)

the quiet of many sleeping
minds drives through
our small practice (daily) for
the Final Savasana
(if you know what we mean...)

some hoax, coaxing tired minds
into a gnawing ---
hot tub. cold swim.
c.o.n.s.t.a.n.t - chatter.

run. now.

-----------------


these paper dolls who
flutter here
and there ~ causing asanas
to bloom in unexpected places;
the mating rituals of slugs.

(to make love and slink away
both heavy with
hermaphrodite children)

---------------

words unhinge and swing away,
creaking, come loose
grow wings and flutter off
desperate for the distance -
test envy, tempt -
with thoughts of That Grand Adventure
the will have across
the quiet sea.

---

call the walls back
make playgrounds of these postures

to find some aching movement
in swaying with the wind.

take back the surf, make
puppies, or find them, little and mewing
at the bottom of the sea.

baby,
fish fins that held string words
tell the stories of deadly currents.
our eyes will never take us there.
never take it out,
never go.

Alice brings in the daily catch,
decorates tea pots with
bleeding flowers... bleeding.

somewhere nearby my hips
build a home from bricks
(and thick oatmeal. raisins)
kept out some wolf
too sick with alliteration to know
he's better off outdoors..
better off to leave the pigs,
go veg,
open up a mountain retreat
(Set Goals)
for girls with self esteem issues
"my! what big teeth you have!"
(he thinks my teeth are fat)
The better to eat you with, my dear.

Eat tofu; not deer.
phone in sick. take the bus
out to some rocky coast
to climb, to sit,
to think of my aching hips
in another lifetime:
a knot in my trunk,
my limbs reaching into that
infinite hazy blue.
waves crash on waves.

break pace with the electric fire
to search the forest floor
for small bugs, pieces of dry wood
or just build a home in
a big old tree.
big. old. trees.

you all get fancy
mobile phones, to keep us
current in your lives,
just as though you're never
(ALONE. SHH.)

she said something about navel gazing
(misleading poetics, 'cause
if everyone were really just looking at their belly buttons
I wouldn't be so bothered. The iphone doesn't come
with an umbilical cord...it's sold separately.)

(and notice how my margins drift..
notice the way your cat moves,
indifferent to your angst, your guise,
the invalid things you say. ugh.)

so document your life in low definition photos,
that stick to your facebook wall like ketchup stains
completely eliminate silence from your life
you know what's best - or you just don't want to
(to know!)

I battle my depression with some compostable cutlery
and itunes genius
and music that mutters about sarcastic shit
to an acoustic guitar
(doesn't rhyme)
(who needs rhyme)

pretend we know each other.
pretend I want you to read this.

Worldfuse. or why a poem is not just another temple.

Bring book everywhere. write everything. no rest. words.
words till words give out,
deny words, so thick. words like molasses,
words like crowded halls and bathroom lines,
words like the quiet of cold mornings,
like mist pregnant on the water.
words like mountains, being born.
with words we shall conquer this
sacred mouth, full of spit
find a cure for all..
...all the nonsense

talking.

A bus ride this week,
on the short-bus that takes the long route
along the water,
and a smiling driver (who offers transfers
to those forgotten-bus-pass-engers)..

plays some happy Jack Johnson song on the radio
just as we begin to really cruise
(bouncing, bouncing)
next to the lazy, long beaches
(who, though cold, stretch their logs, enjoying
the sun and chill, roll around in their
long, late mornings).

and we wind with the road up through the trees, gaining
height, and stolen glimpses
of the flat water.

For this ecstatic moment, I am fooled completely

into calm.