Tuesday, October 3, 2017


where does the higher elevation come in?
I met you in a paper building of x marks and ink.

Bjork talks of one day and see-through rendezvous.
I’ve seen that, too. outside against the bricks.

not lying, but never fully with the forests of flowers
or the too many rocks at the beach I grew up on.

almost there with pulling away from not good enough.
not sure if that’s the case in the land by the pond.

I’m sure that I’m smarter than this and yet creaks 
in my gut are overexposed and too crinkly for quiet.

this is straightened up bullshit where I want to say
that it’s all true and my promise was not mine.

it was the shed layer of Connecticut upbringing.
Waspy, crusty, idiocy where blue is better than black.

my not so secret emblazoned in blogs and sitcoms.
not so special of a feeling that’s covered in all the songs.

too big, too common, to ugly cry. Stoked, surfs up.
haha. So “I didn’t think I deserved this.”

I didn’t think this could happen for me. 

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Desert Wolf

Giggling updraft with cotton candy stuck
in a cloud and the sun shining through
water that rainbows but makes my fingers
sticky. There’s moisture in the air because
we’re in Paradise Valley in monsoon season.

Intersexual plants teal and chartreuse the 
sand colored horizon where purple sunsets
show the reflecting sun where to grow.

Leaving the desert with its heart-shaped 
nopales who's spines tingle your leg as you 
walk. Hares greet the sage leaves. Quail 
bumble under dehydrated trees. We never 
saw a wolf shimmer on the pavement.

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

there are eyes

There are eyes to see with and there are eyes to be.
Reflections in retina kaleidoscopes tear apart right side ups.
Dismembering our recollections only to wire synapses 
maybe in our favor but probably not.

We dismiss our old crushes and obsess about decade old albums.
We see ourselves in outdated cutoffs and wave bangs.

Where did we leave our eyes?

We jump into the being ones and forget they see everything.
We think we can choose what gets embedded in our memories.
Refresh your journal and relive the week that you forgot to eat.

When in your past did you feel the sexiest?
Try on that bra again.
And fill your eyes with dew.

For Sherry

We sometimes forget that celebrations happen underground
tiny vessels of nutrients are gathered and exchanged with golden fanfare
limbs created and redistributed in neon nonchalance
creating momentum for the bloom to seduce our eyes.

We think that picking a bouquet and handing it off to our love is the gesture
we assume that life hasn’t thought about itself
that the cells of each contributing force don’t celebrate with us.
Every chain link matters in the expression of care.

In allowing the creation of our beautiful things to have consciousness
we bring the divine into our thoughtfulness.
We fill out the circle of good deeds from conception to receiving.

We’re all in this together and may as well tip our hats to the fungi.

Sunday, January 22, 2017


Your energy is like a blanket heaved at me with no regard for timespace. It Caspers my head and even though I can see through the loose weave, everything is effervescent and golden. There’s no way to take off the blanket unless I trick myself into believing that it was there all along. In which case the gold is part of me and there’s nothing to feel awkward about. It’s silly how many fables your face appears in and how many meditative moments are absorbed by your beating heart in my hands. I’m too old for games now, maybe poetry too, but too scared to be direct. Still worried about sanctity and shit like that. Upsetting the unit and all. As I sit on my not sky blue cushion filled with buckwheat hulls, I clear my mind of passing prose and future lines. Yet the golden fizz still exists. Maybe the blanket image isn’t working anymore because it’s not a filter. This telepathy or dimensional bond could be (ha) something real. With those fuzzy threads reaching out to be unraveled. Maybe it’s my job to share from my open wound of a soul. About how you helped me realize that love goes far beyond any physical manifestation. And that even though my original vision for what human coming together could be failed miserably, you were there to help me through it. And here you are now just when I’ve redefined what it means to be a person on this planet with more delight to share than she knows what to do with. So why you keep showing up in my meditations appears simple. You’ve been there for my heart awakenings and wall breakings, and now it’s my turn to be there for you. 

Saturday, November 5, 2016

For fun


Another thing I did in Sedona was attend a screening of Dancer. You may recognize Sergei Polunin from his "Take me to Church" (Hozier) ballet. I highly recommend seeing the documentary if it's playing near you.

I love escaping into art. It makes me feel more alive. Watching people who dedicate their lives to it is so inspiring. Sergei's story is fascinating, too. He's not the typical dancer. In fact, he arranged this performance to be his last. Here's more info: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt5097070/



feel sexy
in oversized work 

pants, purple lipstick, 
and butterfly 

Retreat Painting by my Students

I hosted a retreat for my Certified Intuitive Artist Practitioners last week. We were in Oak Creek Canyon, Sedona for 6 nights (it was blissful). And they decided to paint me a picture. It's got a lot of meaning within the colors and shapes, but I saw a bit more. So I made a poem about it.

Karma Pose 
One hand raised
threatening to 
Head to the 
side, neck

Big Desire

What I have is Big Desire.

The remedy: evolution,

honesty. (I want you)

I envision grandeur of spirit and nature.

Being scared in my tent.

Carrying bear spray to work.

Learning to bike in snow.

Loving more than one at a time.
(In more way than one.)

No gender. No sexual preference.

Bursting sun.

Dancing through storm.

Inviting all who care to watch.


Jumping through life.

A kid high on hopscotch.


finger buried in sand
Tangiers’ ocean crowded

wave spilling trout out
the wrong water source

in the back of the cabin
a loose door cracks open

hinges are rusty and unlatched

a breeze sneaks in
during nap time

spiral thoughts uplift 

from dark to distilled

Monday, September 19, 2016


You look like a doll. 
You’re my age, right?
Wow, you’re a big, beautiful, blue being!
You are so feminine. 
You are gender fluid. 
Your eyes hold the cosmos. 
Let’s be honest, you have a long nose. 
That would explain your unusual face shape. 
We have a prickly complexion.  
You are Pleiadian. 
You are Zeta. 
I see you’re getting to know you’re a Hybrid. 
You have virgin hair. 
You dance? 
I never would have pegged you as a snob! 
You are such a lesbian. 
Oh, you’re bisexual. 
I ordered the vegan pizza for you. 
How long have you been a naturalist? 
This is my wife. 
My Girlfriend has a gluten allergy. 
I have the best daughters in the world. 
I’m so proud of you, you’ve grown into an amazing woman. 
Oh, you’re an artist like Bonnie.
Spiritual teacher, poet, intuitive, channeler, psychic, entrepreneur.
You need boundaries.
Your posture is horrible. 
Your chakras are unbalanced.
You’re not grounded.
OK, smiley. 

I never would have guessed.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

First Kiss 4: Couches

This is part of a project that documents first kisses through my past. Memory can distort things and I'm creative, so not everything is 100% true. 

Tiger blanket on a twin bed, an undressed brown pillow which rarely got used, no headboard, big desk, dead candles: everywhere. This is the bedroom of a teenaged girl desperately trying to meet Billy Corgan and who feels sexy in oversized corduroy work pants. 

She noticed this one day in a parking lot, walking from the car to the mall entrance with her mother and sister. The sand colored pants hanging low on one hip and her father’s ancient t-shirt faded to a pale yellow on top. The stretch of skin exposed by the falling pants and hiked up cotton hemline of her shirt sent a bite of recognition of what it feels like to be sensual into her brain.

Skater, grunge, whatever you’d call her look didn’t matter. Her friend was a real skater and only the shoes mattered. They had to grip a board and manipulate the rectangle into flipping and landing safely. She could never figure out the geometry of such feats. She preferred inline skates, something that would later be referred to as “fruitbooting.’ Aggressive inline skaters never garnered much respect from the community, but she was a girl, which meant everything. 

Paul was over 6 feet tall, had dirty blonde hair down to his nipples and looked exactly like the lead singer of Silverchair. The band was very popular at the time and any mention of it near Paul would make him squirm with disgust. She first saw him from the car as her mother pulled up to High School orientation. She spotted him on the sidewalk talking to another kid and knew instantly that they would be friends. 

He was extremely kind hearted and the most honest person she’d ever met, but he lacked a sense of decorum about race and religion that I don’t think he ever reconciled. One year for her birthday, Paul made the girl a mobile. She was very crafty herself and was touched by the time and skill he put into this present. It was constructed of rope, large washers and metal fittings, the hard plastic head of a toy Kermit the Frog doll, and at the top was a swastika drawn onto a piece of cardboard. The girl and her Mother’s family are Jewish. He knew this. He didn’t mean harm. He was just that kind of guy. 

The girl always thought that Paul was from Tree Fort Louisiana because she couldn’t decipher Shreveport when he said it. A mutual friend from school told the girl that Paul was color blind. Once she confirmed this by administering the green light, red light test, she started having some fun. Corey, the same kid Paul had been talking to on orientation day, and she would give Paul pink and purple lighters and tell him they were red or blue. They would convince Paul that the girl’s hair was orange when it was really green. They would try and tease him at least once a day to make him feel desired and part of the inner circle. Paul was also the girl’s lab partner in Biology. She would make him do all of the gross stuff, like the cheek swab and the insect-related investigations. 

Eventually the girl made enough friends at her new school to get invited to parties. Paul had no problem showing up places where he didn’t know anyone. So he was certainly happy to go with the girl to wherever the fun would be. I wouldn’t say that she discovered beer at these parties, but she did discover the compulsion that this bubbly beverage caused. 

One particularly warm night, the girl descended into the basement of Erica’s house and found Paul standing by the open garage door. He was smoking a cigarette, something the girl wouldn’t start doing for another year. She approached him with a big swivel in her hips. It was not forced or conscious movement. Her chin felt strange and her ears were alert, and as soon as she noticed these physiological abnormalities, she was at Paul’s side taking in the scent of his Parliament. She turned her fizzy head toward his and grabbed his flannel with her small fist and tugged. His reaction was, “Whhhaaatt?” with a long, dramatic sense of dismay. 

She tugged again but this time pulling in a downward motion. “Come here!” she said sternly while cracking a smile. He flicked his cigarette butt onto the sloped driveway and exhaled before turning his head back in her direction. He bent forward, enough to reach his mouth to hers and gave her one last look of intention. As if to ask if this is what she wanted. She again smiled and connected their mouths before he had the chance to back away. 

The stance was all wrong, but all they cared about was the feeling of joy their tongues produced in the regions of their bodies that mattered. They moved each other about with their hands, finding angles and pockets, and soft spots that enhanced their encounter. They felt so natural at this. This felt right and would even without the beer. 

This was their friendship now. They made out in front of people, in front of dogs, and cats. They got caught by her father at least a dozen times. The scene would be: Dad’s head popping past the door frame, girl notices and quickly pulls away from Paul while swiping her arm across her mouth to dry it off. Everyone laughing. (Dad took this in stride, he liked Paul.)

At one important New Year’s party at Erica’s house, Paul was late. Rachel had been drinking and felt her chin get heavy and her body start to feel needy. This waiting enhanced her symptoms but made them irritating. When Paul finally arrived she approached him with speed. She whispered, “Standing isn’t going to cut it this time. Let’s lay down.” 

Paul’s reaction showed a conflict. She couldn’t decipher what his exact thoughts were, but he walked away which made the girl even more irked. Later on in the evening he found her and she got her wish. It was still very much friendly, clothed, and extremely satisfying. What colored her world was this ability to get what she wanted. She never asked for too much, but she never let others’ views stain her picture. 

There were many drunken make outs to come. More couches, more lying down, more dads. Later on in life, more sex. More bumbled nights of staying over and staying just friends. One night the girl sat on the edge of his very comfortable Bob’s Discount Furniture mattress and looked down. She started feeling full of emotion. They had been drinking, but more than that, they were sitting next to each other on a bed the same way they had 14 years ago. “Paul, I want to tell you something serious and I mean it in a really sincere way. I love you. You mean so much to me.”

Once again there was a hesitation from him. She assured him that it was still just as a friend that she loved him. She knew that he’d always wanted a bit more. It was easier to ignore this fact, though. And it was something he was willing to do as well. He did reciprocate her kind words. She could feel their truth as they wrapped around her in the dark. 

There wasn’t anyone that she could compare him to. And even though her father always thought they’d end up together, they always held steady to what worked for them. There were partners that would get in the way of their fun from time to time. The girl was married for a spell and Paul called her man up early on. “Yo, can I get drunk with your girl tonight?” “Uh, no.” was the summary of the answer. And then there was Paul’s girlfriend who didn’t want the girl around at all. 

These judgments were natural to expect. Their relationship was not something everyone could handle. Love, to the girl, is an open thing. It cannot be limited to one being or shaded into one expression. Paul understood that his receiving of such a gift would be counter to building a life with another woman. Many of the girl’s other special friends would come to this conclusion, too.

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

First Kiss 3: Interlude

This is part of a project that documents first kisses through my past. Memory can distort things and I'm creative, so not everything is 100% true. 

He sat on the floor of her 10x10 foot bedroom. The wood grained linoleum that made painting practical but sitting rough didn't even phase him. His legs crossed and knees elevated. His blue eyes large and eager to see what she was about to do to him. She mesmerized him. The wild tendrils of his hair similar to his frenetic energy. He wished to touch her always. The way she would always place her ankle next to his when they slept. She finally sat on the cold floor and faced him. Told him to close his eyes. Placed her hands on his shoulders slightly. She entered him in spirit. Her extended being swam in his body, searching for dark spots, for hidden poetry, for places that would make him giggle. All with her mind, she'd give and get sensations. To him, it was real. To her, it was natural. And as this rummage was taking place, they kissed. A metaphor for her deeper pursuit, a way to be invited in. To let his guard down. To feel safe.