emergence

dancing through darkness.
stomping oppression.
slicing through repression.
i am homecoming.
wolves, go away.
little red riding hood is here to stay.
she's got a wolf mask for wilding the body home.
she's got a basket of treasures from the deep dark places.
she's wholing.
she's healing.
she's transforming.
she's powerful.
and
emerging from the depths.

it's been a long journey.
it feels good to come home.
to the self again.

no more dying.
no more trying.
do or do not...there is no try.
thank you yoda.
thank you brook.
thank you eleanor.
thank you grandfather.
thank you teachers.
thank you friends.
thank you stacey
for going the distance
and remaining true
to the path of authenticity
to the path of the warrior
to the path of the feminine
to the path of the heart.
welcome home, baby. welcome home.

leaving the bellly. returning to the underworld.

it has been one month plus since writing. i've been inside the belly of a wolf that i love. he may have been inside my belly too. we digested each other, plain and simple. i felt him intimately and he felt me intimately. in two months, straight to the core. straight to the heart. and straight to the broken fissures and cracks. spelunking is like that...one, two, three, jump!

i know the story. alice falls down the rabbit's hole. persephone gets yanked and sleeping beauty goes to sleep. reading between the lines, it's the part in the story where transformation needs space. it's the part in the story where psyche and eros part. their parting seems to be the most tragic adventure yet to be heralded. but it's an old, ancient story, and it will continue to play itself out in new forms. whether i like it or not. psyche goes underground to persephone. for the sake of aphrodite and love. she must journey alone. eros fled. his form was glimpsed when it was supposed to remain secret. the hot wax dripped on his arm. it was psyche's fault. her curiosity led to their separation. his restrictions were kind of strange. love's curiosity compelled their story to shift...so that eros could take a time out, and so that psyche could take a time out. we do not know if she will survive the difficult tasks given to her by the goddess of love and beauty. it's time for her to do some deep work. that's the way the story goes. and grows. do it alone she must.

and eros...it doesn't really say. he'll maybe reveal his voice in song. or art. that would be nice.

so. psyche went to the underworld a couple nights ago. it was the task that was given to her by aphrodite. she discovered a new version of herself was waiting for her below...the moon and the sun...

you will notice that the little fox appears in between psyche's moon image. he's the invisible glue that keeps psyche together with the spirit of an eaglevulture. theh spirit of the eagle vulture brings new life and takes away that which is no longer needed. it is taking a part of her brain out that has had a repeating tape.

her sun is a strong kachina. a bulldeerbird kachina. truth is the medicine. it is in the exposed bones. it is raw. it is piercing like his eyes. it is true.

the heart of a cave

it is 600 million years old. it hangs in the belly of a cave. it takes 100,000 years to grow one inch.

caves are subterranean places. there is a crack on the outside. an explorer went spelunking with a candle and an 80 foot rope. he discovered this. curiosity discovered this.

i think of miners and the deep places on the earth where people dig for precious resources. the resources in this womb are well contained. we are not allowed to touch or take. only to see and wonder.

crystal formations take the shape of coral, sea anemones and seaweed. once this too was an ocean. an ocean dried up in the center of america. 600 million years of giving birth to a heart.

i go spelunking without consciously being aware of why. there are dark places inside my psyche that i am curious about. i know that the shadows on the wall are just that: shadows. i know that the heart is waiting for me here too.

legends are made because of this. myths are grown because of this. i am made because of this.

the canyon project

Sometimes we get to the black canyon. It takes time to get there. I went the long way around, circumambulating the circumference.

I arrive at night. It is blackness and a bowl of stars. I don't yet see the edges but I can feel them. They make sleep feel new as if I will fall into dreams I've not yet experienced. I'm in the universe watching meteors fall from sky. I learn the language of the constellations. I witness Jupiter's ribbons across his belly. I lose my language for awhile. And then I sleep. I dream black dreams. They are not permanent and they do indeed breathe.

I wake up to sunrise, two baby does and a mother deer. They quietly lead me to the grove of oak trees. I go further and further beyond what is familiar. I come to an edge I've not yet experienced. I come to the most extreme canyon abyss in America. It drops and so does my heart. It's aptly named 'black canyon'. It is appropriately dangerous. I know that one wrong step and it will be the last step ever. I also know that the right steps will lead me further to knowing that edges --despite their danger, are exquisitely sexy. They are natural. And true. they speak honestly about time carving stone carving story carving sky carving gaps carving rivers carving mountains carving me. If sky could speak I imagine he would tell me to simply breathe.

I don't want to fall. Nobody does. I'd rather fly. Either way, sky catches me and lets me go again. I'm different with each breath. I feel both bound and free most of the time. just like how i feel at the edges. at the center i find my stillness. i always return to what i know best. stillness. quiet. It just is. The edges lead me to my center. Always. At the center of this one is a river. It rushes and teaches flow. It teaches that regardless of the distance, flow is always in sight and keeps on.


The wind blows now. It blows the blackness to blue. A veil appears. It is mystery. It is more than cloud speaking a soft hello to the morning. It is cloud attempting to penetrate the solidity of stone and me. It melts into black. It melts into me. It turns each of us blue and then we breathe into each other. Stones really do breathe. It's an illusion to think that our walls are permanent and inanimate.

The canyon is split apart. That's what makes it a canyon. I guess that's what takes away the split. Canyon is what canyon is. I'm split too. Maybe it's my own beautiful dangerous canyon. Maybe it is the accumulation of all of our canyons turned blue, washed out and covered with wise lichen and moss singing about rhythms we knew long ago.

Tolkein said it is dangerous business going out your front door. I accept it more now. The canyon reminds me by yanking my spirit from me. Momentarily my spirit reveals her own gap. It is me inside of it yelling at the intelligence that made it so. But why? Why not? The soul of a stone has many stories to tell on the edge of the fall.

It's natural. Alice in Wonderland fell a thousand and some feet and landed simply on her own two feet. It was and it wasn't. It appeared backwards and it seemed confusing and there were mad hatters and potions and drunken singing mice. She met the caterpillar who spoke of metamorphosis and she said that it was uncomfortable. He said that it isn't. It is quite normal and natural. Why think so much about it? Afterall, the queen of hearts screamed, 'off with her head' for a damn good reason.

Sometimes our wings mirror the call of the bat at night. And sometimes we lay stars in the shape of eggs. My story egg is sometimes fragile. And sometimes it breaks open for a reason. There is some interesting material in the cracks --just like what I saw in the cracks of the black canyon. New life. Sprouts and trees that grow in the least suspecting places. How do they grow sideways towards the moon through a ledge on the edge of the great big nothing?

I'm reminded to trust the stability of sheer cliffs penetrating sky. I'm reminded that if I fall from too high a height I might die. Or I might discover my wings. "Come to the edge." "No, we will fall." "Come to the edge." "No, we will fall." "Come to the edge." They came. I pushed them. And they flew.

I don't know who you are sometimes. Some days you are a black canyon. You are mysterious and your walls are jagged and seem split and obnoxious to me. I don't want to go near your jagged edges and I'm curious all the same. I don't recognize this nature that would welcome rams and mountain goats but not me. Other days you are night and dream and believe. I give birth to light inside of you. And then there are days when you become the sun and dance among evening stars and I am the night, the story quilt, and the blackness of mystery. We know each other and we do not. We know ourselves and we do not.

Black Canyons sometimes make it difficult to speak. They feel confusing too. One minute you are hanging on for dear life, and the next you are soaring with the eagles.

I know the constellation we are making. And sometimes I don't. Some days you penetrate me so deeply that I fall beyond knowing into not knowing. It catches my breath as do you. I know this much to be true: birds trust when they are thrown from their nests. Sometimes it is safe and sometimes it isn't. Nature makes it what it is --natural. I was born for this. I was made for this. I was made for black canyons turning blue amidst rivers running through. I was made for the split and I was made to believe in caterpillars becoming butterflies.

It doesn't always make sense. And then small simple orange and black wings flutter across a black canyon. Opening and closing. That is their rhyme. They want the heart to discover the truth of this piece of nature. Edges are dangerous and beautiful. Trust the Open and the close. Trust this rhythm: Egg. Caterpillar. Cocoon. Butterfly. Egg. Trust this one too: Grow. Eat. Make a cocoon. Dissolve. Eat your own substance. Break through. Hang temporarily to dry. Emerge. And fly.

It IS this simple and 'it' doesn't end. The road I got lost on goes all the way around. I stop but I'm not at the beginning, the middle or the end. It just is part of the journey. It keeps on keepin' on. Just like me. Just like you. Dangerous and beautiful all the same in the same fucking orgasmic breath.

spiderweb mess

i'm not tangled anymore.
it's courageous to dive into the story of transformation.
i wear it now. this new skin. a tattered cloak. with wings.
i'm researching transformation in all of its forms:
how it works 'in love'
how it works 'in creative process'
how it works 'in conflict'
how it breathes.
how it weaves.
it's mystery.
accepting what i cannot know
accepting what is difficult to see.

my favorite part:
no matter what --i will probably always have a voice that wants to sabatoge me, criticize me, judge me and abuse me. this is going to be a part of me for the rest of my life. so i accept it and it doesn't have power over me anymore. if it's here, fine. but i'm not going to buy into it this time. i'm on a different rhyme. spirit rhyme. spirit time. soul time. soul is fine. this soul is fine. sometimes i step back a few steps to gather some things from the past. and then i accept what is uncomfortable and then it moves swiftly. red earth is the best teacher. and the other thing i know is this: transformation is essential. and it is visible and invisible.

ode to passion

dedicated to k.c.

brutal sea. brutal moon. brutal waves. and brutal foam birthing a multitude of bubbles dissolving on stones.
brutality is misunderstood.

you swell. so does the sea. the moon rises, falls
and eats itself in less than 30 days.
every night eats an entire day without feeling guilt.

we flow in the blue-wash of dusk
and dive straight towards the unedited surge of tides.

fingers trace and tease stories
and breathe a new cosmology,
where words and body language collide into conspiracy.

passion!
you teach yes and no
and the graceful rough edges of pumice stones
grinding, pulverizing and
annihilating
seeds
into nourishment
for the belly
eating the belly

passion!
bringer of inconvenient truths from deep waters
and the innocent taste of salt upon tongue.
as if sweat could be that simple.

passion!
you who are terrify and strip
vulnerability and willing
expose and explosion
and
the convulsions of creatures denied at birth,
thrown unconsciously
and unselfconsciously
upon the gritty sand
while foam and wave wash over them.

there is no duality within the sea.
admit it:
you are horny for the ocean's violent birth, death and rebirth
reenacted through your tears.
you have an addiction for Aphrodite's violent thighs born from testicle foam
born from ancient stories
of men and civilizations and sacrificial gods rising and falling
again and again
and again.

oh pilgrim of passion!
remember this when you feel afraid:
regeneration will never kill what is eternal.
you cannot hold onto what is essential.
water is going to slip through your fingers.
and the waves naturally lead you where you are meant to be.
you are never lost --even among the edges where lighthouses do not shine.

passion does not wear spectacles.
nor does she
send out a formal invitation with perfectly engraved letters.
because of this
i trust her.

passion inhales
breasts and thighs
cunts and clitoris'
dicks
balls
asses
tits
pinkies
toes and nipples

i like her unpredictable navigation
and the way she penetrates secret realms
between hurling waves and resting sand
where debris and starfish try to hide.

she fucks seven days into a week
through the end and the beginning
she ask for nothing in return
except recognition of this:

every single night eats an entire day without feeling guilt.
day and stars are born because of this.

navigating

don't try to figure it out.
stop making sense.

circles navigate towards the center.
opposites attract.