the rebels

Earth citizens have always been near sighted.
Blinded with mythic misconceptions that,
“We get it and we are the only ones that do”

We know what a king looks like, and that’s not it.
We know you are gonna fall right off the edge of that ocean.
We know of course… that we are the center of the universe
and that there sun revolves around us.

And oh, the traitors and misfits that dare to challenge
that rightness. Like Galileo, in 1633, on trial for heresy
forced to denounce the ludicrous idea that this big ol’
sun-ripened planet, actually moves. That it has no beginning
and no end and it spins like vinyl, like b- boys like
spirit sounds rising from prayer bowls…it moves.
And he told them what they wanted to hear, what THEY
always want to hear. That they are RIGHT.

And then quietly under his breath, like morning sneaking
into the covers with night, he proclaimed,
“AND YET IT MOVES…”

no matter how wrong we are, we still
move in circles like our rightness,
dangle in this electric cobweb of IS-ness
we are the disco ball that the cosmos
dance to, the bling they can’t match
We move, and thank God for the rebels
that stood in the face of stagnation and
shouted…AND YET IT MOVES.

See, Galileo had no idea that 400 years
later his name would hang over the door of
a little café, in a little Spanish village,
in a little town in the middle of everything.

and the rebels would gather there
and they would stand in spotlights
and speak unpopular truths, but this
time they wouldn’t mutter it under their breath
the would shout it and mold it, fold it into

origami religions, hold it under their tongues
like hymns of contraband, like Christians
drawing fishes in the sand, like Hebrew babies bundled
up like packages and slipped into their smugglers hands
This is where it all comes out. Secrets become an aftertaste
in the suddenly quenched mouth.

They said that poetry is only meant for books.
Dusty ol’ books sitting on the shelves of Universities.
They said that ordinary people, people without degrees,
without letters after their names couldn’t write poetry.
So some said Poetry is dead. It is a small island,
in the middle of a still lake, a moment captured
and imprisoned on the page… but us rebels
we come here week after week to proclaim
like Galileo, “AND YET IT MOVES.

love poem for self

(this blog is for prayers and poems...this is both)

There are a thousand blond hairs on your arm,
sprawled out like hippies on the lawn,
lying on their sides watching for new freckles
to appear like history in the sun.

You shaved your arms once because
you didn’t like the furry halo
they formed around your chubby limbs,
like an announcement that you were not made
of gold clay like the other girls in the 7th grade.
They grew back with resentment,
or maybe that was just you.

There is a small bump on your wrist.
A souvenir of an accident that now, when it’s
quiet, I kiss because it reminds me of women,
a dainty hinge of forgiveness

I won’t tell you how beautiful your hands are.
We know how you hate them,
how you cursed their dimpled stubs,
but have you seen them move like language?
Have you seen them palm a phrase, hand it to
the air around a stage, or serve as a runway for
kiss blown to child’s face?
Hold them open.

Let me love them.
Let me love your full moon belly.
The thick trunk of growth rings
that recedes in and circles out, an
earth song swelling, you are marked
as a life giver.

So baby, stop describing yourself
with names only fit for cattle and feed lots.
You are a labyrinth of miracles, make your way
through the bends and angles to the auburn nest.
Part the hedge with your fingers. Plant names like
home and adore, gratitude and wonder
Watch them take root, pulse with nourishment,
burst into a pleasure wilderness
Can you believe your body can do this?
I want to draw the map for you
Plot the points of perfection.
Dig up anything that doesn’t think
your Being is a highway that leads to everything.
Take your stories out of their case and dissect them,
remind you of the whole scene.

Like the crooked eyebrow, the jagged eyelid
that you despise. When you were in a car accident,
they took on flying glass shards to protect your iris,.
Your hips, spread wide as wings, served as the opening
for the two reasons you wake up in the morning.
Remember how soft your hair felt
when you had it pulled back against your neck?
When you put your finger down your throat
like a coat hanger, unlocked
1000 calories of anger, heaved and trembled
till there was nothing left.
Can you believe that your stomach can hold that
much regret?

Baby,
quit trying to fold your self up
into a flattened perfume picture of
a girl, you are as 3D as the rumbling
city streets. Parks, gutters and laughter.
When everyone else goes away, when
the audience has faded, watch the way the
streetlights reflect on pavement, the way your
sounds clash and move like progress.
Let me love you like I know you.
Let me love you like it would end wars
if I loved you hard enough.
Let me love you like no one has ever been hurt.
Like you could heal the world if you knew
what you were worth.

getting my shift together

i've created a new blog just for my shifting process. this
blog will be reserved for prayers and poems.

check it out!

getting my shift together