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Over the last 4 weeks I lost everything. I've been gaining some things back, slowly. But I don't know what I will get back and what is forever lost. I lost my writing. And I wanted... was determined.. to learn to live without it. But I was scared. Fucking terrified.



It's back. Everything is a mess of laughing and crying and writing and writing and writing.



I have learned, god have I learned, where to place value in my life. What things matter most. And how to let go of the rest. I could live without writing. I just had to learn to want to. But writing is who I am. It is the small bright light that lives inside me. I don't know if I could have found my way back to it without vespera - the most brilliant, eloquent poet I know. Who didn't just walk the path with me, but made me believe that I would find that part of myself at the end.




I hope you can see yourself as you are and the gifts life has brought. And the beauty. And friendship. And love. And words.




They matter more than you can ever imagine.











UPDATED



The Story So Far:



dire wolvesThe coyotes are singing,
high and wild,
in the unsettled night; the moon
is restless in her sky,
the crickets hold their breath.
The wolf at my feet is on high alert,
body so intense
she trembles, hums
low in her throat -
without the pack-song
you are the swift-hearted prey and
the night has sharp teeth.
Only the keening of the pack
on their endless hunt.
Only the aching.





when she cut out her voiceShe is lost and the monster is coming. Her head tilts and jerks like a bird balancing lightly on the bladed grass.
There is a ringing phone in her hands and it confuses her so much her chest aches and she begins to rock, tracing the blue buttons as if they might speak. Press down. A voice.
This she knows. This voice is strong and limber inside her whiplash of a body.
So thirsty, she whispers. I got lost.
She tunes in and out. The cadence of a voice who knows that to keep talking, on and on, means life to the listener who is trying to blend the music of voice and whispering corn blades and that far off discord that means danger.
Later she will remember a joke the voice made and wake laughing and rocking with the joy of a child, run to the phone and dial over and over a number she cannot remember.
But when a stranger with a calm voice and gentle hands takes the phone away and guides her to a chair with a piece of paper and a crayon she begins to write. And remembers the dis








uninvitedI cannot feel the cold,
in the skin stretched tight
over the tumbled stones of knuckle,
the rippling ladder of muscles stepping up
my spine, arched,
the stillness of the hunter,
settling into dawn,
and the easing
of breath


tornado girls can fall in loveYou can destroy yourself
in the most fundamental of ways.
Not have the words to speak
or tell anyone
who is listening
how you can be deeply restless,
or the tidal wave of grief is too huge
and crushing
but there is still such a potential
for happiness
even here, in the eye of the storm
I hold safe the voice of love, needing you
to repeat
I will never leave, I will never leave you,
you need to trust me.

I hold your voice like a lifeline,
because even a careless heart
can break.





the schizophrenic worldI have died twice
in my twenty-eight years.
Survived my own suicide
again
and then again
and again.
Learned to live and breathe through
my own destruction,
not stop loving myself
or tomorrow,
the restless sun that keeps
dawning.
I still have not learned how to grieve,
which implies regret
and loss is just one way to see
the way reality bends around me,
but my hands are not empty, no -
may never be.
You took those agonizing steps
to keep me breathing
and then stood solid to help me live.
Laughed and cried with me,
weren't afraid
to say I was hurting you
or welcome my tomorrows.
Saw only love and more love,
incredible joy
and hope.


the giftEveryone asks how I lived.
Medical miracle implies
the hand of god
and they keep sliding religion across the table.
The true story is not so grand
but better, still.
God was not in that still room
while machines pulled each breath
into a body that trembled,
waiting to pass into the unknown.
I was alone.
For three days I waited to let go,
but held on,
because miles away the phone lines
held me to the shell of my skin.
Two beautiful people carried me,
spoke of me, alive,
without hate or judgment,
and I lived there in the world
they built in the air, me
alive, in the glow of the ordinary
and seeing the world I could step into,
safe between them,
I stayed.




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MY ENTIRE LIFE IS FOR SALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



Like one of my paintings? (You can see crappy photos in my gallery!) MAKE AN OFFER!


Want MY copy of Written on the Body with annotations by me?


EVERYTHING IS UP FOR GRABS. GO CRAZY.









I have $3.45 left for the month and I gotta have minutes on my phone and gas in my car or they will take me away back to the hospital. So help me stay free. Help me have a way to talk to the people I love and drive to the classes I must take. Nothing else in my life matters as much as that!







SOME THINGS FOR SALE:


The Proof copy of Hallucinations, Cancer & The Purple Tree

ALL MY POETRY BOOKS.

Fight Club, etc

All of Stephen King

ETCETC



Want me to pick a novel for you? Or a new poet? Maybe a grab bag?










GO AHEAD AND ASK. I can probably fill any desire!

















SOLD:



Written on the Body

Proof of Hallucinations, Cancer & the Purple Tree
















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