Little Alters Everywhere

An example of
One of the many ancient
Traditional ways the Western Civilization
Worshiped a god of peace
And gifts
Known as Christmas
In wonder

An example of
One of the many ancient
Traditional ways the Western Civilization
Worshiped a god of peace
And gifts
Known as Christmas

You sketch your lines
Your red letter days
blue places
A mystery wire frame
Scratched in permanent sky
Or something water color ink that never ever dries
These cities grown between us all live on
Forever?
While everybody dies.

When my eye holds only angles
They suck thought out between
the lines
Being lost here somewhere is my moment
Where paint-flow washes out my mind
As if
any
Could thwart
A Light
A Way
A Life
A Day!

The sweetest sweetness of all of Life
Might just be
In the footnotes

My writing corner, it’s ceiling light went out
It’s been six months
Here I am, Your avatar, amused
It’s back
In the midnight, the only night
As I sat here and cherished the dark’s dancing candle light



This Morning loves me
I can tell
When fist He brings me coffee
Then goes tempting my eagerness with
forbidden gumdrop fruit
Designed and built all just for me
He, then, He let’s me be

It’s made for me
The world is
The way i am made for me
i am the World Herself
i adore You World
You adored me first
– i just noticed

This moment touches you
Oh, we’re here, here, here
Joy and you hold hands just then
To breathe,
the atom splits again
Again, again, again
For God so loved the game that he played it.
John 3:16
That’s all I have to say about that. I only wish Clown Head were still here in the game and not logged out.

Normal
What’s normal?
Who’s normal?
When normal?
How, why, normal?
Who says what’s?
Mine’s as mine as my foot size.
Defined, solidified by National Geographic
Boxes and shelves of people who almost must exist, sort of, because there are pictures
They sorta exist
You know, to be in here, to strike me
Look at that!
So I can dig in the boxes for the most shocking naked, huge, wrinkly, big bright feathery, tiny, adorable or sinking bony.
Curious dark friendly eyes slanting behind skins and furs
Naked painted long breasted moms
All that stuff on their heads taller is than they are
funny expressions
why would anyone move like that?
And in public.
Measuring the world with my foot.

Is everyone, every single believer, having an intimate personal relationship with the same person?
Big Polygamy?

presence is electric-electricity
it charges your phone
it’s you-and it’s you when you notice
you plug into your own
flip a switch with your attention
inner solar power connects
it goes super nova
as you fall in love
your football team won
P.S
I think The original was better:

I just want to name, own, describe, and get what I do.
I’m pretty clear who I am.
My gifts are part magic part audacity, part art
Lots of every kind of composition, strings of intuition, mostly listening, while taking things apart.
Mostly, I just pay a fresh attention, wonder, do research and thought experiments, maybe try a few things, cuz I really do wonder about that, then wonder aloud.
Tweak my own perspective if something’s really stuck. Mostly, my clients Winnow out then names what’s going on. She comes up with answers , then figures out how to see it, feel, think and act. While I just sit there and wonder.
I sit there openly wondering about one thing and another. While also in Wonder and jaw dropping amazement as mere becomes super.
So, you think shifting that this way will cut out the friction over there?
Huh?
Why can’t I see how that’s working then?
Oh, so you say you just needed a cog there, then, yeah I totally see how that works.
But that’s not the magic.
I guess I market their ideas dreams and themselves to them.
So by the time it’s done, they own it, made it, believe in it. They believe in themselves are right in the middle of their purpose.
I think I sorta allow people to reinvent themselves, their relationships, goals, purpose, system, then I market what I see to them.
They buy themselves and walk away rich.
I think the hardest thing for me is to admit that this is so easy and joyful for me that I’d get on buses just to sit next to someone to see one small part of a life turn around, a brightness, a bounce, a stunned or contemplative look, maybe an aura of joy, before one of us reaches our stop. An addictive time sensitive game. I wouldn’t do it in pursuit of just a smile. Smiles are like snow flakes. Unless my victim hasn’t smiled in a decade. Then, they’ll be smiling when they step off the bus. That would be a win.
The other, and more terribly hard thing for me about thing is the awkwardness of charging of people for a gift that feels kinda magical cuz describing how it’s done in unimaginable and duplicating it is dead.
Also, what if I commit to help, and gasp! charge, and then the genie that actually does all the work doesn’t show up!?
I fear. No, dread and deal dead having to do the same thing every day. I know there’s no magic or future for me in attempting rote magic production. Yet, for some irrational reason I can’t stop feeling it’s to be my fate if I dare put my name out there to get paid for this.
I have this fear of ending up like the farmer’s daughter. The one who got locked in a cellar after her father boasted that she could spin straw into gold. She gets locked up and cornered into weaving more straw into gold, every night. Suck might happen to me too, till I end up promising my soul and my firstborn to to Rumplestilskin. Letting people who are counting on me down is just as terrifying.
I guess when you live in a magical world you have fairytale fears. And just because it doesn’t exist, doesn’t mean I don’t keep backing away from some invisible thing in my imagination.
I need someone like me to help me out. I’m dang good at helping folks kick imaginary shit they’ve been backing away from’s ass.
So?
Where am I when I need me?
And why I adore dialogue with you on here.

Your insight is dramatically helpful in the monumental process that is a story teller turnings shame into vulnerability.
Your points give a clear much needed out for when us writers doubt what we are really doing.
We need this way out of our maze of fear and lies we believe feel and react to. Believing I’m exposing my friends makes me feel defensive and small like a weasel. I often suspect myself of something that makes me just like a
Writing a good story is big work.
It’s heavy lifting to process reality into an uplifting story that makes sense and creates meaning and change.
Figuring out how we got out of a tricky spot and how and why we succeeded who and what where the problems and what we learned worked or works is an art. Sharing it is brave.
Finding a way out of lives that won’t bring joy or flow properly no matter what you do or hide is priceless.
I think your points do something to help bring my personal imagination out of the bone yard. A place where I feel like I’m betraying and hurting rather than helping. Hurting isn’t my nature. So I feel paralyzed. So, I fight back.
tabloid producer and accuse myself mercilessly. So I figure the whole world is gonna see me like what I am, some Rita Skeeter, that horrid witch reporter for The Daily Prophet let’s her magical green feather pen stretch butcher and molest the truth about Harry Potter and his friends without a spark of conscience. She’s one of my least favorite fictional characters, ever. So, I’m ready and on the offensive and the defensive, when just like Rita Skeeter, I make this crap up about myself. Then, like the annoying Wizarding community I go and believe the whole thing.
So, then I’m defensive as heck.
I am not like Rita Skeeter!
While I am the only one in this “conversation”.
Only trouble: I wonder if all great writers must have this stupid “conversation” and find a way to end it every time and move forward.
You’re list did something lots of books on writing I’ve read didn’t do.
I’m not sure what it is, but I feel a little bit quenched. In a good way. : )
All the best writers write about what they know with a terrific purpose that’s got nothing to do with exposing their friends. For me, its It’s about helping myself. My friends are part of my life, and lots of what I learned is from my not-so -friendlies. What else is there to write about? How else than to tell my own experience of myself and how my friend’s and family’s crap has affected them and me and the rest of us?
But “Who do you think you are to judge you big meany!?” Still needs to be dealt with regularly. It’s gotta be dealt with. I have to do it. And I have to do it regularly, the way some other professionals have to build up their confidence regularly.
I believe the majority of great story tellers, have to do this. And your words are helping me now. And maybe, it’ll never get as bad as Rita without me knowing where the attack is coming from again.
I wonder if my inner critic identified with a sensationalist tabloid producer. I feel aversion to. I don’t know anything about tabloid writers, and don’t consider them great, or story tellers.
I guess I feel like they are infections. When we are not immune the rest of us wonder if we are also being paid to be contagious pernicious judgey gossips with no right to feel good about our calling.
Huh. I just realized something.
I guess I haven’t figured this out. I don’t know any sensationalist gossip writers at all. Not one person I know thinks I’m that way either.
I just realized. Me trying to avoid being that way is ludicrous. I spin in that cycle rather than just realizing I am not that way. Huh.
Well.
There’s really nothing to talk about.
Note: May get permission to use the points that sparked this. Gotta post my response there first and see if I am nuts after all.

It’s that “resume” part of jobbing I wanna elbow the hell aside, punch out then tear past whooping.
I feel myself speed out of the stupor of conformity into the real, whatever it really is.
The thought of that octupussy pandora’s trap makes my skin crawl. That squirmy zombie octopus has a super power possessing shadow side.
It’s designing dangerous and only alive in the insidious way all deadly systems are alive.
It’s, not natural.
It’s not actually alive. And it’s not part of the beauty of the ocean. It’s a monster.
It’s the sweet lost ghosts of distant past I grew out of. Memories. Fantoms meant to predict the future. When they don’t.
It’s the past with it’s claws dug into my future’s neck. It pins down what’s alive and chokes it into zombie hood.
Thee looming boredom of repeating the past hurts my soul’s teeth like scraping them slowly all the way down that familiar chalkboard.
Designing my own restrictions trying to do again what I did well before takes me back to being naughty.
“No go pick me a willow to spank you with.”
You’re seven.
You are supposed to be choosing the stinging green willow branch to whip red marks onto the backs of your bare legs.
This ends as it begins. Like writing a resume.
I’d rather go put on some stipper shoes.

It’s my cracked dilapidated heart that’s been crumbling for two decades. And it’s about my kids.
Years ago their father permanently spirited my two oldest daughters away to Mexico. They were two and four, then. So, they didn’t get to have a mother.
My youngest daughter is with me, but she isn’t with her father or sisters.
That was after my baby son died. e’s okay. But I was never quite.
And here I was year after year trying to compensate for all the love, attention and things, this, my one kid left, has been missing out on. While at the same time, I’ve consistently missed my exiled daughters. Then, of course, there’s that ache where a baby is suppose to be. That doesn’t improve matters.
It’s twenty years later. My two Mexico girls grew up. Without me.
We got in touch, after all these years. They are okay. However, they’re totally convinced that I abandoned them. So, all the abandonment, loneliness, and other miseries they suffered are totally my fault. Every bit of it. I won’t go into just how totally innocent their father is right now.
For my part. Rather than helping this, my one kid left, to focus on growing strong, overcoming, and going after what she needs and and doesn’t have, I focused on protecting her. So, I am pretty responsible for some of the stuff she blames me for.
So, right now, only my son isn’t pissed at me for Mother’s Day.
Now that I recognize my same-old-crap behavior patterns from my shitty-old-relationship, I notice that my kids are on the same direct course to where I’ve been.
It’s terrifying to witness.
Yet.
Do I regret my life?
No.
They probably won’t regret theirs either.
So why not just be happy?
Now.
Already.

The face
Of this sadness
Joy in profile
Tears streaming
In color
Peek out
Of the wall
When darkness is thick
Creamy and sweet
Your tongue is alive
It climbs up your feet
All wrapped in the moment
A being of taste
Is it what you are now
From what you have faced?


It fills you full of wonderful
Even when it hurts
Sometimes it doesn’t
Then sometimes it works
It’s a Weeks work
So here I sit
Waiting happy
For
The Week to do it

This elixir of fortune
That coffee of fate
A whiskey of accident
Territory of your story
Drink it now or wait?
By
M. L. Redford
the wayward spirit wafts in
through the window when the patterns of weeks, months passed, at last,
let go and shift
she moves about the room like Franny Glass making one or two things
flutter a bit, and is gone
out past the opposite shoulder as I turn in to see what I hear
to notice things
in the room which were always there but hadn’t been noticed for weeks
or maybe months
and which had obviously been there for a purpose, staring through the books
on the shelf to find
a forgotten bookmark, an absent fold, maybe a latterdaymexicanpink
autumnal ritual –
seven parts revelationinitiation and fifteen parts flutterbybestowal –
curiouser and curiouser
are the ways of the spirit: if I follow, will I flutter, will I perch or will I fall?
either way I’ll find
the pink of gist and need to meditate before I waft or get stolen
but the spirit talks
of grounding, without talking, for she is no airy/faeree: the meaning disappears
the more you look
but in looking at the unfindability you discover all the meaning for to see:
body, soul and beauty
but no room at the inn for language, ‘you can speak a hundred languages
if you want but
you’re never as wise as the illiterate who speaks with love in her heart’
she says, without a single word
but thought of a hundred languages smaller than the stars which float away;
the language of Waywarduese
butterflies about all over the points, and all of those points held
in one wing-spread,
colourful and puckering hold, sprinkled and dlappled like rain
Oh!
Can I have it?
Is it for me?
It’s for me?
It’s for me!
It’s Mine!
You stole it from me!
I’ll be generous and
share it with you
if you let me keep it.
Please

The elixir of fortune
The coffee of fate
Whiskey of accident
Territory of your story
Drink it now or wait
Ordinary breath
Ordinary tears
Ordinary almost everything
Where extraordinary veers
The long road
To acceptance
The symptoms
On the way
It’s what
A life is
Made of
The stuff
Of every day
Use up your luck
Engaging no stress
Surrounded by controversy
Conquer the labels
Be a thing
I immerse myself
In the massive instinct
The record of the massive
Instinct of human change
You watch murmuration of starlings
Turn dusk into a kaleidoscope
Who watches the murmuration of humans
Organize and dance to a word you spoke
That hidden pattern
In every part
Of game of life
Of soul of art
When Evolution
Worries
Gets nervous
What calms
Fears and
Her nerves?
The bigger I
May ruminate
On me
The one
The incarnate
Crystalline honey bees
Swarm in me
Buzzing vivid desires
Fierce yellow flies away
In green bright light
To parlay with yellow flowers
Sometimes Doubt
A useful tool
Like pliars
A hammer
To use
Animal quicken
Aware of being
The more complex
The more fun to
The invisible you
Arid center
Spark of life
Intelligence
From what?
Conscious why?
It happens to me
It jiggles my soul
In six ways I’m free
But mostly it’s stole
When I slur
Your name
Baby
It could mean
Anything
Baby
These pulses charm
My body like a snake
The music’s in control
Dancing is my fate
Hide out
Look around
Feel the earth move
Inner sound
Map my whole world in glitter
It’s days of bright eyes seeing
The rising heat of every heart
Those crashing waves of brains atwitter
Translate this juicy blur
Of pristine seconds
Minutes that somehow were
Gone and here forever
I’m here
So do I squat
In this body?
Or what?
The sound of expectation
Purring in my chest
Thrill beaming out my face
Swish of secret breath
My body feasts on being
Laughter in my step
Entering the current
Slipping into being
Surrendering to darkness
Fin instead of wing
Liquid silver flying
Seriousness washed in dream
Lush and lukewarm
A cheap hotel room
Hours shuffle along
A familiar radio song
When the first chill
Of fall cool air
Drys my sweat
I am aware
I am the sky
I am the world
I am everywhere
I’m greedy for intimacy
To see with story eyes
My folly set in funny scenes
I laugh not criticize
Cool silent wind blowing
Swishing through my mind
Stirring neuron branches
Letting them entwine
Tremble in the chill
For a kiss
At a birth or
Overcome with fear
Hands recognize
Eyes forbid
Feelings consent
Crafting your sighs
The knife of life
Lovingly carves
My hart
Into art
I own
A million overwhelming
Angles in my life
This twisted
That broken
It slightly might
Light up
With all that is
I’m editing my life
For twists
For readability
For clarity
All clean
Without removing
Character and
The dirt I mean
Play with me
In this belonging dream
Were no one’s actually free
Weather you flow or resist
The sweetest meaning ripens
In the plot twist
Howling
I follow the scent
My dream
Hunting killing sharing
Becoming a complex being
Filter out each being
Select wee dabs of each
Set strict limits
Adjust needs
See how far you reach
To be a friend
To write my own way
Have meaningful conversations
Frequent deep play
To publish
To skate
To tell a new story
Get to sashay
Spend time alone
Worship today
Simple
Complex
Ravenous
Satisfied
Berated
Unfathomable
Gotten
Glorified
Worlds get built
Off devastation
Sweet lives get spun
From loss
I find the best
Part of a story
To win when
It’s a toss
When I planned
My life adventure
Did I do it right?
Was all this heck
Weaved in on purpose
Or was this
An oversight?
Ride a lifetime
You designed
Twisted terrifying
Till redefined
The privacy
Of my heart
A blissful place
For me apart
Exposure to this thing
The sun the air
We breath
The feeling of baking cookies
Wiff of rotting flesh
Touches this eternity
Is the thing
That thing
That manages
The paths of stars
Every baby being made
The weather currents
Each flower blooming
Ever overworked?
Seeing beauty
Feeling beauty
May be a skill
To any and all
Circumstances
Assign beauty
At will
When’s your
Invitation
To adventure
Every day?
It’s long
It’s short
You won’t get
Hit by a bus
It’s more
It’s less
Than we
Ever discuss
Exquisite moment
Tender deceit
Open hearted
Trust
Surrender
Not defeat
The wandering unseen
Felt and lived so keen
The thing
Shining in eyes
The moment
You realize
Where do
Life’s capable
And my
Capable
Converge?
Someday is a dream
A place
A living thing
The past clings
To my bones
Like wings
Uneven emotions
Crookedly cut
Uneven days
My life has whipped up
The richest
Luster and shine
Down through
The years
Eyeballs polished
With all kinds of
Tears
This infinite story
You choose to dive in
To become a role
And play it again
My specific
Will to be
To feel alive
With dignity
In this ocean
Storm and calm
Afraid to die
Or live to long
The Way
The Tao
The way
To float
With the current
To devote
Peace’ attention
To allow
Trouble and currents
To pass somehow
Tempted
To go too fast
Or not go on
Might go astray
And not get done
Tempted to be
Perhaps to not
I used to care
I used to care
A lot
Crossing this
State to state
State of ego
State of grace
State of confusion
Saving face
My interior land
A place
A feeling
A band
The blooming year
We will inhabit
Full of joys
Of games
And moments
Where did hopeful
Go?
Somewhere I lost
My way
The future I don’t
See
I can not feel
Today
To mope
Around
The holidays
Hot cup of
Tea and warm
PJs
Simple ritual
For renewal
Bake some soup
Play the fool
I pillage
My inner world
For gifts to
Give the
The outer
I pillage
My outside world
For gifts to give
My inner
Maybe someday
I’ll get
Commerce
Giving myself
An ovation
Yes yes yes
For deeply
Enjoying these
Holidays in the
Middle of this
Mess
Quiet
Treat
Sweet
Retreat
Every moment tender
Every breath
A bounty
Enthusiasm up
Enthusiasm where?
Sometimes it’s all
Beautiful
Sometimes I don’t
care
For the tune or
Fortune
Being alive
Is music
Moody Sometimes
Days can be
Is it Life in the mood
Or is it we?
Folly to one
Sweetness to another
Beauty
The eye
Of the beholder
This time
Bespoke
For inner silence
Feeling the deeper
River of peace
I flee the world
Into your silence
A place
A home
Inside somewhere
Outside everywhere
Total reliance
Mystica forces
Gently engaged
Mystical waves
Lived unexplained
Mystical Moments
Secretly known
Mystical days
May always unfold
In the knowing
That life
Though it’s flowing
Moves for everything
Flows for you
In you
When I don’t remember
How life is a treasure
What do I do?
What’s my way back
To Awe and to wonder?
I protest this life
I asked for
In my longing dreams
Life knows more
About my life
Than me
It seems
When youth and dreams
All vanish
What is the substance
Of joyfulness
That takes their place?
Is there a
Squishy
Difference
Between
Sacred
And
Prophane?
I construct a reality
Mine
Perhaps it fits with
Yours
If they don’t
Fit
How do we
Connect?
Echo
Of an unborn
Future
Singing of a living
Past
All stewed in
This moment
Where does vigor
Go when it is gone
And takes rigor with it?
The flavor
In my mind
Pungent sweet
Divine
The invisible places
In between
The liminal moments
Felt
Rarely seen
Where magic
Lurks
Hunger satisfied
Lust for an instant sated
Fleeting moments
I didn’t live between
Instead I’d waited
What Self sees beyond
Chaotic fate
Breathing in life now
Every sigh
A clean slate
The
Expectation of good
Trusting Life to deliver
More than just food
Joy in a shiver
What elicits what
Where is the pull
Soul reaches for body
Or body emerges from soul?
A whiff
Of old leather
Takes me there
Free travel by
smell
Heart burned black
Mind scorched
To ash
It sometimes happens
While spirit
And soul relax
Taste?
Or?
Ostentatious?
The whimsical
The mystical
The exceptional
Me
Take turns living
Life with the other
Three
Filthy rich
Filthy poor
Filthy mind
Filthy floor
Filthy wonderful
Filthy muddy shoes
Every filthy little heart
Full of filthy good
Too
The heat of time
Ingredients of experience
Percolates
The water of a soul
Into something
Flavorful
Tart
Salty
Sweet
Soft sunshine
Cool water
Sand on your feet
Fishing through days
For ideas to breed
That open my eyes
To my own lies
Letting Life grow
So I come to know
To live different ways
A new creed
My lofty aims
Fall through the sky
I collect them burned
Should I retry?
Or what?
The body asks
The soul
What then?
A story
Gets told
We believe it
To go on
Friendly vegetal Life
Gives life
In the language
Of health
Wispers peace
Flavor and beauty
Feeding the
Soul
Is Life alive?
Does she smile
Is Life in the air
Coming to life
In breath
Primping
In sunshine
While being
The sun
In irksome hours
As time drips
Sometimes sometimes
Your frowning
flips
Relish
Twirl
Stand up
Rule
The minute
This moment
Embellish
The world
A Little
hyperbole
All fitted up
Strung
Unfathomable
Can
Great purpose
Deep sincerity
Be
Mistaken
Misguided
Adding up
To evil be?
A little child
Copycat
Believes
What
Mom believes
Regardless
Of fact
This giant
Word
So small small
Small
A flicker
There
Enlightens all
Bridge your heart
And mind
Playing to unwind
Then make the art
That brakes apart
The Universe defined
Unstitch the
Universe’
Broken
Sighs and
Hallelujas
Cut
Rearrange
Sew into
Beautiful
Wink
Smoke
Out of
Your eyes
Or clouds
Sudden shudder
Deep sighs
Banned
From a boredom
Of perfection
Human
Figuring it out
Being
An exception
Minute transformations
Windswept moments
By and by
Chisel the look
Out of
Your eye
The
Joy
Beauty
Story
Frailty
Strength
More immense
Than
A tiny human
Did I volunteer
To be this frail
And full of fear
Amid millions
To matter
Ancient
Winds
Blowing
Storms
Back
Then
The same
Breeze
On my face
Again
Exploring
Underground
Dark
Unquestioned
Mysterious
Profound
For
This funk
To pass
For life
to spring
For worlds
To mass
*
Sudden
Urgent
Unfurl
Wrapped
Twisted
Round
My mind
Pole
Trusting first
Calms the sea
Every time
The storm in me
Subdued
Elusive
Unintentional
State
Scratch out
The eyes
Of the universe
Or wait?
Flickering
Fragile
Warm
Magical
My being
Her
Burning
Candle
Clumsy grace
First toddler steps
Humans
Trundling along
So sweet
The angels wept
Life
Promises
Life
Why does
Life
Promise?
Original
Art
Original
Thought
Original
Original?
Is it?
Or
What?
The substance
Of the difference
Between
Flattery
And
Complements
Careful
Doing
What’s right
Till
Right melts
Into
Wrong
My argument
Shifts
Unsettles
Bursts into growth
Disintegrates
Into
What everyone
Knows
Oh
Oh!
Where it’s
Invisible
Grows
My very
Soul
Daring
Wonder
Notice
Careing
The value
Of me?
Wait
Let me see
Is it steady
Or based
On
Meritocracy?
Unclasping
This facade
I shake it off
Unfamiliar breezes
Tickle my
Face
Mix it up
Us who
Disagree
To care dilutes
The care
About
Beliefs
Left behind
Unfinished
When I die
What if
I’m reborn?
I’ll give it
Another try
Between
A quest
A grind
Or afk
What to gain
This decade?
What enjoy today?
Slow panic
may congeal
Warm trust
Fires up
To become
What’s fluid real
Run jump
Splash
Into joy
Life
The game
Life a
Toy
Stylish words
Or
Stylish clothes?
Both!
Wide silence
Breeze fills
My being
Happy
I took a
Hike into
My mind
A trailhead
Into Nature
Human unkind
Kind
Grinning face
Passionate
Writing
Coffee and Grace
Together
Feeling good
Feeling better
Together
Than you
Otherwise
Would
Heroic slog
Slog slog slogs
These times
Sometimes
Perplexed
hexed
Being reinvented
Fully digested
What’s next?
Next
Radical practical
As-a-matterfactical
A good zing!
Of wit
Brings out
The tart of the sweet
Side of it
Be the truth
Stump evil
Is spirit
In me
Battery
Opperated?
Beep beep
Battery low
How do I plug in
To recharge
Whatever spirit thingy is?
I figure you
May
Know
A
Soul sandwich
Body bread
Mayo spirit
Want cheese?
Get
Mind instead
Elegant destruction
Magnificent while mad
Stillness in it’s offerings
To re-create
was had
Catch a twinkle
Anything’s an eye
As you adore and speak
Your heart
Inanimate things
Reply
Plop
I forgot
Sometimes
My feelings
Drop
Take
The
Cake of life
And
Eat
It
Too
Oops
And eclipse
All I know
Up and flips
I sat on it
The sidewalk
Doodling a bit
Of ink talk
Waiting on the
Wind
Is a melody
Alive
When it makes
You come
Alive
Is it
Magic?
Shiver a soul
Asunder
mitosis
Violence or blunder?
I need this Wind
To make me
Happy
I need the smell
Of rain
I need
The sun’s glow
On my skin
I need my vice
Again
Life plays
In expert chance
Willing to live
Being the dance
Cheat life
Cheat it
Choose
Suck up to death
Point my attention
Outwit
Lose
Confusing need
My mistake
With want
With love
With
Take
Take
Take
A soul is called
“The Witness”
Confused with
“The Creator”
What if each an
Artist?
What to me is obvious
All true
Isn’t even real
To you
Miniature gods
Not dolls
Gaming gods
Involved
I’m learning
Living by living
Life is
The book
The yearning
In city skies
All wounds and scars
The infinite
Is fifty stars
Breath
Move grin
Grow a glee
Joepordize insanity
Smiles and eyes
Tell
These stories
Our souls
Devise
Moon eyed
Exhale
Tune tried
So Frail
Brain fried
Prevail
Haunted by
A host of nothing
Silent chains of
nowhere never
Ether gels up
Like whipping cream
Making real
The fluid dream
I complicated it
with
A thin cut slice
of juicy wit
For
A simple bite of it
Reach up into
A story tree
Pluck and bite
A story
See
Another word
I so caressed
“I love! I love!”
I was
Obsessed
What’s above
The surface of
Below
What I know
Praise glows
Like trust
Full of fairies
A magic dust
Life without apology
Condemns my physiology
Till I die happy
The Wind
Has got
My back
All the finest
Story jewels
Only adorn
Crisis
The color of joy
Joy’s depth
May be pigmented
Joy’s spaciousness
Carved out
Filled first
Created expanded
By corrosive sorrows
My drive to find
Shared augmented reality
To see what we want to see
Might already be
Programmed
Gamed maybe
We are going. I’m tramping back and forth squealing through the hall and kitchen I’m so happy. It smells bad in here. Something about beans burning. I don’t know what that bad smell is. Yuck beans. So I don’t care, but it feels all upset in here too. I don’t like it. I race away through the open door into the front yard. The station wagon we are going in is open. I clamber in. We are going!
The big people are carrying things from the house to the car. I sit in the car waiting for it to start moving. It’s supposed to move. I’m ready to go. I didn’t even need to be carried in here. I wait. No one is sitting in the car with me. I hop out and tramp the long way across the yard to the house then back inside, then because I can’t wait to be going, I walk all the way back to the car and get back in. I want the car to start going. I shout bye bye!
No one answers. I sit there wondering why the car is not moving. Its supposed to move. Looking out the windows is not interesting this way.
I’m bored. People bring more stuff to the car, but no one gets in with me or and we don’t start going.
So I wander back into the house into mom’s room to watch her getting ready.
Then, I wake up.
It’s quiet.
I have woken up on the road in a car before. This is not that. Maybe we are already there. I look around. I’m in the same boring place.
I’m alone.
I shout mommy.
No one comes.
I cry. No answer.
I wait and wait. No one is going or coming.
I know what to do. I can reach up to one of those things. The door will open and everyone will be at the other side when I open it. I try. Raising my arms my highest I jump crying with frustration, but can’t reach the door opener thing.
That crying gets me what I want stands till I realize it’s not working. After that I cry for comfort. After that I cry because I can’t help it.
I wake up again. This time everything aches, no one is here, my eyes and head pound. I’m wet cold and I can’t climb up onto the bed. It’s too far up. The floor is cold.
The best thing to do is cry. So I cry. The harder I cry the more my head pounds. I notice this. I cry because my head pounds but crying makes it pound more. So, I stop. Stopping makes me want to scream. I try it. I feel like my had will split. Hiccups hurt. I’m too tired to whimper.
I stop and wonder. Why is no one here? I realize it. No one will ever come again. No one cares.
I wake up. It’s dark. Whimpering hurts my head. I will never trust anyone again.
I wake up. Mom is snuggling me. Something is different. I have never had all her attention before. But I don’t trust her.
She sings Sweet Hour of Prayer to God looking right at me. She sings to me looking right at God. God mom and me. I’ve never felt this. I snuggle closer. Maybe I can trust her.
I get closer by climbing right on top of her belly.
Not up here love. Don’t sit up here. Sit right over here or you might hurt the baby.
I look intently at mom. I won’t get hurt. I won’t fall.
Not you. The baby in here.
The baby is in here. I look at myself. Then look at her pointing.
This baby. In here.
I don’t see any other baby.
You can’t see it yet. It has to come out first.
What baby? Where?
It’s in here. Right here.
I stare and feel confused.
In here there is a baby. You don’t want to sit on it and hurt it do you?
I shake my head then look closer at my mother’s belly and still don’t see any baby.
Get it out.
You can’t get it out. It comes out when it’s ready.
Why not?
It’s not ready yet.
It’s inside you? How does it get out?
A door opens in my stomach and it comes out.
I look all over under her blouse for that door.
What door?
She lifts her blouse. Here. It only opens for babies to come out.
I look for the opener thing. There is no opener.
Does it hurt?
Yeah.
I stare at the smooth skin on my mothers belly. A door. A door here.
How does it open?
I cannot imagine an opening. When my skin cuts open it hurts.
It opens by itself then closes by itself.
How?
I don’t know. It just happens.
The mystery of this completely overwhelms my imagination. I stare at my mothers mysterious belly till she pulls me to her and snuggles me closer next to where the invisible baby is. She glows with delight, and something else I don’t understand but I feel she feels about me and the baby. That’s when wonder sparks.
I’m a baby. I’m the baby.
Mommy how did the baby get in your tummy? And why are you worshipful about an invisible baby when you already have a baby?
I didn’t know how to ask my mom these questions. I didn’t have the words. The asking grew and grew till it filled my being like mixing baking soda and vinegar. It asked itself. My entire body entwined in wonder. I could feel my mother’s ecstasy, that she loved me and was not replacing me with another baby. What then made her so happy about the baby started to fill my being. I feel what she feels. A whole in the sky with a triangle of light shining out of it between her and a man. They created this big hole in something and drew this baby through it.

She glows with the memory, the knowing. I feel her memories her certainty fills me up. Her memories fill me up with angel song. I’m totally content with my clear and wonderful answer.
So that’s why mom is so happy. I feel her delight and triumph. I can feel the wonderful beaming off of her. We are enraptured.
Mystery solved for baby me.
Mystery still for grown up me .
Surprise
Cooks in hot
Huge Vats of
Unpredictable
Surprise!
Pet the storm
kiss the wild sky
Play the wind
You fall inside the rain
Rolling with that thunder
Dance into the hurricane
Higher stakes
Restacked odds
Character testing
Twisted plot
In real life
enthrall your soul
At the edge
Bitten nails
From your adventure
Journey movie
My own usual
Thinking story habits
Ways of cowardice
Till I name them
Beat me
What if it’s
A movie making team
Plot twist stirrer
Setting up and recording
Making sure I don’t get boreing
Eventfull dramma
Meaning designer
Not keeping me
Under Glass
Forbidden urgent
Questions
Straight and narrow
Answers
Sawing my invisible backbone
With a dull serrated knife
The heart of heart stuff
Lungs made of lung
Doing their own autonomy
Unaffected
Deprive my soul thingy
Of stories to collect
Of desperate choices
Dangerous encounters
Clashing wills
Dark nights
Triumph of wills
Irreplaceable loss
Implacable spirit
Brocken open hearts
Catalysts story arcs
Unexpected twists
*
Prophecy
Quest Guide
Mystery
Feeding that
Story collecting
Soul thingy
Meanings
For spinning into
Golden understanding
Empty reason
Empty thoughts
Empty bottle
Empty pots
Empty eyes
Empty threat
Empty lot
Empty net
“I don’t understand hate”
Hate the euphemism for
All the crap
I didn’t get before
My sugary apathy
Hates back
Life sculps
Transformation
Canyon drops
Sink holes
Towering cliffs
Sixteen foot waves
Deadly venom fangs
Killer deserts that flower
Heroes and psychopaths
Transformation
Waterfalls, playful
Rapids let’s go
Tsunami to survive
Placid expanses make you want
Hurricanes to come alive
Smooth into it
It’s mine
For me
Flowing
It stings so I tug at it to get it off. Wailing and whimpering I reach down grab hold of it. It feels like a cat clinging to my butt so I’m trying to shove it down and off, but something feels ominous about doing this. When I do this, meanness happens.
I look up and No is open. I wonder through distracted from the ouch.
It feels good out here. I get to shake the heavy naughty thing off here since no one will stop me or be mad at me anymore. Sucking in and taking small wiggle steps works. It falls to my feet and trips me. The ground comes at me. Wiggling it off my ankles feels better than crying. I get back up. My hands and knees don’t hurt. I don’t cry. No one will come stop me and the ground feels good.
Softness tickles my feet. To wiggle my toes here feels good. I’m feeling relief all over. Then I look around. I’ve never been here before. I don’t know the word for freedom. It just tastes good.
I look far away over the soft and see the hard place. Then across it to a place where nice people will be. The place over there where they will be nice to me. They will be nice to me. I’m going there and never coming back.
When I come to the hard knee hurting place my hands and knees tingle recalling the last time I tried to get away and fell on hard bumpy rocks tripped by holes. This one is smooth dark and shiny.
It won’t trip me. I stand there stareing at it wondering. I won’t fall on the rocks and step in holes burned into my body’s mind from last time I tryed this. I decide. This time I’ll run quick careful without getting hurt. Like when I fell just now and it didn’t hurt. This won’t hurt again. Just cross to over there and and never come back.
I wait for a big noise thing that’s coming to go away. I’m waiting for it. This big noise thing is a light for some reason. It’s taking longer than these take to come and go. It’s not going. The light is here.
It stops. It’s not supposed to stop. This is confusing but I’m going ahead.
Now people are here. But I’m still on my way to the nice people. They talk to me but I tell them I know where I’m going. Then a lady holds out a yummy sounding bag to me. I take some of wht’s in it. It’s good. I try to get more. She moves back so I follow her.
She seems like a nice one. So, I don’t have to go over that hard thing after all. The nice people are here.
I try to tell them they are nice people so I’m coming with them. I know they are nice because they have food they don’t make me do stuff and they are not cross.
Just as I start eating, the mean ones come. They snatch the bag away and give it back to the nice ones.
I protest with all my might. Screams struggles kicks don’t help. I grab for the bag, then when it’s out of reach make a break for the real nice people.
The mean people catch me and hold me against my will. Then they carry me off back to the mean place.
I’m doomed.
Then, suddenly the mean ones talk nice to me and snuggle me.
So I fall asleep hungry, and content.
A spoonful of circus
A dash
Some leaps
A laugh
Six joys
Pour out pink
Mix with noise
Memory, this strange invisible time travel organ transports me back to forbidden moments, times I shouldn’t even have access to. For good reason too since who wants to remember how your diaper feels and smells when it needs changing. Since I do remember my annoying itchy stinging clinging sticky diaper I figure when I remember where I came from before the diaper days it may have some merit.
A blank slated innocent new perfect baby might be the case sometimes, but not mine. I didn’t enter the world a blank slate. Well maybe a bit blank in some necessary spots but mostly I came stained with karma or whatever, you know stuff I wanted to do stuff I wanted to learn and stuff I wanted to fix plus I wanted some new tree rings and bragging rights. I remember. Not the place, I don’t remember a place. It’s the urgency that fades back in. The vast sence sometimes of how far back this goes, this desire to understand to care, how deeply I wanted this and for how long. Lots of stinky diapers are a small price to pay to play. Remembering one though sucks. I remember two.
I entered the world at the butthole end of a saga conceived in Ensenada Jail despised and feared before I was born, while not being a boy was a letdown to my parents. I remember coming home from the hospital though for some reason. I wasn’t all bad even being a girl and my father in jail. Being a girl when good men were so desperately needed in our world was unblessed. Men were needed like my father for what in my mother’s mind was the future, survival the greater good her purpose. But Fluffy didn’t care.
Fluffy, he must have been waiting for me cuz I don’t actually remember coming home from the hospital I just remember being welcomed home. A sudden fast excited warm wet smoochy welcome. Someone was ecstatic to see me. Happy. Happy. Happy. With every lick You’re here! You’re here! You’re here! Lick lick lick. I couldn’t breath so I cried and couldn’t cry with no air, but the warm breath and wet wet warm sticky licks all over my face in my face filled my chest with joy. I was filled with the feeling of welcome welcome! Woof woof! while not being able to breath and lots of bounciness.
That’s all I remember vividly and nothing else till I’m two or so with a saggy diaper.
My sister Tosh remembers though. She remembers. We used to have a dog. Then you came along and ruined everything.
Feast on dreams and verbs
Round glows festivus
Burn your dreams for firewood
Plucked by minds to smell
A dream to bite and chew
Washed the etherial dirt off
shucked
Peeled
Cut into bite size chunks
Chopped
sauteed
The flesh of juicy dreams
Invite your friends to eat
Harvest more from your fertile souls
Surrender bits
For composting
Brick by brick
Before building I make
brick by brick
Every solid symmetrical
Brick by brick
Each un-squared crumble-prone
Brick by brick
My precious bricks
A sense of time, what sense is this?
A sense of vision, no?
Vision Touch Hearing Smelling Taste
A sense of smell, now mean it like visionary vision
A sense of vision. What?
If vision can be expanded to the imagination
If vision has a passport to the future, but
A sense of hearing… Them voices you mean?
Why hold back the other senses from expanding?
What’s the expanded form of sense of touch?
Good taste may be yummy to all the senses
Our senses our sense of self or sense of selves
Why is only visionary rewarded esteemed healthy?
Hear into the future or imagination, smell feel
Taste these results
Feel how it will feel
Hear it’s voices
Fall in love



Shadow thread weaves
Webs of stands of real
Stubbed yellow tears
Brocken hearted glory
Stitched into a soul
By how I feel

Open window trailing words
Blue chemistry falling views
Gleaming explosions gusts of worlds
Wisps of stillness
Enchantment twirls
Life blows in
Inspirations waves
Smashes hurricane
To the page

“I feel ungrounded. No poems to read. No pictures to ruminate over.” One of my good reader friends complained on May 2 after National Poetry Writing Month NaPoWriMo was over. When I stopped posting.
Hay, NaPoWriMo is over. No more poems for you.
But then, his unease started sinking in and reflecting how I was feeling. I realized. I feel ungrounded too. No picture to create, no poem to wonder into being. My life is off.
Only half of why I write is enough to keep me writing for the rest of my life. To stop writing wondering painting the reasons the wonders is to die. The other half of the reason I write is unrest or energy swirling, mind dust devils curiosity and ravenous hunger to ride to learn to grow to tell stories to inhabit stories.
Postaday on WordPress is still here though NaPoWriMo is over. So even though I can’t get the Postaday badge to stick on here and it seems a little contrived, I need the stucture to write and hope now. A game to ride the beautiful bucking swirling dust devils into ink seahorses to frolic on the page for you. Because I need to.
Weekly Photo Challenge and Weekly Discover Challenge also keep me wondering and going there admiring the world. Admiring the world keeps me close to the wind and tight woven with the magic of gratitude so they enchant this mysterious rodeo.
I hope you have as much fun reading as I do writing. I love the ride. I love you guys.
That color
Of music
That sound
Feel drums in your blood
Pound
The sound
Puppet of notes
Guitar strums you round
That sound
That sound
Moves you with it
Dances your feelings feet
Round


Dissapointment compost
Dirt after it rains
The smells it grows
Feeds you from pains
Life Cycle
Somehow knows

Story’s bound feet
Untied to quest
Shape-locked
Like you
Into
A pretty shoe

If the
Soul fits
Wear it

To consume the beauty of the moon
Like cheese of light
On bread of quiet
Every night
Of smiles and time
Simmer disaster
Lock up the circles
Social out-caster
Armed the langth
unfurl uproot book
Show it defeat
with a look
Might the meaning of life be this set up to aquire and evolve new ways to get our fix?
So far it’s looking that way.
Notice how the highest highs mostly happen when chemicals in the brain get triggered when you give without expecting anything in return. Try it a bit if you hadn’t noticed.
It only works when engaged in freely and becouse there is a need you Want to fix or satisfy. Best crack ever.
Eveything else are cool little fixes too.
So life’s meaning may just be fixes and highs set up and made possible by obstacles lows and consrticting laws and rules that create need. This rollercoaster scary fun ride system cycle game mystery thingy we are cool to be on right now may still be evolving.
It makes it even funner to imagine like at an amusement park that there’s a long line of everyone waiting for a turn to howel with delight or despair while evolving this.
Kiss identity.

Is kicking people’s ass in my realm of Memory still human abuse?
I have assigned roles noted characters picked the bad guys in the plot in my mind realm. Since a hero in any story is only as amazing as the anti-hero of a story is vicious, does my inner dialogue need villans? Cuz these stories I play in here feel horribly wonderful.
I control this realm and I wanna do something about horrible people and be fabulous. You know, deal out just what-fors to all the asses living in my mind’s holograph. To rescue myself and put things right.
Is it wrong to beat up evil people, living or dead, in my mind?
Yeah, it’s unhealthy to beat myself up. I get that now. Gotta love yourself. What about everyone else though? The bad guys for example. I don’t gotta love them. Ha!
Are these meanies victims now if I trash them in my mind blame them judge em? Can dead people be victims too? And if not everyone who do I get to beat up on?
I got a story to weave then to replay so I know I’m a decent person. To sence who I am relative to them others. How do I acquire one of these wonderful vicious evil guys so I can be truly great without committing acts of violence and being violent myself, I wonder. How else do I make life interesting.
Is it still wrong to judge and blame historical figures in the privacy of my own personal mind?
Are the really bad people I blame for all the bad stuff happening, you know, so bad I get carte blanch to eww them?
Is blaming and judging them mean or unhealthy? What if they deserve it?
What if I stop?
Then what?
Between the streets
Accross tracks
Specially when magic
Stairs are invol-voked
Taken Takem
In life
Notice the lack of additional contrast?
I wonder what this lack of contrast says about the minds of woman in America. Do you?
Please Catagorise US Presidents by Race and Gender
That’s all I’m gonna say about this.
On here now anyway.
becouse we are
part human
part god
part animal
part story
people
soul may be
a bibliography
footnotes
to moments
that time
that felt
like that
that makes
Me this
now
…
:
i love
them* this* like that* those* here* clip* him there* her so* it* now* soundtrack* no thank you* more*
yes* done* yummy* never again* image* mistake* restart* like*
The answer to Life, the Universe and Everything is 42. I get my own forty-two and it’s free for me just one year from today.
Ask the right questions and 42 will be the answer. Question is, what are the right questions?
Wondering could help with this. That’s what this whole affair is about so I may as well actually do it here. Do it here rather than in my usual paper form. Just for this one countdown.
A Waywardspirit Wondering Countdown to 42.
Yep my own personal answer to Life The Universe and Everything is on it’s Way!
Wonder-up the questions, I will. So when I get the answer to this meaning of Life, The Universe and Everything I may , hopefully, know what the question was.
For the next 365 then (give or take), Waywardspirit will be Wondering to 42.