potency pocket

dear one dear one dear one two four five
the pour of fingers even removed from my mouth beside your hip bones
stammers to speak but reveals tender tendency to squeak

I hope I wish I dream of staring down into a long corridor in which we are loved by our breath and breath alone

the way I shake sometimes scares me to tears the way I wish to raise my fist and drop my jaw to break my heart and put myself into a corner

and when steam rises and I fail to rise with it, and let the calm settle in
well oh well oh well
how swell to be swollen and let the cold wind wind push tears out until we are dry

how lovely to be dried upon the bike ride through cold streets
and thusly cleansed

and also by your fingers that seem so old

I hold them to my heart when I choose not to hit myself

cage spins endlessly and shake returned incessantly
still eyes roll back in head to re-mind
that stillness lies
in bed
under the moon
next to your head
greatfully

blue blessed
potency
of soft grin
of tender chin
of tendrils that crawl out of my green mouth
alone
children that fall when the tantrum drums out its final beat
feet collapse to sink into your shins

thanking the air of the gods
your breath
my breath
this fear
diminishes slowly
like a kettle left to cool after boiling
the heat cannot last forever
on these cold nights I remember.

world whirl

hello world world world world hole world whole
hello backwards bent open faced face
hello organs spilling out onto the floor
hello bent inside inward grin chocolate table hands
chocolate hands that fall flat on the table
the way we fall flat on our face
and dream about falling
and dream about rising to the top to fall down and back again

the series the series the series the series the series of conclusions
the series of stairs
the series of panels to hide between
the folds of our skin
tie together ribbons that abcess
from within our bellies

cry and hope I can make it
I can survive a few more hours
in this petri dish

does survival make it easier to remove the habits
of fear and repression
or does it just submit them to the body?

I am afraid to say no. to say what I feel to say. I am not.
I am not coming.
I am not here.
I don't wanna,

I don't know.
I cant be this or that.
I am afraid to breathe.

please a few words someone must be able to help

bald heaven

the idea that a French man speaking about an American man in an Argyle sweater sounds so poetic

a separation of stones and tones

crystals that shimmer widely

eye opening scarves around her neck biking swiftly down the street and bearded men with the kind of voice you might hear on a weekend breeze laying still on your bed in the ebbs of the slow afternoon, hot and sticky from the curtains being pulled down and the cats merging into balls into folds of fabric into your arms into the crevices and folds of your skin into the air which assumes a texture much like your sheets much like the surface of your skin

when you think about it, one of your hands is not much different from the other, one penny not much different from two, and in the moments before you rise from your bed, stillness not much different from movement, and the environment of your room not much different from the sensations spilling out from the internal environment of your body. your skin is not the sort of prison system that shuts everything in. it has holes and chutes and rivers ready to expel shit out.

a space outside a space inside and all your organs on the floor of whose room?
the room of all your inner spaces spills into the room of your outer spaces the one supposed to protect you from yourself and your self's interaction with the outside world.

so many pockets. slivers of rings, empty circles, vacant thoughts that carry weight when you look up at them so close it hurts to breathe, when you step away so far you are above everyone else, a king, an eagle, a master of shit. garbage. earth.

heaven can be held in your hand even with a couple fingers broken off.

these fingers that fell or flew






a drop of blood from sitting on the ground
a drop of heaven in my weighted heart meant to measure sin
a tear drop crystallizes on my palm
a slender fish swimming upstream










"environment to each must be all this isn't me
UNIVERSE to each must be all that isn't me AND me."
- R. Buckminster Fuller

sicksicksick

sickening dynamism

balancing swing pull push lub dub ebb flow
they say when one empties the other fills
if all was level there would be no movement

sickening hell eyes
see hell
see heaven at once

has the dynamism has the dynamism
has the dynamism of a star athlete who awakens every 30 years to wow their audience

point unfair fair nodal noxious wiggle

an unclimactic climax wiggles its way to the forefront of yer eye goggles
swimm in gelly liquid lens
that can be bent by fingernails

today no more wanting.
no anything.
clouds low.

clean my room clean my room cleanmyroom
eat my dust
bite it clean
bite it wash
in the serious moon
in the serious target
I had a job I had a job ive had 3 jobs in the past year

noxious black tea baby
absurd desires
for a worn heavy womb

beg to be alone do things based on alone.
if I was alone
id be digging into the dirt to get to the deadline
cross all my Ts dot all my Is extra credit

I can or cannot do it alone


I cant do it alone


do it.
do it.
do it.
do it.

there are many people

from a place of love

I love these knees eyes legs resistance chard of glass on the fllllloooor

no pet
only lies

shut

Vitex Agnus Castus - Chaste Tree Berry

"to cool the heat of lust"

http://nccam.nih.gov/health/chasteberry

"Chaste tree berry extract is believed to exert its clinical action through its dopaminergic effects on the anterior pituitary. Animal and human studies have shown that extracts of chaste tree bind to dopamine2 receptors in the anterior pituitary and decrease both basal- and thyrotropin-releasing-hormone-stimulated secretion of prolactin.[35-38] This decrease in prolactin leads to increased progesterone production in the luteal phase of the menstrual cycle, which reduces symptoms of PMS.[39] Consistent with this theory, PMS sufferers have significantly higher rates of prolactin throughout their cycles, especially in the second and third weeks.[40] Vitex has been postulated to correct hyperprolactinemia, thus allowing normal corpus luteum development and preventing PMS."

http://www.medscape.com/viewarticle/406683_3

" In particular it can normalize the amount of progesterone in our bodies."

http://www.blossomclinic.net/2012/01/04/chaste-tree-berry-vitex-a-girls-best-friend-2/

___________________

This summer I bought Chaste tree Berry tincture, which I could taste to be quite strong, to begin preparing my body for pregnancy. I felt as though the repeated medical procedures I've had, as well as 4 years of symptoms of off & on PCOS, have compromised my otherwise fertile body. I also feel strongly that it has a balancing effect, progesterone/estrogen, on my body.

Something I am greatly into, and experiment with, is the so-called 'homeopathic' effects of herbs, medicines, drugs, plants, food, etc.

Maybe it's that I've lived in the armpit of the Pacific North-West where it was common to go to the herb store, look up an herb in a book, and take some experimentally, sometimes under the guidance of the Olympia Free Herbal Clinic, but maybe more so it is the ultimate trust I have in my spirit and being protected at all times by my angels and spirit guide... BUT more than anything it must be my curiosity, and faith in my own personal wisdom.

Well. I have this one very bad habit, and very terrible compulsion, to put myself in situations where I will likely be taken advantage of. Part of me knows it is an energy I send out that emits some sort of vibration that calls out:

Come to me, and Use me as you Please. I am a doll to be bought and sold. A catalyst to your passions, evicted afterwards to be eternally alone.

Last night, I felt that Chaste Tree Berry would surround my body with a vibration of protection, it would insulate my own desires and direct them towards myself.

I noticed that my lust for physical companionship was way reduced in an environment where I most likely could have been seductive, and it seemed to also reduce the lusty feelings from the other person I was around. I noticed movement and feeling in my Ileo-Ceceal Valve, which aligns above my right ovary and becomes stuck or swollen often when I am ovulating.

I feel a great amount of gratitude for being able to not submit to my social conditioning that I am a doll to be abused freely.

I will continue to use Chaste Tree Berry, especially this year, this year of recovery from being sexually abused for much of my adult life.

And as a side note, because I believe I have higher amounts of male hormones than other female-bodied peoples, I wonder if it will help with that, the more I use it consistently.

~ Teeth Crush Bones

the |BODY| is my 'lingua franca', in its abscence there is no/thing between us
the |body| is the only truth I know even a foot// of distance creates confusion. I don't understand you and I have no/thing to say when you touch your hands to my hands we pass infinite communication when I turn to walk away we are instantly removed from memory as if a phone is left off the hook
if I could scream from my roof and touch your roof,....
that is why I keep my mouth open
in case my breath is ever thick enough

the |body| is the only river I trust
when I drown, I do not die in it- unlike the way speech drops to cut my throat until I bleed to death left alone to dry in the sun

the |body| is the only truth I know in its abscence there is no/thing beween us and these words , only white noise.

nodal

everything was raw
on the cutting board and open and spinning wildly and bleeding
gums that didn't make room and bled and teeth that make room and bending down to touch your toes and all the things one can do with their eyes
to spin backwards
do handstand and try out something heavy

[she moved like a slow lumberjack who didn't take any advice from the mouths of babes]

if person A was crying
then person B would be alluding to something casual
and then person A would wind up on the floor in huge sigh, covered in post-masturbatory bed sheets

"we are always a mix of genitals. but we use the the target system to divide ourselves. people who hit the center of the target with their ecstatic juice HERE are rendered hopeless and ill-communicable. people who fall short are put in the boat and sent off to THERE. Trained in under-water sky diving."

"Oh isn't that baby so precious what a cutie! Is it a boy or a girl?"
"Well, why don't you take 'em for a spin and find out?"
"Uhhh..."

It was something like the right kind of lighting, dusk or something like dusk.

A scraping sound underneath the concrete and trains in the distance, coming and going, and the moonlight, coming and going with the wind and the way it made the trees and the flags hover beneath the sky, undulating ebb & flow of depth perception. Covering. And uncovering. Covering and Uncovering.

Hiding and not hiding. In extremes, him-her-we lay now in still neutrality on the hard-wood floor. She-him-they hadn't made the target, or missed the target, or gotten anywhere. They felt constant pull towards so many directions that thrustly once a day lay by themselves, delusionally in the ecstasy of the coarse wood grain they could see so close up by falling face first on it.

Just like hugging a tree or a soft milky person, him-she-we-them never wanted to let go.


do a dandystand. do a handstand. do a dandy stand. do a dandelion. be a lion. be a pride. be something. don't just lay there! you're worth more than that! be productive! have a family! make some babies then take care of them! be a doctor! try a technical skill!

be more do more
allways
eat more
poop more
die more
willingly





in soft fleshy folds of skin, perched on a flake of dust, hiding from the sun, a future-fairy glimpsed her former self. in those bedsheets. wrapped so warm and wet.
these folds of skin connecting. so squishy warm.
we never want to leave we wish to die here if we have to.

and slowly with one foot out she-him-her-we-them starts shaking. starts coming alive again.
the climax is finally over. the sun is rising. and everyone is staring at you from their homes inside tiny cracks in the wood flooring where all the eggs lay awaiting birth.

breathe in.
breathe out.

a love of nature.

a true love in a breeze.

a real love in a breath.

a sincere love when I close my eyes.

a loyalty at night in the bedsheets before the daily ritual re-birth.

no. no. no. no. no. no.no.

and all the said things that sound so clever fall off target like abstraction sent away to another world.
and all the nonsense does't fit in things, face it, must fend fer themselves.

breathe in.
breath out.
there is joy in the air, just, you can see it, by even trying to look at it.
and you don't have to do anything about your condition.
breathe in. breathe out. now,
prostrate.

I was that Mayan Princess

Cultural Identity: Does it have to be connected to your family? What happens when your a past abuser dies? and Lomatium Root
September 10, 2014 at 2:24pm

Hello Folks,


Some things on my mind today.


First, I'd like to discuss the connection between some sort of middle man and various forms of identity. There is the person (the subject of the identity), their identity, and usually some factor that connects them to that identity.

But what happens when that factor disappears or fades away? Dies even? Do you lose that identity? Which begs to ask the question: How can your identity persist without some person/community/culture/or other factor connecting you to that identity?


One example from my own life is being genetically Palestinian and Guatemalan, but having relatively few cultural experiences in my lifetime to link me to those cultures. Outside of a community of Arabs or Latino people, how do I connect to my identity? Can I choose my own identity and connect to it without typical connections?

Typically I would have arab friends, and family, who I share this identity with, but outside of my immediate family, I have no one. And how connecting to my identity can one Arab, and 2 Arab Americans be who they themselves do not have a community to share in their identity?


I believe one can choose their identity. I can choose to be Hispanic, and Arab. I struggle with this concept a lot because I have Arab relatives, at least, who are around the US generally (although 2 of my cousins live in Lebanon and Dubai), BUT I barely know them and we have no report between each other, no connection, no familiarity. (My parents were both Pariahs in their respective families, although I'd say no longer, as of recent, for my Dad).


I then thought, well, there is at least my mother, in all of her Arab-ness which seems fairly intact since the past 29 years or so she has lived in America. But even then, DO I need her to maintain my identity? Is it she who links me to my heritage?


If we allow ourselves to choose our identities, we can avoid feeling isolated in our particular unique cultural (or whatever) circumstance.


So I find this connecting to the identity of being a victim of abuse.


What happens when your abuser dies? As mine has in the past years.


I will say there really is a similar feeling of loss of identity, as in the above description of not having a clear connection to my cultural identity.


As my Palestinian family falls more apart, I still feel like a Palestinian, just a Palestinian who has really only one other Palestinian to share in their identity as a Palestinian. And I find, that that connection is really inside of me. But that the transition from finding identity in community to inside of my own singular being to be awkward.


Just as I found it awkward when A. died, and the person who i hated, who i tried to understand from a distance, who in his last phone call to me sounded like the devil, was gone, literally gone from Earth.


What is interesting in both these situations: When i realized I no longer had an abuser to have been abused by, and when I saw my family fading farther and farther away from me sharing less and less about our culture, instead of losing my identity, I actually found it even stronger within myself.


So many years, seeing myself as Half-Arab and never Full anything, left me feeling culturally isolated. And even though I cannot take away the feeling of being different, alien, alone in my own personality, separate from many in the society I live in, it truly feels better to let yourself feel the person and grab the identity of who you feel you are, even if you cannot prove it on paper.


Telling myself I was only half-Arab kept me from allowing myself to participate in activities in the various cities I've lived in that were for Arabs. I was afraid that I wouldn't be accepted because I couldn't speak Arabic or because I dressed very American. Now I don't care if I'm accepted. I feel who I am alone, or not alone. My identity remains regardless of approval or comraderie.


And when A. died, at first I thought, how could I feel so abused if my abuser was gone? But I found that the experience of what all happened was inside of me. I could grow from allowing that experience to be real and present in my life, to let it transform me in a positive way, without being attached to the past circumstance.


Actually, in both situations the lack of an external connecting factor to my identity, strengthened the connection to my identity from and within myself.


I feel that maybe I am even lucky to have any familial connection to my identity at all, but I also feel like if anyone wants to have a connection to their heritage, whatever they feel it is, that they can do so within themselves, and they don't need approval by some external community. They don't need to fit in, to be like the others who share their identity.

And if an identity of yours is one of circumstance, it is interesting, that that circumstance stands alone even without its players around in the present moment. The story lives.


These both are different sorts of identities but both can be seen as based in one's personal story and the stories one chooses to feel connected to.


When I read the Popul Vuh (the most famous Mayan sacred text and creation story), i felt so connected to its imagery, its movement, the archetypes, the feeling of the spiritual nature of the story, and I went to the National Museum of History in NYC and I stood in the gallery about the Maya. I stood in front of a Torquise necklace that had belonged to a Mayan princess, and as I stood there in front of the glass it reflected onto My Neck, and I became that princess, and that culture became a part of me.


There may be a myriad of unknown identities within each one of us. I would highly encourage anyone who feels like it to allow themselves to feel any identity they want to feel. We don't even accurately know our cultural histories, we are each so mixed. Why not allow ourselves to feel connected to any identity any culture? and Peoples? Any language? Any Pro-Sport community? Any music scene? EVEN IF WE DON'T FIT IN WITH THE REST.


Please read this article if you want another perspective of what happens when your abuser dies: http://www.buzzfeed.com/leighstein/piecing-together-my-troubled-exs-last-days


and this, "I come from both sides,” I screamed at him. “How can I choose one?”

“You have to choose,” he shouted back. “Or else you’ll be alone. A child who doesn’t share her family’s values has no family.”

(i cry when i read that last sentence, because there are parts of me who feel like that)

from: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/comment/personal-view/11061569/What-is-it-like-to-grow-up-half-Jewish-and-half-Palestinian.html

JUST THE AUDIO:


Onto...

LOMATIUM ROOT: The herb that saved native peoples in the Pacific Northwest during the 1918 Influenza Pandemic



(to be continued...)

much of the daay on the west philly side of a stream

amazing depth width and breadth of breath!

how the moon proffers its boned finger

up my nose boogers

as i jounce around town

in near to be spindly fashion

of about to become pinned

blood transfusion

amalgous breadth width depth pain0tience zip OH wings of death!

to be tenderly mis-fashioned american steel protractor non sense
delivered to a doorstep

when a certain angle of wind hits the angle of sun
and the angle of moon

one more abandoned grown grass child

on hot concrete

less and less hot concrete

covered in tendrils of change

that fall

away

fade

a submission of discovery

letters of tips of words been tryin to shove out
vocabulary lost
linguistic tongue caught in throat

fishing
shades of moon
tide's a'comin

dip into the blue
cultural lag

swim into sleep
swim into a pool of sleep where sleep is both
sleep and non-sleep

devil's watchin'

only a road to death
the one i came in on
rode a white horse

respect respect

the hands of imaginary savior

she had the hands of an imaginary savior

she hung the hands of an imaginary savior

with her hands

she could spin thread thick

cover all the wounds a healer could lose but wouldn't loose

spell a few more letters

if my brain ain't right and i gotta shove the phemes morph spit
gargle fuck

saviour saviour saviour

sunshine silver slivers of it out like a river
in chest heart lang-wage
exchange
one with the wind
each breath
we spin
one with the wind

all i ever wanted was to be wrapped in continuous thread
so i wouldn't be so bare headed
lengthy
breath

im starting to cry.

dustdustdust

dust dust dust dusst daily dust cant enough
dust dust drive
piles of hair
leftover skin
leftover cracks
they get in the crack and they never come back
once the dust falls it can only lift up again
it can rise
but it will never come together there are dists of a fetaher that fly together
fading into dust
looking into dust
touching dust jackets
finger covered in dust. moon rivers covered in dust.
hugs .

___________________________________________________________

how will i leave my room?
how will i leave my room?
how will i leave my room?

i hear cutting boards down the stairs
i hear
i hear
i hear a tiny voice

wishing for comfort
its not me its not me its not me

i hear every ache in her body downstairs
like it's calling me
like it's illustrated in full color.

falling out of her sleeve is my imagery of 'sleeves'
out of her breath my imagery of sighs
out of my thighs
tension and looseness
and what a whore is
and who the whore was behind the whore make up and the whore masque
which relies so heavily on being feminine.

i dont know what age i was when i realized the cool girls acted like boys
it was an affect you could add to your persona to get popular

sometimes i wore little boys' clothes
but to get the cool creds you had to uhhhhh looka like a man

but a boy and a girl before puberty are so much the same, and the costumes they wear on top
straight jacket
compares
loosely to the lonliness of being alien
all the new categories
but i stick my arms out and scream when they try to fit me

there are no pair of shoes i could buy
to jump out of my identity
it is ALIEN/FOR-REIGN/OTHER
it is essential

i am a dog
when dogs are cute or sickly
i am a cat
when cats are worshipped and thus separate

who whore? what hair?
what proves you are a whore is your whore card
a vague interest in goddesses
and that feeling at the end of the day
that your body opens up an abyss to the etherworld
built ready to swallow.

modern day whores who shoot arrows meant to trap
the innocent men, who could have remained boys, and been spared

who hair?

who whore?

mish hona


it is the memory of a silvery blue and red plaid jacket.
it is a memory of a little boy, my brother, who i could can never be and now don wanna

i want that
i dont want that
i want that
i dont want that

two whores with who'res breath walk in a room
one looks at the other and says,
I BLEED TO BE FORGIVEN
they lay down and break their bones into the concrete
really
just for kicks

just for the kids
they can't handle it

there are no more words
for that feeling of sitting on the toilet thinking with yer pants down

and laughter receding
a breeze you hear downstairs
a hope you can rely on