The moon punches out a rim
of French-pedicured while light
familiar and elegant in her way
and under her, but not beneath her,
every imaginable dirty unraveling,
unwinding and winding, every
rushing importance and impotence, every dead
line runs itself ragged
unto the altar of morning.
And still and always and again,
like a languid lover,
At what point do I cross the line from being small to being me? Am I ready to be all of me? Am I ready to give up and fly free, to be all of me, to play big? I am. I don’t know how this will make itself known except that the photos lead me there. This bird flies this bird doesn’t know it is free it just is free. Me too.
Blood flows through me and I don’t know about it and I can’t live without it. Some people cut themselves to be sure about the living part. Feelings flow through me and I may not know about it. Is there a knife for that? Is there a third way? If I admit that I know they are there will faith be enough to make me know them?
I got no skills with this, but I can’t afford to ignore them. Apparently it doesn’t work that way. If I continue to ignore them them they take on a weird life of their own, coagulate into threatening clots and force themselves on me. This is my experience.
So I am saying that I am wanting the flow, putting it out there, in there.
I set my phone calendar now twice a day to hum to me at 9:30 and 2:30. The name of the appointment is “pause”. Just a little second, a gap, a wingbeat, to check in,
Find my flow.