i dreamt i wore a velvet, red robe and sat on a park bench with my luggage waiting or leaving or arriving or who knows?
and when i woke i let myself be inspired
by Kathy Fagan’s Perpendicular
i could have been a soft landing for a monarch butterfly
but they haven’t yet landed. river rocks and manic daisies put on a play they wrote themselves and performed in the wild and dirt.
and the orange California poppies bloomed, by the billions it seemed, saying, It Will Be Okay, in their sweetest voices.
It was dreamy there
but i’ve been awake thinking i was asleep so long, so often
that when a breeze kissed my cheek I remembered the hurricane,
the way an old hurt unravels you the second you give it attention.
When I was three, my mom’s face was the sun and the moon
she served me smiles and joy for most of my days
When I was 33, and hurting real bad, she came over and said, Where are you going? To my past or to your future?
She spoke zen without knowing like she was an accented swami or a very beautiful female Buddha
Less often in a waning moon
a person can ask for that which no longer serves them to be taken away. When I ask the moon for help it always screams, Yes! When I ask the sun, she delivers too. Sometimes she sings me a lullaby. I can hear it when I need it most.
But only if i’m very quiet.
Are my poems true stories?
I want them to be dreams but I also want them to be true.
Like sticking my hand out the window of Dad’s Doge Dart and tuning out the world because my hand needed to dance in the wind, I made music videos of the moment in my mind, thinking, Why isn’t everything set to music? Predicting my love for future Instagram reels. Everything IS set to music.
We have always been the ones moving the dial
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