Saturday, December 10, 2011


mother earth's womb
fluid essence of ethereal energies
holding her daughter not captive but tight

water broken by light
soul rays break through my night
lift my plight
usher in my effulgent knight
in poetic armor
arms wide shut tight
bracing everyone's urge to fight
common sense and courtesy
spills his truth to bring sight
to the blind
and to blindside hypocrisy
by telling love as she is
slowly opening my earthmother's
uterus and
pulling back to the bright
starry night at the end
of birth's tunnel and
the beginning of
new life

in earth years
my best is still ahead
my past has founded me, grounded me, sounded me, bound me
i found me, fate hounded me, hate pounded me, you clowned me
but the knowledge earned when you discern right from less right
wrong from dead wrong, and doing what's right for you at any given moment,
that knowledge is your skeleton, your bones
your soul's song's tones
and all this wisdom of lifetimes is ancient.

sometimes, i write something and leave it suspended for a couple of weeks. when i return to it, i don't recall writing it. i have no idea where this came from and it is not done, but for now, i have to keep it public, otherwise it'll never be complete.

Saturday, November 19, 2011


she usually won't turn away in a fuck you kind of manner
she won't put her heart on her sleeve and then fly hate on a banner

but when he disrespects her spirit
and feeds her soul the stillness of indifference

she can no longer allow him to access her world
although she digs when he challenges her resilience

for arbitrary affection is tainted love
so her sensitivity is curled

up in a snail house spiral
her defenses come hurled

like chameleon tongues
picking up insectoid critters with sticky lances
and tiny lungs

they do not scream nor sing nor cry
she could do all three, but not for this, for him, but why?

because it was a dream in the real world of e
we texted and mailed and chatted
but as long as we don't see
the temperature in our eyes
anything can be lies
and made up names such as
mora and lu, len, teja, and lee,
and vincent and mia
and his office and projects and dreams and likes and dislikes
and needles in haystacks and ki as in key to unlock what you need, not kia.

so yes, that's what they wanted, he, she, it and i,
and that won't fly
not with just anyone
he said.

and then left, without saying good bye.

for all my sisters who, like me, find varieties of love in cyberspace. 
believe me...there are good men out there. be patient and trust.

Friday, November 18, 2011

end of something?

i think
this thing
has run its course

after seven years of
coffee and correspondence
impromptu trips to
power outages

airport pickups to pull
all-nighters to cull
useless hours out of
overlain layovers

phone marathons and
closet skeletons
hung out to dry

we face a

friendship in the


like crossbill chickadees
hard to pick up the nourishing morsels to feed us from

i seek to understand this
is it you?
your unhappiness against my joy?

or is age catching up on us, me finally acting mine, you not quite acting yours yet?

this may be a fork, but it can also be a river braid
like my beloved Matanuska maid
or her brother Knik, his Arm
extending into many
when the tide is low and the sun of May
stays warm

i'm sorry dear
i cannot wait for you
my time is now
and so is yours

let's not try to hold on to something
that walked away from us a couple of letters ago

i thank you for walking some of my way
with me
for talking me through many a day's
for allowing me to save
yours from drowning

harsh words come to mind
but never travel lower
find my lips
not in this life

but do remember:
you feel you've got it rough
look around
your neighbor's life is at least as tough
as you thought yours would ever be

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

получить ебет из моего блога, Россия.

you are blog bandits and not welcome here. get out.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

the kind ones find me

i wanted to paint you my pain
but i did not find it again

tried to show you my heart's brittle fibers
but when i checked
they pulsed red luscious life liquid 
like capsika leaving no beat up to chance
change changed the game changer

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

wildes weib

hab dich noch nie berührt
deinen atem noch nicht gespürt
aber mein bauch spricht
dieses kleine liebesgedicht....

wie das wohl wird
wenn wir uns sehn
wird es uns weiter so gehn?

oder steht auf der spitze
deiner nase ein haar
das ich nicht mag

und du siehst
dass ich groesser bin
als bisher,
wo ich in deinen traeumen lag

vielleicht bin ich dir zu dick oder zu grantig
zu weich oder zu kantig
zu faltig, zu gewaltig,
zu stolz oder zu willig
(bereit~ oder wider~)

ein wildes weib
das woelfe sucht und baeren traeumt
elche knutscht und adler baeumt
mit raben raebelt
und schwaenen schnaebelt
das falter traenkt
und spinnen haengt
das gruenkohl zieht
und beete graebt
karotten blueht
und liebe saeht
buchstaben verdreht
noten schwenkt
toene spuckt
lider senkt
und erroetet
wenn sie an dich denkt

aber grad jetzt
vom köpfchen
zum knöpfchen

lieb ich dich mehr
als den Mond

und den lieb ich

Saturday, October 1, 2011

i am i see i will

i am silent words
i am raw broken english
i am seeking new language
i am building walls to sustain my love
i am autumn leaves
i am falling
i am grounding tomorrow's forest floors
i am daughter to mother earth
i am forever changing with the season's cycles
i am solid, rooted in her lava heart

i see faces in trees
i see broken bricks falling off walls above a stove that holds no warmth
i see last week's soup on the hearth in the house where he died alone after she moved on

i will put my peace back together
in a new order
fake layers stripped
sparkles on ceilings ripped
polished and disposed (of)
before signing off
on a new lease on


when i chose my clothes today
i was not thinking of you
but of the root canal my dentist would drill
with this barbed filament
like the challenge in your eye as "omelet" slipped your mouth
and lips that give way to this memory of kitchen perfection and more lips
on soft perfect egg scramble with mushrooms
or on mine
as his latex gloved fingers gently pry apart my parched mouth to
free me from the silicone monster for which i am thankful
because it replaces the rubber dam as well as the technician

so i chose the pants and sweater that i wore
when we

and as you enter i am occupied
with the task at hand so that
my hyper caffeinated hands won't show a tremble
which they would
had i no distraction
you walk in with the same hat
and pants
that you wore when i first
noticed you
idiosyncratic how we
certainly don't pick our wardrobe thinking of
the other
but somehow it ends up looking that way

and as my Egyptian passion wonders where i am and keeps asking
if the wind blew me away
i regret ever disclosing how much i am
i wonder if this means that we are coming
full circle
on the bench of searchers and sinners and soul farers
whose turn is next?

how can a button hold string?
how does the caged bird sing?
where is the eagle's clipped wing?
when do the snow-flies sting?
why do our voices ring?
why do our soul mates cling?
why do perpetuum mobiles swing?
when does gravel ping?
who is by birthright king?

but all distraction dies
and in this moment lies
the truth
if ever there was time
to stay away
it was now.
as what is left of my nerve comes to life
piercing pain shooting up through my eye across
the forehead into the ear on the other side
turning it purple
the heat in my head cannibalized as i recognize
you, too, remember that day
and how it ended.

a walk in the snow on the unopen road
words of wisdom beyond one's years
free  running tears
a step back up the stairs
dare i remember?

Sunday, June 19, 2011

six nineteen, princess to luke as they walk the sky

you are the book i want to read
you are the dough i want to knead
you are the bread i want to bake
you are the love i want to make
you are the song i want to sing
you are the bell i want to ring
you are the word i want to spell
you are the thirst i want to quell
you are the noun i want to verb
you are the "green" i want to "herb"
you are the bud i want to smoke
you are the sadness i will cloak
with my heart's fire that you stoke
like my desire, as i choke
away my tears.
why aren't you here?

Thursday, June 9, 2011

should i or not?

ink sinks in skin
thinking thoughts
would i want this ypsilon and lambda
for as long as i have my arm?
or feel that dragon leaning in?

how ugly will it wrinkle?

maybe i won't live long enough to see
it lose elasticity
loosening epidermis turning "Welcome to Johannesburg and have a nice holiday" into "Wendy"

my thinking turns to death and dying

i saw a dead body today
wearing a leather jacket
but no helmet
motorcycle in the right lane on the glen

for some, death comes like that
as we think about the next move, the next thought, the next step,
and plan ahead
blind to what we are facing that ends all brain activity

but is it really so?

do we really need all this cerebral mass to make it through 80 years of life?

if there are 80% left unused, why are they there?
who is so smart that they know we are not using them?

i don't believe it.
who says we don't post mortem?

access our spiritual world?

or, like (F)free (T)thought taught, the way we KNOW
by intuition or instinct or the thing yet to be named?

what if this is the mass to connect, to tap into each other
to find each other lifetime after l i f e   t i m e ?
what if this is where we attach to the after and before
cling to parallel universes and their dwellers?

so i am less concerned if there is danger in ink sinking into skin
more so if i will remember the time i try to immortalize
and if i will find my spirit guide 
once my eyes dry up and crystallize

because right now, this very moment, life, in all its glorious opportunity
is just one step on the way
i know there is more
i hope you can walk with me a bit
after we pass through this door

unafraid of tomorrow

and if we do
ink our fingers


so i am less concerned if ink sinking into skin is bringing ill with that pin
will i remember the time i am trying to immortalize
will i  find my spirit guide once my eyes
dry up?


Sunday, June 5, 2011

king caught

king taught me
taut lines can be loosed
stop fighting
swim to her who set the hook
let her have all the line
she’ll think you’re gone,
she’ll loosen her grip,
then jump out
flip right
pull left
throw the hook right back at her
and let the stream carry you down
rest a moment
gather your strength
and swim back upstream
to another hole
hang still
she will
get tired
and boat away

king taught me taut lines are the ki
to landing kings
hook set
reel down
stay strong
tip up
reel down more
tighten line
feet on floor
solid stance
this rooster with a sirene’s song
plucked on a string of nylon
in g as it looms above water
human fish nexus
until guide nets us

is this struggle fair?
a forty pounder giving me
a run for onefifty
twelve minutes full body workout
and about ten good meals to share

no catch and release
for this fisherwoman!

Saturday, May 21, 2011


driving home i am almost in alpha mode by the time i reach the old glenn exit if it wasn't for the incognito cop atop the bridge, so i was actually paying attention when i see her. wasn't sure at first, but then is that a girl?! and a hairline before the onramp i come to a full stop.

she looks young, but then i've never been good at telling age just by looking at someone. her face is like a young bjork, unspoiled and fresh, clean skin, bright eyes, peachy cheeks under the straightest hair since borat as bruno, but black. she has this icelandic flair and asks what gauge my earrings are and smiles when i tell her they're fake and from amsterdam. that's where i'm going next week, she says, i'm traveling with my boyfriend.

her glass gauges are blue and real. she tells me they healed in two weeks and she is using petroleum jelly on the piercing to help stretch it. pulling up her sweater she shows and tells. petroleum jelly is good for psoriasis. do you know what that is?

why am i thinking screw statutory rape when she tells me her age and how much older her boyfriend is? he has a ninehundred dollar a week job in construction and she just started working at a hip hop store in the mall. almost eighteen is none of my business but i remember the guy who sold me my first vw bug off the old glenn had that record, and his now wife and child waved good bye as i tuckered off with my little red buggette.

are you a poet, i ask, because i get that vibe from her. i am, and i am a musician. i taught myself the violin and the guitar and the saxophone, and i write nature poetry. right now i am writing a book. 

we approach the intersection i said i would take her to, but i change my mind, remembering trader and how often i've meditated safe hitching. are you sure, she asks when i tell her i'll take her to where she needs to go. i'm sure. tiny frail thing like you in the wrong car, don't want to see this on the late night news. i am not saying this aloud. you know, comes her unsolicited newsbyte, they can just come at you with a syringe and rape you and throw you out the car. we are now on kgb road and i know she is not kidding. kgb road is fabricating pulp fiction for real. 

although i tell her my origin, she talks about germans as if i am not one of them. i can't follow her train of thought along the stops of beauty and ethereal noblesse and unblemished skin. i will write a book about my travels. she has been to all the glaciers in alaska that one does not have to fly to, and to the badlands and yellowstone and maryland. amsterdam is going to rock her world, and i tell her about stew's passing strange, but she is really worried about wearing a bikini on european beaches with her blotchy skin, so she tells me in detail about her light box therapy, which will only slightly burn her in one minute and thirtyeight seconds.

i told my boyfriend i am getting a ride with a friend. he doesn't like it when i hitch all the way out here. no doubt, plus, at twentyfour, why doesn't he come to pick her up? but this is a conversation my mind has with itself.

i get lost in a subdivision as the sky turns peach and the clouds into cotton candy. what a misnomer, since it is neither cotton nor candy, just a root puller and dentist's best friend. skittles aren't really much better, but their artificial flavors pop like corn dancing salsa on our tongues.

i'm skittles. thanks for the ride.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

i am

i am not a poet
i am not a size 14 trying to fit into a size 7 dress
i am just a size 14 on a good day
i am not special
and especially not the pinnacle of your fucked-up-ness

i am not the things you say or think about me
and there is not one label that could fit this qi

the key to me is really not a drawer you can cram me in
for my beliefs are not just the sum of all days that i have lived
this lifetime or any other
nor have my eyes seen and my ears heard and my skin felt all
there is to see hear and feel
and certainly my mind has not captured everything my brain is capable of taking in
and there are more thoughts to think and more to explore

i find it easier to say what i am not
what i want not
what i do not
than what i do or want or am or stand for

i am not white
what you might
i am pigmentally challenged but some little brown spots remain
of that original healthy coat mother nature gave my archetype ancestor whose remains someone claims
to have found in Tanzania

i don't believe the sermons of mentally challenged character pigs
those guys and gals in suits or torn fashion with costly labels
who tell us to tip toe in six inch heels wearing pencil skirts and luscious wigs
to be good enough or better

i don't belong to those who chose to divide along color lines and rule
to slide into our conscious minds these sushi blades of high and mighty
these lies of i am better than he or she because i own more, am more, am lighter both in pounds and skin tone
because i am not and neither are you

don't sugarcoat me

don't wrap me in pink cotton candy

tell me what you see so I can feel uncomfortable

i've had some skin bubbling lovers in my life
idiotically, the one who gave me the greatest gift, new life,
was the least gifted
tomorrow holds new travel companions

but today, let me give you power
the power of knowledge
for you, until now, are the only one
who made me come
with just your mind, lips and tongue
to a conclusion.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

this is a like poem

like ekil   ikel leki    ielk klei   klie ielk
a four letter word overused ad nauseam
like love only worse and less meaning

wake up the call
so we may sound our intuitions

Sunday, May 8, 2011

piece I ~ mindscape ~ "love&lava"

whenever he left
i felt fused
both in and suf
this time, we parted many things and then for good
or better, or worse
and i felt the need to capture the essence of this, his,
we tapped into each other's minds like into kegs
or george dubya into my phone
with blows both subtle and stalwart, sudden and solemn
and with an excuse so paltry
it would have made love proud.

what to do?
canvas the landscape of his mind
i envision texture, shape, color and materials
schemes and themes dictated by the cocktail of ideas
scrambled and folded over-easy into a
sunny-side-up gnomic sculpture with
rivers and rocks and sand and drenched in
hues and lyrics to songs yet to be sung
strings vibrating before the bridge broke
melodies propelled into closets
keys dropping like tears on trodden pathways yes, trodden is one of my favorite words!
trailing the rasp of vocal folds and chords never struck, nor strummed

get art supplies at greg's
this guy is nice, won't take my money
instead, gives advice
what is your project he asks
a mindscape i answer
his apneatic breath still clinging to my hair

on flattened pine
a layer of primer, grey and beige
inSPIRation fresh.
what all he has given me!

is 3x4 large enough to capture
his vivid spirit, child, within these
layers upon layers of crackled glaze broken soul
a piecemeal puzzle of meal without peace

so fractured, frazzled at times
this is not complete without the pot
of gold, or rather earth opal, at the end of the rain
bow ing down to his genius in a flat minor
orange and major brown acrylic melisma
mesmerizing homegrown peppers without patronizing flavor
the seeds of Cypriotic soil embedded in this need for credence
weeding out needles of strawberry trees
as mediterranean sons shone sure as the moon eclipses partially on or around
ten in the morning of january forth twenty eleven

torn poetry juxtaposed
three degrees of separation
ink on velvet art paper
one hundred per cent cotton rag
and acid free
like his spirit eyes
forever mine?
four ever so lovely petals of clover
bear luck

grains of pissouri sand with Aphrodite's halo
foam fronts frontiers for felonious fractals
goddess mother lover savior daughter wife shallow scallop
snail house crowns sea urchin's shell
testifying time of last friendly fragmented message
before the mess of age, alcohol and peer pressure knuckled his confidence under
and stole his pride's thunder

and always metal
rusted iron and steel
solid heavy and flexible
after march released them from ice bondage
i found my spring and ratchet gear and knew
i had to put it on here
wondering why
and only now that i remember
the opus falleth into place

black numbs
black cloaks
black covers
black hides
black slims
black sins
black darkens bright sparkles
black dulls sharp shard edge of blown glass thrown in despair
black beautifies grooves in pine's grain
black hugs torn edges and rusty ends
black soaks up sun
black spits depression
black warms when orange glows underneath.
wow. THAT is his, too!

as i paint
his mind
he wanders mine
dictates these letters
as my fingers follow
his lead

perfection is light
everywhere bursting through
each quadrant translucent in parts
the sum of all is
he through my eyes

fondness' foundation bonding the intangible
glue holding it all together

in spirit
he, too, has me
for ∞
title "love&lava" a-muse-d by the kindred spirit who made it all happ(y)en.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

aug 4 2001 - may 7 2011


Monday, April 11, 2011

Ode to Livers

Looking at liver as a word
I think of the organ first
And then of Beings who live
For they are Livers
If they do

I live
Because my liver works
for the most part
But each spring
I feel pangs of pain
So I asked my doctor

Who said
Do you sleep between 1 and 3 AM?
In Chinese medicine, this is the time
Where livers regenerate
So make sure to rest

Spring is the liver season
When wood comes back to life
when birch juices start flowing upward
to feed the trees
Is when our livers work overtime
to adjust

So be gentle to your liver
Beets, kale and apples nurture
And close your eyes before midnight
Walk or run in the sun
And breathe long deep breaths of clean air
four seven eight

Be a Liver
And smile into your heart

for Amy with Love and Gratitude.

Monday, April 4, 2011

ode to pms

my tears sing an ode to pms
plugging middle sinuses with rising tears
piercing my sanity with raging cravings
potassium magnesium salt
in order words: chocolate chip cookies with
just enough dough to bind the chocchips together

peanutbutter malt syrup dressing on
romaine salad will only cut it if dressing drowns greens

perilous mood swings
ponder my soliloquies
poeticize molecular swelling
petite moans silenced
persecute my security
perform memorable skits
peruse memories' sisterhood
play minor songs with
prude meaningless stories
pompous meandering scandals
peak meager savings
poem makes sense?

heck no
it's pms for carp's sake
crack that inner whip
chase those demons out of their niches
so i can fight battles with myself
two weeks out of the month

only to forget
that you, too, might be right there
in that same ring with the rubber ropes
so we can bounce back
in a few days

it's great to be wom(b)an.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Takers....Where is the cut-off line

for Miss H and the Circle

Giving is better than receiving some say
but in some encounters, people stay takers anyway
and while i enjoy sharing my time, energy or more concrete possessions
and don't expect anything back,
my brows raise as i note resentment when it is always the same person
who is the beneficiary of what i have to give
without returning so much as a question on how life has been for me to live.

you are the topic all the time
your life, your dreams, your troubles, your failures, your ailments,
your joys, your loss, your challenges, your loves.

friendship lop-sides quickly
and i find myself drained as we part
hoping that tomorrow or the next day
you will want to know the matters of my heart

but weeks pass by without so much as a word
and when you call again it is to ask a favor
so my issues move to the back burner
and i once more become your savior
and my own worst enemy
because afterwards, i am tired and you are nowhere near full of my energy.

so when -at writer's circle- Free Thought
there has to be a cut-off line
(or asked about it)
my heart and mind
for when the takers become black holes
of energy- and love-depleting non-matter
to quiet the chatter
in their self-less minds
they are the sick who want the medicine but not the cure
and we, the givers, end up empty and unsure
whether it was worth our while

the takers don't want health
able but unwilling to heal themselves
their mode is stealth
charm masks their greed
their need
to seed and breed more tentacles
latching on, suction!
and recede, eyes blank,
when we ask them to pay heed
to us
for they love not you or me
but how we make them feel about themselves
you see.

cut off the giving then, to them
and give to those who discern
the gift and the giver
and learn
to protect your
cache of love
for it only grows
when giving and receiving
hold hands in one glove.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

"suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem", or "DON'T let the BASTARDS win" - for Jimmi, Ebony and Bianca

thinking of checking out
my decision
i dont need your or anyones permission

to change course
to change or
to leave it all behind

once i am certain
there is no greater joy
no deeper sorrow
no truer love
no higher purpose

than what has come my way

what is there to stay for?

the answer lies in the blood of a tree
and the dolphins overture
the red earths moisture
and the blue baboons tickle
in the song you will write
and the one i will sing

it lies in the inlets breeze
and the whales dance
in the flavors of fair trade chocolate
or aged halloumi cheese
it lies in the need to save our streams
not for the next generation but for us

it lies in all that is yet to be discovered
because there is a secret on the other side
of the sink plug
there is no fragrance
in a stink bug
other than chlorophyll
did you know that?

Stay for the secret in this stone and that star
Stay for another kiss and another burst of laughter
Stay for another scream and some more tears
Stay to see if they taste like Adriatic waves
Stay to walk in old places and find spaces that hold the power of
defunct sages
Stay to speak in tongues other than the ones you know
Stay to find the universe parked next to this life
Stay to borrow a book from the neighbor who honored his wife
by random acts of generosity such as
picking up dog turds on walkways or trash on trails
sending anonymous poems to teachers and men in jail cells

then, after that, time to move on
my decision? no, the Makers
without your permission or approval

just like one would say
go away
and take your upsidedown twin
for the ride

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

palin dorm(e)s [palindromes on beer on wine]

palin dorm(e)s slipped your feather
i can go miles with that, i said,
and you said "go".

so here it is still winter weather,
i sit and smile at that, though sad
that palin is no longer "so".

debates in dorms on whether
she should run are won
by those who argue "no".

bubble pen dreams

i would not be
such a bubble pen
right now
if he
had not
inked my mind
to the sound
of free rhyme

a potpourri
of night terrors
and day dreams
i float above me
and see
bald spots
near my fontanelle
a gash in one of them

a seed
quelled with rainwater
endures the pain of breaking open
only to reveal
its purpose
and grow
a field of irises
Earth's purple eloquence
from my head

3 degrees of separation

can we separate
the kiss from the shooting star
the embrace from the rising moon
you in my mind my body my soul?

we might
but i won't
for the power of
a blind cat finding the blind spider
is contained in no wo-man is illegal
no child illegitimate

don't hate me for putting these together 
like that
you showed me
when pluto was still a planet
or before
that sometimes things are just right
and belong where we put them
belong where we allow us to be

the space that needs filling 
in a collage of everything that colors your mind
and builds roads and snakes rivers with the
dust of red middle eastern earth and burnt sienna orange
atop shreds of photographic poetry in motion of
blurred knowledge showing facets of every conceivable thing in
and on and around our existence is always
more than two sides to a dollar bill story

so we can separate kisses from shooting stars from quickmart condoms and are we just playing or extending the foreplay
to drinking beer and cheap wine over the awkwardness of it all
when going back is impossible and moving forward not really
an option


while the embrace like the rising moon will be hard not to have
you in my mind my body my soul
is of the past and past lives may
connect to the here and now and tomorrow
is another day
a new road
wind or no wind
wind or now in d
is a song my brother will write after
visiting this vast cold place
coming home from China and remembering
how the embrace killed the moon over bourbon street
and i will not forget how we were then
and hold it dear

Saturday, February 19, 2011

men run down hills
and have other skills

but the downhill run
can't be done
by my Phosphoros* feet
without proper technique
can it?

won't i trip?
strain, sprain or twist
an ankle, or
bone matter?

so i inquired
and one said nothing
as if sharing
was baring
his achilles heel

years later
i asked a different man
the same question in my mind
and the young one ran
advice by me that
came quicker than his feet
down the slope as I stayed.
"just run"
"you keep your balance that way"

simple as that.

men run down hills
and have other skills
that, if willing to share,
allow girls to dare

*here:  Greek name of Venus. 


love my alaskan salmon
kings, pinks, reds, chums

care less for flaky
so no pollock

so done with selFish

Friday, February 11, 2011

a simple look at:




revolutions are somehow like falling in love.

you entertain an idea, bend, frizz, furl and twirl it until it fully develops. 

you dream. 

you concoct scenarios and brew plans.

you dream big.

you woo and court and scheme and flirt and there is this tremendous build-up.

you see endless possibilities.

you know what it will feel like when you reach your goal.

you sing jubilant victory songs.

you dance.

you dream bigger.

you write powerful poems.

breath~ and sleepless, you become the idea
you become love
you become the lover
you become the revolutionary
you become the revolution

you hide



emerge stronger 




and life and ideas fall into place

like love falls into you and the one you desire

and you fall right back into love

like a ripe orange

onto Tahrir Square

then, when everyone turns

away from 

the wall

the square

the palace

the auditorium

to go home,

when normal returns

~albeit different~

after the victory's ecstasy ebbs

the task at hand is to go take this love you have fallen in

and carry it into your day

break it up like sun rays through Montana storm clouds

and light the nooks and crannies of your revolutionary idea 

polish them like sapphire dregs

grow them like anything sativa




shelter and nurture

whatever you do:

don't duplicate our mistake

don't just lie there 

turn over


after that first kiss of revolutionary bliss

now is where the work begins

here is when your identity changes





and once in a while

take a mirror

to look behind you

so you remember

how far you have come

i stand with you in spirit

i sweep my floor

wishing it was Tahrir Square

or anywhere in





and Teheran

i salute you

beautiful souls

freedom fighters

mothers of martyrs

brothers, sisters, fathers, daughters


stay strong

we belong