How to establish boundaries with the dead.

Hello 39, welcome
to Hell. I go
in a new kimono.

One mourning dove reminds us
"This is it. We are in the nightmare," she says.

If that is so, then here in the dark side of our dreams,
the gin glows.
Big chunks of labordite gifted by the dead now become the gin's rocks.
Take the stones, drop them
in your drink.
In nightmareland, you eat the earth
she bounded on, anything to be close to her bones again.

Like the aboveworld, you carve time
out for yourself, but still in Hell you are.
You try to take a break
from grief, for self-care,
to visit the land of the before times.
Tell it, "okay stay outside while I get a massage."

Have you ever had to practice boundaries with the dead?

Grief is a clueless, needy extrovert,
a friend with no sense of solitude.
Gregarious as fuck.
No, you cannot come over unannounced
I'd prefer if you texted before occupying every synapse, bronchioli, and eyelash.
Still, Hell

I'm taking up residence here.
The rent is goddamned
expensive, but the views
oh the panoraming, expansical, multiversalicious view.

Dear Dove,
What are you now?

Are you the steam coming up from the mug you gave me?
Are you the smell of chamomile and lavender?
Are you the lightdance dabbling across my journal's white pages?
Are you the Mexican blanket shrouding my head?
Are you that cobweb, my cat, this air, this palm plant, that flicker?
Are you god?

I know you are new to it,
still learning how to be in this afterplace.
But when you figure out how to, will you please send the answers?
And also, your new address?

I'll be watching.

~your wise old owl


Little pink flip flops
Big green oxygen machines

New Prada sunglasses
Pirate eye patches

I have so much to tell you when you return to yourself.

I bought some lilies to plant
I weeded the dogwood bed
I signed up for a writing class
The raspberries you transplanted are bearing
The weird plant I didn't know what it was? It's fushia! Kelly, it's fucking fushia.

You're having trouble breathing
My lungs burn with my own breath
How dare it continue in plenty when you feel it in scarcity.
So I make it share.
I grab the deepestgoddamned breath I can
And exhale in your direction. A galeforce of life.
In those moments, am I breathing for you?

I have this desire to dip my fingers into claymud
Wipe black stripes on my cheeks
Approach the darkness as one of its own
war paint sacred

We all feel so shitty unless we are in your physical presence. We are disembodied until you somehow reunite ourselves with our own souls. What sorcery is this? You, always magic AF.

Oh how desperately I ache to take you away with me when I leave your house. To go west, to the salt water. To go shopping, to walk around the plant nursery, to have you stand at my counter and chop strawberries. Oh how guilty I feel to walk into my home and feel so safe when you are so scared.

Stand up.
Stand up.
Stand up.
Stand up.

Summer, meet cancer.
Cancer meet Life.

Bowie Andromeda, 5 year old slideshow

Happy 5th Birthday, Goose.

"I will take the sun into my mouth"

what is this feeling?
like i could take on the world
like the world could take me down

this inching up to the fear, fearing it
and this wide open wingspan holding all the world's fear, everywhere

seeing flying specs of matter with my side-eye
that vanish when i try to look right at them

this both holding and caring for
and being held, being cared for

like a child screaming 'hold me' yanking at the legs of her mother
i make demands, bowing to the body of the nothingeverything that is out there.

seeing nothing but the threat to Kelly's breath, my scope narrowed to pinpoint
while glimpsing it all, the expanse vast from where i stand above the earth

hands that can do nothing
hands that can do everything

stripped naked


who. what. where am i
in the middle of this?

i am water
and vital.
safe and scary.
blue with clarity, black with depth.
i contain multitudes of beating hearts that eat each other.

i am paradox. i am poem.

Courage, dear heart.


I will wade out
Till my thighs are steeped
In burning flowers

I will take the sun in my mouth
And leap into the ripe air
Alive with closed eyes
To dash against darkness

In the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers
Of smooth mastery

With chasteness of sea gulls
Will I complete the mystery
Of my flesh.

Of my flesh.
My flesh.

-Bjork "Sun in my mouth"

There's always more.

A tsunami has begun to form. We stand at the receding shoreline, desperate to change what we fear might be the impending future, watching the water rise in the too-close distance. It's hard to see anything good anymore. We feel helpless, unable to shhh the ocean floor like we'd calm a baby, our hands are instead full of other hands, the hands of our gathered beloveds, standing chained together by the light of her.

Good. Bad. Whatever is to come, we cannot stop it. That hasn't changed. That will never change.

Fear mounts, but so do we. We saddle up our weary but persistent souls, curious about the unknown trek. There is every hope, but still, we are scared. More scared than ever before. Breathing like we are being chased by a predator, yet there is no threat to fight. We have no weapons to pick up, no ground upon which to stand.

We wish for physical combat instead. Would expelling our bodies' energy make it easier to exist in this pain? I look at us, my friends, I see our riot gear, but we've been abandoned by our opposers. Dumbfounded by the total, utter absence of an enemy.

Are we knocking at the last door?

What will happen? What will happen? What will happen? Sticking, repetitive, answer-less questions.

Is it the end of the world?

Last week, we received some seismic-shifting news about Kelly. The cancer isn't responding to targeted treatment, so the doctors want to go wide. There is fluid in her lungs (well, until they extracted it a few days ago), a new inflammation on the liver. Chemo is back on the table. We await scan results. It's scary news, but that's all it is. It's not a prognosis. Not by a long shot.

It's hard to walk the line between being a good friend (trying to read what she needs so we aren't demanding that she always know what she needs in every given second, supporting her without smothering her, not demand that she comfort us right now, protecting her boundaries), and being good to yourself (letting yourself feel it all, investing in solitude, pursuing ease, protecting your boundaries). I have walked around in a daze the last few days. I can't focus and I don't really care about anything else. My world has stopped and yet, I can't say why. She is here, I can call her, I can drive to her house, I can hear her custom owl-hoot-hoot text tone interrupt a corporate meeting, making me smirk for the collision of the two worlds.

Here's what I am finding comfort in:

The moment. I have her. She is here.

Music. Oh music - it can reach inside places and shift everything. I helps me feel both the weight and the weightlessness of the situation...the always persistent cosmos...the gorgeous, fleeting, terrible human experience...all of it.

Writing. I decided Friday morning when the news first came in that I needed to write (and probably go back to seeing a therapist regularly as this is likely beyond my scope) for no other reason than it's the only only fucking thing I CAN do. I know the power words possess to shake up our the way we act and behave, how they help us find our way back into the bravery we were born with, and how they can remind us to marry the inner and external self - in ourselves and in others.

Because with humans, what you see (even when you see with your third eye) is never, ever what you get.

There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.

There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.

There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.