What I do is I devote my body, mind, and soul to the mystery. I worship at the mouth of the magic. And when the words come to me, I dance with them and collect them, with all my love and truth and affection, into books of poetry.
It is with so much joy and gratitude I now offer you the words which were offered to me. In the dark secret beautiful hours when I slipped away from the noise of this world and took so many sacred journeys inward.
Luminae is a book about the ache of longing, of falling apart. It is about soul searching and finding your wild truth. Available in paperback on Amazon, just click here. Kindle version as well as a few signed custom copies will be ready very soon, I will let you know about each as they become available.
Whether you purchase my book or not, please know I am full of gratitude for your presence here in the place. Because of your incredibly generous hearts, the giving always feels like receiving. I am so grateful, so grateful, so grateful to have the chance to share with you the creative work that means the most to me.
This is an excerpt from my upcoming book of prose and poetry titled Luminae. To me this poem sums up in just a few words what the entire book is about, why I wrote it, and why I wrote it now. I wrote it because it is time for a book like this. It is OUR time. Time for the ones who dare to face the darkness and the light, the pain and the fear and the uncertainty, without turning our backs on love. It is about longing, expression, soul searching, finding ourselves, being comfortable being strong inside of ourselves.
It is time for words like these. The world is starved for thoughtful compassionate honest words, words both soft and strong at once. Words of soul, words of challenge, words of comfort, words of heart.
The poem above, and every single piece in Luminae, was written for the ones who dare welcome everything. We need the ones who welcome all of it, even the hard things, without judgment. The scary things, the things we do not yet understand. We need the ones who will stand up even when they feel like crawling and claim their worth, their integrity and their limitless love and understanding. We need the ones who see. We need the ones who listen. We need the ones who create.
Some reject my writing because it is too dark. Some reject it because it is too light. But the ones who understand the true depths of the human heart, who believe in the beauty and necessity of holding both light and darkness sacred, those are the ones Luminae is for. Because those are the souls this world so desperately needs.
There have been chance moments within all of this, moments of madness and grace,
which I fear I will surely forget. But for now I am here with you and the twilight is sliding across your face. For now your eyes holding mine and the way our fingers become whispers become the lengthening of necks become flesh over the fragile bones of dreams come back to life, for now I will feel everything. I will shatter and I will expose and I will untie all the things about myself that I have kept bound in the dark halls of my petrified being for ages. So that when this moment has gone, when it has become part of the next, and these small things become smaller and smaller still as they walk the eternal distance of time, I will have been made into everything I could have become. Because I let it all in and I let it all go and this is the magnificence, and this is the miracle of the blood of the life we are invited to know, when life is allowed to open and to close and to flow.
I am learning to look back and see that every cycle, every phase of the things I have been through, they each needed the space and time and energy they needed. That is simply the truth.
There was nothing I could have rushed through and nothing I could have prevented because I was unfolding in two ways at once: in love and in fear of love. And these two streams were crisscrossing each other all the time exactly as they were set in motion. I made choices, of course, but each was made from that intersection of love and fear of love.
I can see that now, however briefly, however fleeting that clarity may be, I can see my life, my love and fear-of-love story, as whole. As complete in the way it met and did not meet my expectations of myself.
There is a place which is a way, which is a way of thinking about these things without judgment. It’s a center, a balance, we can seek out if we can trust ourselves enough that it exists. This place within is where we cut ourselves free, let ourselves off the hook for whatever we believe the past held for us. What it gave to us and what we gave in return can be what they are.
It is really tough to dwell within that clarity and it moves ever in and out of focus. But through some kind of madness or miracle, it can be done.
Maybe not everyone will like it but I wanted to write a while on sadness. I needed to.
Why? Because this is something we all live with, live within. It’s all around and underneath our fingernails, our tongues. Sadness is upon our shoulders, in the hand of our minds. I want to write from it, I want to become her lips and bones and match my heartbeat to hers.
I want to listen.
The only thing more crushing than sadness is sadness which is lonely.
The warm stained scent of wet city sidewalks and all the ways I struggle to say what I mean. I don’t know anymore if that is voluntary or medicinal but I’m often overwhelmed by the possibility that it might be either. Or both (I know it’s always both).
I flip through vacant magazines and pace the floors barefoot but all I can see are storm clouds closing in on me. The second you walk out the door they move in. What happened to the way you used to make poetry out of flickering skylines? Whatever became of the sun setting behind my tender flesh and how it used to spark the bones we traded. If I had any words left I would give them all to you. I would sit underneath your shadow and pretend to be protected.
Did you ever want to run away with me? Search my eyes for the deep blue rivers of a time you had forgotten but still believe in? You come to me in dreams but so do so many others.
Heavy rain slides down the kitchen window. So many things that happen like lightening seem to last forever. I watch as raindrops make patterns of circular chaos in the cracks on the pavement and I know a journey into me is a journey straight into the center of the earth. I know I am not easy and the pressure gets inside your head. The way you look at me is your gray lungs getting weak.
You are orange slices and sticky fingers, so sweet, so goddamn inconvenient. The way you rip the names off of everything and throw my longing back at me in the words you so carelessly choose. We rehearse the end and then we welcome the mistakes in all over again, lighting cigarettes one after another in the dark for hundreds of thousands of years. Your terrible lips and your beautiful eyes, your pearl teeth in the moonlight glistening. Even through all this blindness I can still hear you smile.
I can still remember how my dimples curled themselves against your swollen need for satisfaction. I cannot find the words to tell you gently that I’m trying so hard not to be gone when I’m with you. So hard that I write about thorns tearing rose petals, that I have often secretly hated myself for being and not being with you.
When I was very small I learned that pink bleeding hearts are flowers, and once they tell you they never tell you again. You kiss the way nothing lasts forever. We make love the way civilization collapses apart without making a dent in the universe.
Do we touch or just open our mouths. And are we talking past each other now.