It’s scary to let go of words, when you’re trapped inside them.

Because there’s a moment when you’ve let go of the words
And you realize that once you let go, they won’t come back
And you’re hanging in the air between the words and the ground
And you don’t know how high you are in the air
And you don’t know how hard you’ll hit the ground
Or how many bumps and bruises that will cause
Even though you always feel better with your feet on the ground
And you desperately, desperately want to be on the ground smelling the earth
But you’re afraid to fall
And you’re afraid to hit
And you’re afraid how much effort it will take to get back in the air
Or whether you can get into the air at all
So you cling and scrabble
Until your fingers break
And you hit the ground fifty times as hard
And stay there fifty times as long
Too stunned to take in
Everything you normally appreciate
About being on the ground


My Head Is Wrong, But Things Will Be Alright

I did more today and in general this week than I should. Too much exertion. Too much work.

My skin burns everywhere.

The world is shimmering. There’s a background flicker. Then there’s orange and yellow shimmery spots everywhere.

My ears are ringing in a very high pitch that nothing can block.

My tongue is weird.  It’s poised for verbal tics. Poised in a highly unpleasant way. But there’s no words or noises. Just the threat of words or noises.

But there are words in my head. Or ideas, just before they get formed into words. They are flooding every which way.

My head is buzzing.

All the above things are connected together, part of the same whole.

So the words flicker and the flickering buzzes and the buzzing is orange and yellow and the orange and yellow are made of words and three words burn.

Please stop please stop please stop.

This is not me. This is me, lost. This is me, lost in the world of words. If it would only be quiet and still again I would be me.

This is the world I lived in made my own barged my way into no matter the pain, from the ages of approximately seven to twelve.

And then and then the words fell apart and everything was fragments and I was picking up the pieces.

But I was just that much closer to me?

At least now it is only minutes hours days instead of weeks months years.

I finally find it. .

I tell my mind to be silent, to stop telling itself stories, the lies we all tell ourselves about the world.




These things are not me.

They are outside me. Bombarding me. But the prickly burning ringing orange words are not me.

I tell them to leave.

They have no place in my mind. My home.  My life.

My brain does not need to accept this world of words, let it worm its way into my head, tell me how to feel, how to live, how to be.

It’s an intrusion into my life. Not a thing to aspire to or identify with.

But I have deep roots in places no words can go. And those give me an immunity to the kind of words that exist only to delude and invade.

Those words can’t touch me.  They can’t even see me.

If I reach down far enough I am made of clarity. I am made of joy.  I am made of strength. I am made of love. I am made of silence.


That’s what matters.


Falling Out Of Your World

I fell out of your world today
And landed in the dirt
I knew the name of every plant
Of every tree and mushroom

You can’t know what this meant to me
This knowledge without thought
In your world, wit is easily won
It’s your solace and your weapon

In my world, it’s like flecks of soil
That pile up with each passing year
It grows slowly and naturally
My mind doesn’t soar through the clouds

I looked up at your world today
You seemed so happy up there
Because you do soar through the clouds
Your mind eats equations for breakfast

You can’t imagine life down here
It’s too slow and too ordinary
For days at a time I do nothing
But soak myself into the soil

But the soil talks to me
Like the clouds talk to you
And from the underground depths
Understanding flows up to me

I know that you love your life
Where the breeze brings you words
And the clouds carry equations
And you can dart everywhere
With a touch of your wings

But I love my life
I have deep roots in the dark places
Water springs up from the soil
And understanding can only happen
By listening to things without voices

I am a thing without a voice
Perhaps that is why I belong down here
And not up where the voice of the wind
Sings unceasing words of knowledge
To people whose heads fill with words

I fell out of your world today
And I thanked the gods of mist and soil
Of the dark and the damp
Of the roots and the trees

Because you may thrive in your world
But to me, it’s a lightning storm in my head
And I belong curled up inside the ground
At the feet of a redwood tree


I Am Not A Word-Fish

I handed you a lump of wet soil
You threw it on the ground
Told me never to get your hands dirty again
I didn’t have the words to tell you
That lump of soil was me

You never liked me handing you things
“Use your words” you said
So I used words — my way.

I read every book I could get my hands on
I picked up phrases and sentences
As if they were toy blocks
And I arranged them and rearranged them
Until they said what you wanted

“What a brilliant child,” people said
As I stood there choking to death
On other people’s words
Pouring out of my throat so fast
I had no time to breathe

Do you understand yet?
Every time you call me clever
Every time you call me smart
Every time you call me brilliant
Or gifted, or talented, or gifted and talented
All I remember is choking and drowning

And I am supposed to be grateful
For being waterboarded into language
I am supposed to be happy
For choking and drowning
On other people’s words

And you thought you were helping me
When you put me in rooms full of
Children who swam in language
Like fish in water
Children who used my choking voice
As a joke between them all
You thought you were helping

You think you know something about me
Because I stuffed language down my throat
And vomited it up when needed

You think you know something about me
Because someone confused that
With being a language-fish
And threw me in the fishbowl
Until I almost drowned
Because language-fish have gills
And children
Who stuff books down their throat
For purposes of vomiting later
Only have lungs

And here’s the part
That makes me cry
Every time I think of it

I still tried to communicate
My way

I handed people lumps of dirt
I tried to hand them the mist through the trees
I let my hands flicker around my face
I handed them marbles and little ornate sculptures
I tried to show them the whole world in the color blue

I had tried so hard
To learn their language
That I choked on their books
And vomited their words
All day
Every day

They didn’t even see my language
They didn’t need it like I needed theirs
So I was not only invisible
But laughable

And you wonder why even mentioning these people
Makes me so furious I could choke all over again
And you wonder why I can’t identify with all those word-fish
And why calling me a word-fish makes me want to slap you
Until the flashbacks of choking and vomiting subside

I’ve finally wrested control of words
Against every odds that I started out with
And nobody was around to herald that achievement
Because they assumed I was a word-fish
Not a land creature vomiting words involuntarily

Nobody was around to hold me
When I vomited those words over and over again
Nobody was around to congratulate me
When I finally mastered the real use of words
Nobody was around to listen
When I used objects and body movements
To say more than words ever could

And you wonder why I resent your compliments
And you wonder why I burn with rage
When you ever, ever hint that this was easy
That I was born with a ‘gift’
That I didn’t have to claw my way
Every inch
To language
That I didn’t already have
A language
Of my own


Mud and Wood-Sorrel

Who did you hold when you fell to the floor?  And will you ever tell me more? Your cast iron hands and your filigree mind have never had much time for my kind. I can rise from the floor and take my leave of here, anytime I want. Just remember, anytime I want.

Tell me of earth, you who have never touched it, but only held it in your mind, an abstract component in one of your filigree spells. And I’ll tell you of words, I who have seldom seen them but as the birds that Donna spoke of, falling without a sound. And maybe somewhere we can touch and find our common symmetry. Or maybe only common disdain. So common, that disdain.

I held out to you a hand full of soil drenched in water. It had the smell of roots, of fallen needles, the beginning of green wood-sorrel. You shouted, drop it, get out, get it out of here!  Get my damn mud out of here before it ruins your floor, your house, your clothes, your furniture.

I fell down on the floor to examine the soil. I ran it over my fingers and inhaled the rooty scent.  And I could find nothing amiss. Nothing of this mud you spoke of with such disdain.

You were never aware of the power of the words you threw behind you, one scrap, one song, one to sting. Mud, you called it, and suddenly it became filth, and I became filth by association. You never saw a beautiful or useful building constructed of mud, I imagine, nor all the other uses of mud… or the very tone of your voice that tells us all “Mud is beneath me, beneath me, beneath me, Mud is beneath me” would simply not be.

But people heard your words carried on the wind. They do that. Your words ride the wind whether you will them or not. And people hear them, and people change.  Your words carried down to someone whose house was made from mud, and when she heard the tone in your voice when you said mud, for the first time she was ashamed.  Half ashamed, half defiant, but all unnecessary if you’d kept your disgust to yourself.

My voice is the color of mud, and my skin is the texture of bark. My love has the depth of water, my touch is as soft as mist dancing past trees in the dark.

But right now I feel bone dry, as if my roots can’t push the water far enough into the sky.  And there’s haze between me and you.  My eyes are like a desert, my kidneys burn in the night while I’m waiting, waiting to put things right.

Can you enter my life without burning me from the inside? Can you steer your way round the curves of my body without looking for all the ways to tell me they’re wrong to exist. Can you?

Or will you just shout at me that I am mud?  And with your words, turn that into an insult rather than a thing of beauty?

I want to curl up underneath the mud and show you I can turn into wood-sorrel.  Show you that nothing can uproot me, least of all words.  And hold my roots in the ground and turn my leaves to the sky and taste how sweet light is and be cradled in the muddy dark.


Depression Defies Gravity

Rising Into Sadness

When the world is a graveyard
Of dusty skeletons falling apart
And the sky cannot be seen
And even the pines are no longer green
I know that there have been
Too many words

Falling Into Joy

Tossed for moments into living color sky
Ever falling back to a cushion of drabness
This is the way of the world, we said
Watching our eyes adjust to the dimness
Gravity works funny ways, said the world
For those who trust in words
Laughing to itself
As the ashen floor crumbled
Knocking the wind out of us
Smelling the soil as sky blinded our eyes
We had landed on solid green