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Brood mare…

July 17, 2011

Where do I go from here?

How many hours can one person spend locked in a bathroom,

looking at skin,



Feeling fingers…


And the absurdity of a belly button???

How many definitions for human can one person find???

And how do you know which one is correct???

How many hours can you spend shivering???

And holding…

And wondering…

— in The Adoration of Jenna Fox by Mary E. Pearson


like every other day,

I asked,

What’s going on now???

And then I waited,

for the clues,

to unravel,

the pain,

in my abdomen…

The cat,

finding a hand knit,

baby sock,

in some dusty corner,

and batting it,

with her paws,

until it rested,

beside my bed…

The cat hunting,

in the tall grass,

below the ornamental,

cherry tree,


a song sparrow,

who did not survive,

his first flight,

from the nest,

onto the area rug,

of our living room,

eyes closed…

A professional,

recently told me,

after she took her hands,

out of my energy field,

It’s not your job,

to go into a space,

and ground everyone,

and everything…

I didn’t know what to say,

as I tried to pull away,

from her control issues…

So I said nothing,

except for,

How do I get,

the hell,

out of here???

And I thought to myself,

as I got in my car,

and drove away,

about how people,

get their certifications,

and call themselves things,

like doctors,


and reverends,

of light,

without doing their own,

home work…

And they certainly don’t like it,

when you turn,

the tables,

on their operational,


with a flood lamp…

It’s all well,

and good,

for their hand,

of authority,

to reach into you,

in the name,

of making you better,

but when you push back,

with your own will,

of illuminating,

that which hides,


the mask,

in order to protect yourself,

and neutralize,

a charged situation,

the band snaps…

And furthermore,

if people,

in the healing arts,

made it regular business,

to clear,

the chaos,

of what’s been released,

into their workspaces,

after each patient,

then other people,

like me,

who think,

through their feelings,

wouldn’t need,

to do it for them…


I side-walked,

with a rider,

on a horse,

and this young man,

whispered to me,

with his absolutely wicked,

sense of humour,

when he was told,

by the instructor,

to put his feet back,

in the stirrups,

and I asked if he required,


Are you kidding me???

This is child’s play

A few weeks ago,

I went out,

down the street,

to investigate,

the raging screams,

of a cuffed woman,

beside the Ukrainian Hall…

I watched,

how it took,

five male,

police officers,

to tie her up,

at the ankles,

and stuff her,

head first,

into the tight confines,

of a paddy-wagon…

I didn’t place judgment,

on the situation,

because I didn’t know,

what had gone down,

and since she was drunk,

and native,

she likely had it,

coming to her…

And as I,

stood witness,

to a pressure valve,

releasing history,

right in front of me,

I was reminded,

of the ghosts,

of apprehension,

I hold,

in my belly,

and that the only thing,


this woman’s experience,

from mine,

in the time space continuum,

is THE organ,

we call skin…


Take your silver spoon, and dig your grave... (photo: Starshine)

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