ice man

We always just called him “ice man.” Not THE ice man, just “ice man.” I mean, I don’t think anyone ever called him neither to his face either way, but I’m just trying to make the point, it was “ice man,” like there wasn’t ever any competition. But this guy had a truck, right, and it wasn’t anything fancy, and I guess trucks can get fancy if they really try – although then they look fancy but also like they’re trying real hard. But his truck was real simple, and it worked for him – the simple-ness of it. Ya know he delivered stuff, which is how we all got to know about him. He would stop right in the middle of our main road and always pull up to the curb real real tight. He delivered mostly to Mr. Goods store that always had everything you’d think of needing in it. He also would stop and drop stuff over down the way to Ms. Sugar’s ‘Sugar Field’, but not as often. She has a nice little store and all, but I always wondered about if nobody had called her Sugar would she have opened a different kinda store? But anyway, ice man. He didn’t deliver anything fancy or real expensive or exotic, just ice creams in any way they had been packaged. I hadn’t thought before ice man as much about it, but they sure turn ice cream every which way; bars, sandwiches, cones, on sticks. Every which way. But ice man would slip his truck right on next to the curb like he does and sit for a moment – always for a moment – I guess checking the number of boxes and what kinds go where. Then he would just step out of the driver side door like he stepped off a cool breeze – and he did. And that was what made him ice man. Cool air so fresh it could bite you just glowed all around that man. Like some people get in the heat with a shield of hotter stickiness comin off around them in 5 inches or so every way, ice man was just cool. What I mean is that you could see it. It was there, ice cold air, just swirling all around him like some sort of enlightened fire. On those days when it was really extra hot outside, and no one did anything more than sit in the shade and try not to move or touch, he’d roll up and pour one of the sweetest cold winds like a gift from god.

everyday looking

there is infiniti in my hair

and i twirl it around my fingers in a daily motion.

i wrote some reminders under my skin

so i can find it tomorrow.

and the next day.

my sister told me i describe everyday

life like a dream,

but i can never remember the real ones

in the morning.

baby you would look so fine with some salty ocean winds under your breath

it’s like walking with your hips in the rain? barefoot or something, you know? like, that way they really get that nice swing swaying attitude to them… anyway. i just thought it’d be a good idea. i’d like it even more if you sauntered all over here like that and actually stayed awhile. we could make friends, ya know? get to know each other? but ya know, now, even if ya had it all just sittin there waitin for ya like that, i think it’d get all gray and hazy like, humid an all.. ya know? you’d go and get that whole heavy air to ya… all thick and, yeah heavy like yogurt or somethin. anyway, it was all just a thought that crossed my mind. that’s all.

i never learned the italian word for “sass”

my hands on my thighs don’t look the same
– not like mine.
i wonder from what experiences were birthed
the tan lines, red toe nails, little cuts and
– is this my hair?
i learned how to walk with my chin
and i am not scared to let my lips part ways to a slightly opened mouth
when i am listening to someone else’s voice.
i find my eyes are quicker to respond to strangers than my words.
and my hands
– they had gotten so used to the easiness of touch.

what it was, is

the meditation was
the land and the road.
the sky held it all together.
the people were the
comfort and the safety,
a reality in the journey.

the stars and moons held
hands and danced.
they were the
simplicity of life –
the clarity of it all.

the water and the
women are
strength and cleansing.
tomorrow is tomorrow
and the sun, the sun.

desert song

whispers.wind singing two songs. one of all my love and the moments that i know. the other of tomorrow and the understands to come. all the questions answered in a small palm of sand. painted stone constellations, patterns of tradition woven and knotted into the sand. hills made by waters past lives. everthingabove reflected below in tiny seeds singing for the rising moons glow. earth breathes waves of skin soaking up stories of the ones before. words like thought move across the sky and into someone elses night. connection is so simple, but it gets blinded by our lights.

morning time, thoughts in

(hands to wirsts. wrists to knees) 

lists written on my skin

i am becoming that which i want to be

strength in red and yellow and gold

healing blue in my fingers

toes dipped in purple and flowers on my heels

in chest deep green

washed off    or soaked in

rewritten, to be

this constant mantra of mine/me

separation anxiety

i have been building little brown houses out of paper.
they each have their own personality,
even though some of them don’t even have doors yet.
i stand them next to each other making small streets in some unnamed city
or pile them into imitation hill towns like i’ve seen around here, so peaceful and soft.
i look for you and me through the tiny windows,
then remember that you are sitting next to me now.

it has been raining all morning

i am scared that too much water will wash it all away. but water is such a part of it’s essence. it is in my hair, in my skin, in my footsteps. i have been trying not to tread so hard for fear of leaving too much of it behind. and this ain’t the kinda thing you can glue back into place. especially when it is coming from your heels. that stuff gets worn down.  it is in my lungs too, in little pockets, tucked down deep near my stomach part. i’ve been trying not to breathe with all my breath now – trying to hold those parts all in. my head is held higher now, and my shoulders are back and confidant – trying to hold those pieces in. try it. it is in my voice too, when i speak from the right place. sometimes without words. and the only words it knows are the ones we really mean. and it is in that. it is that, that freedomlove. not that hokey kind that gets beaten into something else by consumer’s songs and false intentions. no, this thing is something that speaks no language but tongue. the kind that hides in air that is sweetened by peoples appreciation of life. that part that doesn’t have borders, made completely by the places where one thing ends and the other begins. where we all meet, and from there begin. the part that still recognizes the drumbeat in a pulse. it is the thing that knows the sunset ceremonies and dances on rooftops until the sky is the ground and we all walk on water as blue as the sky. with the flowers on my feet fading into my skin, it is still here, but it has been raining all morning.

I was painting and met Me there

finally I was approached by Me and am learning how to go about using a mirror for self exploration, self discorvery, and self respect. holding eye up to eye and learning to see. I left the infantile spot that lingered above my head and learned to inhale the new found air. there is more light this way and I will use it to be.