"you"or god is a queer femme dream

every day, write.
because if you are not writing, here.
you are writing somewhere.
there are stories being told somewhere, in your being.

they happen racing through your head
or wake up at the tips of your fingers
when dreaming.

the ways you happen,
and how the world happens with you
is important,
is important.

write, because.
it gives you life.
it gives you a place to put: everything.
it gives you a way to navigate death.

the empty page does not judge or
hurt you, like sometimes, the thoughts
do inside of your own head.

or the glances, shrugs, and distracted looks
you interpret as signs from others, proving your unworthiness.

write, because when you do, you fly.
and flying tastes so good to your wings.
your wings must remember how to fly,
and when you are writing, they do.

it is permission. it is promise. it is hope and despair and returning again to a place of origin. it is channeling, it is home-coming, it is discipline and challenge, death and resurrection.

write letters.

to yourself and to others.

tell people how you are feeling.

ask them how they are doing.

what they are wondering about.

what beats just below the caverns of their heart.

write poems. write songs. write manifestos of soul.

write angry, distorted, releases.

write love. write you.

__________________________________________

"you"or god is a queer femme dream

written with ute territory

the last time i heard her voice, was in september.  i couldn't stop not hearing it. i couldn't stop not letting it spill out from under me. it was like a spell. a siren song. something calling me inward but always down. something that centered but kept me moving. i cry, now, because sometimes (t)he(i)r voice disappears from me. somehow, i lose it, although i never mean to. t(s)hey cries, and i can hear it, and then it is gone, slipping away from me. i weep because if t(s)hey is lost, what am i? my life is intertwined in (t)he(i)r song. i am of her back, her bones, her blood. my hands look like hers. even though, they are my hands. when i look at my hands, i see tears and years of these old rememberings. when i arch them outwards, i relax into a power that tells me to be still. but i can't be still. i am weeping and longing for her. i am consumed with the desire to reclaim (t)he(i)r melody. to sing again, together. to weep again, together. to grasp hands, to remember we are one, of many. to be filled and also do the filling. how sweet the longing, and how clear the memory, of reunion, of ecstasy. i know one day, i know one day will come. long and coarse in its coming. the day will break, like at dawn, and we will be together again. t(s)hey and i, me and she. because thunder needs lightning and lightning always meets thunder. you cannot separate that which is borne of the same, for long. that which is borne of a similar soul texture, of cloth, of fire, of ruin. you cannot keep the sky from the earth, the star from its brightness. all of the rivers flow, here and now, to re-member us, to remind us: of this sacred, arching tune. the one that returns and is gone and returns again. the dancing of You.