8 F Y R E ' B I R D 8

i often notice that november can be a challenging month for me. the season of fall brings a lot of letting go, of slowing down. a surrender to darkness as teacher. akin to the luteal phase of menstruation, my energy starts the turn inward. I move a lot slower. My healing is heavy with letting go of anything that I do not need for the bare, silent wisdom journey of winter.   i get panic attacks more often in the fall. my nervous system tracks the descent into colder, darker days, and my soma slows down. My body gets more heavy, I want to sit near fires and not do as much. i’m interested in how i have been taught to believe that my body is not mine. as a body that has been invaded, i am curious about how my body becomes a war zone. how me against myself has been implanted and fed in me by social forms and systems of oppression. i am so interested in how the ancestors teach me about beauty amidst struggle, outer or inner. kindness and gentleness towards myself, truly, holding spa...

we carve mountains out of our spine because that is how the earth taught us.   the earth taught us some things.   the earth taught us about poetry, about being gentle, about being fierce.   the earth teaches us about time.   about when to express and shine   and when to be hidden and withdraw withdrawing one’s energy into oneself   and becoming darkness is sacred   our world does not remember this   our world is only fruiting and harvesting   there is no awareness of “death” in our world   i want to be an awareness for death in this world  

monday, april 15th, 2019 :: waxing moon  how our hands hold dream how we are making dreams when we  cook love, for our beloved, with our hands  when we cook yams, and beets, and greens  and how this gives us our hands back to us  how we fall in love with experience  how we handle, tangle, and disturb even the outsides  of what we want  i am in so much pain  i am in so much physical pain today  and i am breathing with it and then pausing to weep  the weeping comes out of my body sometimes sometimes the weeping does not stop  sometimes i wonder how much longer i will be grieving my mothers grief  how can i make separate her grief from mine? when really,  it is a line of beckoning hands showing me their scars  and how can i say no?  how can i say no to my own kin?  i can .  i can s...

echo memory :: june 19, 2018 :  i am sitting here, in the mountains and i can smell the alfalfa near me. it is not growing. it is tied up, in a bundle. this bundle is for my use. it is for the practice of archery. i have yet to transport it to the forest for this purpose. the smell of it is nice. it lingers. it reminds me of fall, which reminds me of my childhood, which reminds me of my birthday. as i was transporting it, it shed many pieces of itself and they ended up collecting along the edge where the wall meets my deck. i liked this. i hope it liked it. i kept them there. for the lingering scent, but also for the sight, of something beautiful. of a chaotic, kind of beauty that i feel happens the most in the fall, when things are letting go and finding themselves strewn about everywhere, in a surrender to death, to change, to transition, to life.   the rain is trickling, the rhythms of it can be heard against the trees and the rooftop. playing with each other. the...

cooing, soft night air.   i conjure this around me.   i let my bones settle, because often in the city, they are on fire. they are running with electric tires, the nervous systems in me cars. streets and cars, hard metal that comes from somewhere, far away. distant booms, high pitched sounds. i wonder about how we can manipulate our environment with sound, and how there might be sound warfare, and how there is also: sound healing.   because so often in the city my breasts never settle. my bones have a hard time not rotting and becoming the earth, because we must return to the earth, we must return to the earth, we must become Them, we must become Her, be eaten by our chthonic desires, come home to Her, come home to Them, sparkling and dark, moonlit :earth. my bones remember. my bones remember, decay and how to become the earth again.   in winter, i smell death. death is everywhere. i feel like i let parts of my garden (genitals) die out this winte...