I'll be back soon!

 Blog,

I wrote to you after returning from Iowa. I promised Georgia I would write about my pilgrimage. Everyone should pilgrimage to see a flower, she wrote me. She is right. 

I started writing to you from Chicago, two years ago. I remember the day Lucas helped me create you. He thought cartography was a funny theme, as did I. This blog started as a place to goof off at work; I never thought it would become a place I write my life, the merger of my friends and I--my friends are how I imagine the world. 

I am thankful to navigate with my friends. I don't know what we are making, but we've made this blog--which is an intimate thing.

Today I am leaving for Wisconsin. 

I miss Thomas. My first memory of Thomas was peeling a transparent sheet from the bus stop, across the street from the zumiez I lived on top of. He took a picture, a whole new language for me. Thomas sees light different than I do--it's many orientations, how it moves. I'm always learning from him. 

Blog, writing to you from Minnesota has been difficult. I am searching for a place to feel like I am the right size. I am searching for a blip in time, like a kiss in broad twilight. 

Blog, if I don't write soon, do not worry. I cried listening to Bobby Jean this morning. I'll be back on my "blogging" soon. I love you. I am thinking of you. 

"The quest for God is the quest for true happiness" -- Harold Klemp

Blog,

there are things tender as milkweed, blooming for two weeks.

Picked, the plant will die in seven minutes.

There is iron and memory in blood.

There is work and rest in a field.

Have you ever smelt milkweed, blog?

Have you ever wanted to wrap your fingers around

the soft spots of life, somewhat maternal?

Blog, it makes me happy--

I used to follow butterflies,

not to Mexico, but to the park

down the street from my childhood home.

In truth, I never thought I would return to Minnesota.

I never thought I would lie in a hammock in Iowa,

looking at stalks of corn,

and feel happy. Really happy.

Thinking of my life,

the most amazing thing is that we are alive.

To be human

can be deeply sentimental.

Let grace be the silence of my body when I am happy.

Let mercy be the silence of my body when I am held.

Let me be out of control, following the glorious

earth. Let nothingness be the sun.

My friend texted me to say she once hid in a laundry basket.

My friend gave me a sticker that says

the sun will rise and we will try again.

When my sister dropped off her herbs

I put a mint leaf in my mouth.

Let me be wild, the taste of mint on my tongue.

Let me be wild, speaking language that doesn't exist.

Let me write poems with dirt, let my fingers

free to natural cavities.

Let me grow flowers.

Let me be molten.

Let me be rain, and to prairie,

let me be song to the hungry.

Let me be song to the praying.

Let me end student loan debt.

Let me lie in a hammock and waste my life.

Let my hair be golden shit.

Let my body be between

time. Let the genderless future be

when no one owns my time.

Let me write with the Iowa river.

Let me write with Ana Mendieta.

Let me write this for Georgia,

let me write this to my friends who are far from me.

Let me pilgrimage to Ana Mendieta.

Let my body be genderless for Ana Mendieta.

Let every river be the commons.

Let my emails be the commons.

Let my body be poetry in the commons.

Let's speak in sex.

Let's write love poems to the fire burning institutions.

Let's publish the poems on our thighs,

and lick them at our readings.

Who cares what the poetry sounds like

when the sound breaks up the world.

My mother asked me if I think my father is in heaven.

I think she asked if he has been released

from his body,

and yes, I think he has.

I think he has been let free,

and I think god is in the earth,

and I don't think there is a heaven.

Let me pour myself out of this wound.

Water will take back whatever it wants.

Here's poetry. Here's my life.

Keep me forever, predawn light.

And to water,

take me to salt, 

let of this cycle of return be tender.

"Soul travel simply means the ability to travel as Soul." -- Harold Klemp

Blog,

how are you? Thank you for putting up with me. My mom got me basil plant and yesterday we got out toes done. I am thankful for her.

I am thankful for you, blog.

I am a handful sometimes.

I want to be held in the morning.

Let me try to write you my bewilderment:

If a friendship is any good

it will always be good.

Last night I dreamt my friend Thomas and I ate sandwiches.

I miss Thomas, I love him.

I am glad he is in my dreams, small offering.

Blog, when was the last time you gave someone something wrapped in your hands?

When was the last time you released darkness to light,

the last time you arrived late like a lost and buried sound?

The last time you walked barefoot and thought of a song

to keep your steps soft.

The era when you were afraid of waking

the gentle body sleeping beside you.

The era when love arrived at night

to give you back your body, to sleep soundly.

When was the last time you received flowers ?

When was the last time you asked someone if you could kiss them goodbye?

When was the last time you sat on a friends porch, just to say hello. Hello.

Hello, my friend.

Hello, blog.

"The outflow that comes from giving of oneself opens the door to spiritual unfoldment..." -- Harold Klemp

Blog,

is our love reciprocal?

You might not be able to love me right now, but you can still break my heart.

Blog, what heartbreak brought you to me, my voice?

When did loss become having more?

Blog, this love is permeable, and I love that.

Lately the wind has made me feel, bare knuckle boxing.

Lately the water has made me feel, holding me under, pushing me back up to let go of my blue oxygen.

When you're good and plenty it is hard to trust anything is real.

If you're good and plenty cry into the chest of someone you might be able to love

but today you are just as happy as you are in love,

and cry to a musician you love but you haven't told them you love.

Take me in your arms, soft monument of motion, eon-long, particles.

Blog, how do you wear your alabaster? What empty room do you sing to?

Blog, hand me down your promises and failures.

"Love gratefully. This expands your heart into a greater vessel which can hold yet more love." -- Harold Klemp

Blog,

today I felt sad and cried over some flowers.

A snapping turtle breathing above water is a sincere vibration. If anyone asks.

Blog, if anyone asks, set fire to your reflection and run away.

You don't have enough time to scuff all the mirrors.

If language want shape, fling your saliva. It'll pan out.

At some point you were in love. Would you go back?

At some point you have been asked to return to your childhood home, however you define it. Will you go back?

Blog, how do you address me? Have you come up with something better?

You don't have to tell me. I don't think I'll ever read my poetry to my mother.

Go slow. Some recipes require you let the food continue to cook after removing the heat.

Moonlight is serious!

I was asked if I've seen the comet. I have not.

Last night I was woken up by thunder. That was good.

My familiar faces are the private relationships I have with grass stripped of its remarkable ordinariness, a soccer field.

Whatever direction is west if the roads all turn. I can't figure out which way to head towards, when I type my best friend's address into my phone.

I'm tired from always saying the things I don't want.

I want to garden.

I want to pick basil and make pesto and use it all in one meal.

If you're scared, stay up until the sunrise imposes something on you. It is good to do things, from time to time. The morning always smells like morning. Be awake for it.

Feel like you are on top on the earth for once.

Want things. Little things.

Shave your head if you think that will bring you peace.

Read a complicated book just to figure out that you haven't exhausted what you can do with your mouth.

Hang onto a contradiction. That's praxis.

If anyone asks, you feel afraid of feel how good it can be.

The coming pleasure.

"This is a warring universe. To survive here, one must know its ways." -- Harold Klemp

Blog,

I wrote this poem in the notes of my phone for you:


A magician values their hands more than anything else.

Be what the tongue illuminates,

as if our sun

were something more than the star we are closest to.

Heterosexuality be like: the girl I love online.

Queerness be like: how to love online.



Blog, you have promised me astral temptation.

Blog, you rough around the edges tenderness.

You dangerous mission on a loose joint.

You everlasting open tab.

Blog, I am not the first person to say:

all we can really do is map god.

"An unselfish dream, goal, or service can help us to the height of spiritual living." -- Harold Klemp

Blog,

poetry loves thresholds.

You are a threshold, so am I.

You play with me, too, blog.

Last night I dreamt about a friend

I wanted to hold me.

Their partner told me about their life,

and I let him make me a meal.