"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.