to wade or browse amidst the rubble of love.

“Shame is the swampland of the soul.”    —Carl Jung.
“Do you ever want to make love to your own story? To the parts of you that you work so hard to grow? Are you able to sit on a rooftop of red curls and say, ‘holy shit, I built this?’ Everything you need is inside you already.”   —Rebel Diaz

I am trying to find the right angle to reach all of this. I’ve climbed ledges and dangled screams, watched dripped hollers hold onto exposed bricks, begging to be let back up. In the midst of love-making, I somehow felt the need to throw away the parts of me that have misbehaved. Everything I need may be inside me but some of it hides and some of it has curdled. How to get past all of that and closer to rebirth.

voz del acustico y viajado

Imagine a spoon. It is flat in the parts that should have slant. And it scoops you out as though you are melon. There is a pluck of memory. A reminder of saffron laugh and sofrito tap of tongue against phone. What are you reading. Are you married now. How many babies have been birthed since that time. Do not mention railroad track and lift of cotton over belly-button. Only mention lenguaje viajado del alma. Do not go back to pinot grigio and evening dip of toes into drunk grass stains. Only mention una meditacion de pulmones y otoño. Envision skin. Behind cartilage of flesh, gather sonido agotado.