Generally I am distrustful of the internet. It is an easy distraction, a numbing agent, an excuse not to go do living-people things. I have really wanted to be a living-people and so I have steered myself away from places on the internet where I might stake too much of my soul in something that is not alive. I have gotten self-conscious about over-sharing on Facebook, guilted myself about writing emails instead of physical letters, and wondered what on earth am I going to do with my tumblr.

But lately I have seen a surge of realness in this technological mediums – some actual consciousness and light that finds its way out of the mess. Things people write that actually touch me, the thoughts and feelings of my friends and strangers that I can connect with and take with me throughout my day. It is surprising to look into a screen and see something of real value, be inspired to write or sing or question.

I am evolving. I am asking others with completely different strengths than mine to help me take my music to the next level. I am working with kids in hospitals, bringing them instruments and songs they love. I call my family more, hear them reflect me. Every day, my potential stares at me in the face out of more and more places. I am realizing how much I can touch back, how taking up space (which is often my most debilitating fear) can actually be the greatest gift I can offer.

So I am trying to grow with the times. I may not like that we are so scattered and so busy with our own lives, but I can work to reach people in ways that are almost universal these days. Screens don’t have to be this dead, soulless thing. I can fill them with my self, and move on with my life.

Whoever you are, I want to reach you. I want to sing to you and tell you about my day and the life I find inside these failing bodies and the doors I open within myself and the savage and odd and tender things I hear people say by accident. I do not want to just write in my journal, listen to my voice bounce from wall to wall. There is too much. It needs to go somewhere. I want it to go to you, and if it resonates, I want to receive whatever you have to give. This is a strange place to connect, but it can be as real as we need it to be.

I hope this motivation lasts, but if not, it was a nice feeling.

Saturday 8/18 Milwaukie Grind Grand Opening I will be playing for free with many other talented poets and musicians at this all-day event! There will be latte art, music and sunshine, and it will be even better if you are there. http://www.facebook.com/events/333137640106874/

I have laid down

my voice, my fingers’ renderings

of sounds I made when you left.

.

I have done the takes

over and over, hit the button,

pause, delete, record.

I finished last night,

and found I could not stop

replaying the unedited cut,

that slice of loss and longing,

the song that had haunted me

and now I could finally hear.

.

I have almost forgotten

how it was to be haunted.

.

It surprised me,

how beautiful it was. How trapped.

It does not cling to me with barbs anymore.

It is not a sound I pretend to forget,

that guttural crooning, springing

from the bottom of me.

.

I have laid you down

with no hostility or shame.

I have lit fires in that dark,

and made shadows dance on the walls.

I have learned to love

the knots you tied

in me.

There is no one watching. Go ahead.

Unbutton your top button, let your body

take its own shape. Breathe a noisy

waterfall into the still air. Take a finger,

use it to pick your nose; breathe a little

easier. Breathe. Follow that thought

trickling backwards up into the forest

of your hair, burrowing through to

forgotten landscapes in your head.

There is no right way but every way.

There is no right action but action.

Move. Chase. Play. Breathe. Feel

a thrill when it is happening, when

you stop watching yourself and notice

it is here, it is happening, feel the motion

of your brainwaves, the cascades tumbling

from your soulwindow, light splattering

like paint before you, swimming colors,

be consumed. Forget to breathe,

remember. Yes. There it is. There,

it is. When you are slowing down,

don’t worry if you’ve said enough.

It is all there. You are perfect. Stop

when it has been enough.

To Darkness

.

Whenever I want to write What

Makes People Feel Things,

I look for you.

Examine my skin for bruises

(although I do everything

I can to avoid collisions),

pick at and study

the black somethings packed

underneath my nails

(washing hands is for people

who don’t write anything important),

trace my pillowcase for remnants

of another night’s loneliness

(it might just be drool).

.

You won’t be found then.

It is when I am brightly lit

by a screen, three empty bottles

on my bedside table, trying

not to try, not to think of trying

to write ever again – that

is when you wrap around me

from behind, humming me numb,

wiping me clean of every touch,

kiss, smile, word, that ever seemed

to mean something – you settle

around my shoulders like a cat,

curl across my chest

like a growing bruise.

When You Told Me I Am a Happy Person

.

Even though my tears were still clinging to your fleece shirt,

I did not argue,

any more than I would argue

with the strands of blonde

the morning has threaded into my hair.

.

My lips are bruised

from trying to shape my darknesses into names,

but on the sunless mornings I want to sleep through,

there is still you,

kissing me awake.

.

I shift with weather,

like water, holding shadow and light,

reflecting every sort of day,

stained with the colors

of whatever is closest.

.

I did not argue

because it is true

when you say it,

three hairs’ length

from my face.

For Sonny Rollins, who quit performing publicly and only played alone on the Williamsburg bridge for a year, sometimes up to 16 hours a day.

.

It was so easy for them,

with their eyes closed,

bobbing their heads like ducklings.

I was the body beneath,

undulating some kind of tempest

that ruffled their fine clothes

The breath I pulled

like fire out of my throat

landed tickling jitterbugs 

over their scalps

till they leapt up,

moved mindlessly to the sounds.

.

Lightening in the brain.

Hands burnt tree-bark,

brass melting off my fingerprints;

imagine yourself a canyon;

you,the darkest void, and

the smallness of a candle

you light night after night.

.

You will never be the sun

that could save you

from your haunted crevices,

but they will still mistake you for day.

.

It was so easy for them

to call it crazy,

the year on the bridge,

no one to hear my shame

and call it genius.

.

If you pass me some night,

pretend not to recognize me.

Keep walking as you would

past the junkie in a half-sleep

underneath,

who only knows his shape

by the shadow he casts.