Flower Child in the Desert

A musician, dancer, and poet that bloomed in West Texas.

[flowerchildinthedesert]

I'm realizing that I can't hold others to my own expectations

[flowerchildinthedesert]

“Well, when you have kids...”

Children don’t make you

special--they’re consolation 

prizes for fucking

[flowerchildinthedesert]

When work drains emotional energy

sometimes I want a

little less of a career

and more of a job

[flowerchildinthedesert]

I think that I'm worth something--I just don't believe anyone else does

[flowerchildinthedesert]

I harbor only the most

crooked of ships in my bay—

each windless sail is a forgotten

destination, a dream I never

fell asleep to

  I used to dream of

circumnavigation—but

somehow I got stuck behind

the backyard fence

  now the rust and the waves and

the creak of the dock remind me that

time stops for no one—I am

no exception

[flowerchildinthedesert]

Marble-cold morning, skies

weighted by insignificance, shouldered by the

reverent stillness that only steam from

my mug has the whim to disobey

[flowerchildinthedesert]

american dream

five dishrag weekdays–

perhaps if i am lucky

i’ll make sunday’s wash

[flowerchildinthedesert]

summer raspberry

cool and covered with pinpricks

of water--taste me

[flowerchildinthedesert]

My mind is

ten 1000-piece puzzles strewn about the floor the moment before you remember what you forgot to remember a million tabs loading on a fritzy screen poorly-placed "one way" street signs the pencil in the sharpener (I can't tell if it's ready) right before it breaks every disappointed lowering of eyes and fall in tone the blinking lights on the router do they even have a pattern the sequins you'll inevitably find if you buy that silly dress the ten poor reviews despite the ninety good ones a dissertation when only a proposal was required a list prefaced by a foul-tasting coffee with three shots of espresso but no motivation (and i don't even like coffee)

[flowerchildinthedesert]

brainstorm: happy things

letters in the mail

dancing on a friday night

painting (preferably on a canvas even though I have no idea what I’m doing)

watching wall-e (because no, i still haven’t seen it)

tappy shoes on a wooden floor

trying on pretty and eccentric dresses

playing music with other people

doing make-up for no particular reason

singing with other people (in harmony)

lunch with a friend

black tea

playing in an orchestra

practicing cello and bass

braiding hair

henna

coloring animal pictures

tattoos

writing

making people laugh

laughing

successful new bird tricks

looking at houses

spontaneous adventures out of town

Taos, NM

live bands with dancing

talking to old teachers and mentors

going to the ocean

making cookies

finishing an arrangement/composition

crocheting

tasting new food

new pair of boots

being hugged

birdy conversations

The Daily Show

kisses from my love

when I help spark a student “ah ha!” moment

harmonizing well with a song on the radio

cooking with someone

crafting things with friends

to be continued as needed...

[flowerchildinthedesert]

american dream

five dishrag weekdays--

perhaps if i am lucky

i’ll make sunday’s wash

[flowerchildinthedesert]

I wish I could write happily, That the images that inspire me to Put my pen to paper weren't the Same ones that make me run to A knife or bottle Perhaps I'm not a writer

[flowerchildinthedesert]

I am no creator No artist No lover No dancer No poet-- I fancied myself Full on cheap Fantasies, on silly Feelings that maybe I won't destroy Everything I touch, Maybe I won't make the Things I love implode, Maybe I won't-- But maybe I will, And sometimes that's Enough to make my Eggshell heart crack

[flowerchildinthedesert]

Sometimes I harbor destructive fantasies– broken glass, bleeding palms–I live them in my head behind closed eyes and sealed lips: a thousand private retellings

[flowerchildinthedesert]

i’m fine

an eggshell sanity is still a clean slate-- a porcelain mask is still a  flawless cover-- construction is the  easy part, just promise not to chip away at my “i’m fines” 

[flowerchildinthedesert]

between your lines

pouting, thin, timid, assertive--I  fancied myself the  taster of a thousand stories on a  thousand lips--but ephemeral  relations can breed insecurity can breed omissions of truth--(barely conducive to the baring of  souls)--I suppose everything is temporary and even our lips will be  gates to only so many breaths--so  with the inhalations the universe  grants me and the exhalations my body can muster, let me read between  your lines for our story is the only I wish to forever taste

[flowerchildinthedesert]

blending

satisfaction from the strangest things: your  pocketknife on my  dresser, my necklace on your nightstand, that mixed cd I made a year ago still in your car, that “maybe I should buy two” thought that comes when you aren’t there, the last bottle in  the fridge from that six-pack we drank a week ago-- I find satisfaction in the commingling of lives, of  our lives, and maybe that  isn’t so strange after all