From a collection of small moments
I am emerging.

They knit together in a messy form,
always growing,
moving into and out of clear images.
new moments covering the old
passing pictures in the garbage pile.

I live in these transitions,
I’ve been here a long time,
and I am beginning to find ease.

The “I don’t knows” that grow rampant on this turf,
I have loved them and hated them, cared for them and rejected them.
But they are consistent and they are here and we are companions,
for life.

I am from a quarter of an acre,
nine foot ceilings, oak floors, and picture rails
Brass knobs growing from the doors.

I did a lot of becoming before the brass sprouted,
I stuck my finger through the small handle hole, hugging the base of my index finger. Hooking to pull shut or open,
developing a distinct relationship with the door.
Easy to push from one-side but seemingly stuck from another.
I felt entire insecurity and full understanding.

The state of the door was always unfinished, open-ended, peer-through-able.
And I could remember the days,
when the knob was made of soft, rounded white oak
Warm to the touch,
warm to hold for longer than necessary.
I could feel what had been, and I saw what was, and I imagined what could be.

At my house we built and smothered fires.
Cigarettes, and burning wood, and burning walls
A warm house.
I am from rebuild, remake, regrow.
from old studs.
We were undercover,
American Spirits

And for a time, all we had left was our too fat, too thin, low blood pressure, high cholesterol
And here I looked down
at the home which could walk around with me
And I began to walk around with it

One moment, someone showed me the lens
that seemed to be big enough for my eyes, my body.
My eyes which see from the sidewalk’s cracked tributaries to the basin that collects the water for this entire river.
My body which reached up into space and dug down in the earth, ready.
And he made me think that I could publish a method for
“feeling what had been, and seeing what was, and imagining what could be.”

Every morning I scooped up the charred pieces, composed of tapes, and baby dolls, and puzzles
Rubbing the ashes onto my face, my breasts, and my knees.
which I came to like and watch be loved.
I am leaking, slowly.
The sick self
of my insides.
the ones that hate and hurt
And I am reminded of my home in transition,
as I am looking to replace this lost material

Here, I’m working toward well-filed chaos, mis-managed elegance
Standing sturdy,
Below this door frame,
which is neither in nor out,
I can step either way,
into root or shoot
Here,  I luxuriate in the struggle between matched
and mis-matched mugs

So take this advice..
Go looking.
Take off your shoes and run. Run fast and slow, but be sure to stop. For the sake of sensation.
Find a warm doorframe to match the warm handle,
To fill with more heat from your body,
From your body and other bodies,
From bodies shrieking in ecstasy.
the container for the contents of your Big Self.