Return to Ragdoll

A note slipped into
the skirt pocket of
a daisy printed dress,
from the feathered clutch
of a purple finch
scribbled this:

My darling Ragdoll,
I should tell you
that omission of truth
is a lie.
You omit
thus, you lie.
I have seen you there,
knees bent into your breast
beneath my weeping tree with raindrops
in your eyes.
You jab broken branches
into the mud around the folds
of your yellow dress and ask worms for answers.
Yet they do not speak.
And you do believe in the thing you dare not say.
And i wont say it because it it hurts you to
hear.
You think it wont be echoed.
you are a pretty ragdoll, there in the grass with your heart
your passion, and pride.
But you must know Little Flower
that the world you love will not love you the way you'd like.
Lean sweet against the cool bark of my willow
and listen to me sing,
I will hold and adore you,
when you turn yourself from the world.
It's safe here raggedy ragdoll,
let yourself burn out to fly.
i will not stop you
only catch you.Please borrow my feathers
to dust ash from your brow when you are through.
And take care to watch the daffodils unfurl
they will catch your rain.

A Plague

Drop it into a drink
of warm water
and it bends easily.
Willow branches become
wreathes
like me, like us.
So easy to move and
sickly, even easier to mold.

When did I become so limp
and easy to tie into knots?
I do not like this acceptance.
I was so accustomed to resisting.

I have lost a fight
and dare not believe.
Not in things that can’t be proven
because all too often
wishes and passions
have been snuffed out
like the hot cherry of a
pipe loaded with vanilla tobacco

Dreams, aspirations,
all fleeting enjoyments
that end when non-believers
tap the bowl
onto rocks or benches
and leave a tiny pile of ash
where love can’t grow.
How do we, when barely burning
keep a fire warm and stoked
when the world around us is wet
with rain
and logic
and apathy.

It is hard to be a simmering wick
when caught in the monsoons
of a dying society
where mystery doesn’t exist
and magic is unacceptable.
How do we burn?
and how do we keep the fires
able to fly if dark windows have become
preferable to ones lit by candles?

How do we, the artist
the dreamer
the passions
survive in a dead world
that is focused on what is just
or what is feasible,
what is desirable,
or what is needed?
We want the simplest of things.
To feel a part of something
to feel humbled
to feel needed
to feel loved.
to feel.

We live in the wrong world.
Because the things we need
are deemed unnecessary.
We need passion, we need dreams,
and we need words.
But words are just words
to a world that doesn’t see them as more.

travel writing

Travel Writing
I woke up from sleep with drool on my cheek and patterned red lines across my face from the backpack I was using as a pillow. A steel toe kicked the sole of my uggs. I was startled to see a man in a uniform standing over me. He asked me for identification. It was five or so in the morning and I was sound asleep on the cold tile floor of the Minneapolis bus station. I was in utter disarray. I had been traveling for twenty hours. My hair: a raspberry bush. My scent: unpleasant. I fumbled in my pocket for my driver’s liscense. I was confused and irritated. I had been dreaming and this strange man woke me up from the first good sleep I had had in days. His calloused fingers brushed my hand when he handed me my ID. He looked at my face and back to the plastic card. We were utterly scrutinized. Without further interrogation he let me fall back to dreams. I didn’t fight his silence and quickly fell back asleep.
The second alarm was more startling. A voice boomed, and asked me for my driversliscense. I woke to another uniform. This time it was a police officer instead of security gaurd. I was pissed. I had just fallen back to sleep and my next bus didn’t leave for another 3 hours.
“Yes.” I said flatly.
I asked why I had been rousted. There was no sign saying “stay off the tile”. There was no indication that sleepy travelers did not belong on this patch of cold tile.
“I apologize miss. You match the description of a runaway.”
Just to clarify I asked if it was alright if I slept there. I was offended that I matched the description of a runaway 16 year old. Did I really look like a pissed off teenager? I certainly felt like one.
The night before, I had a four hour layover in Milwaukee at 12 in the morning. I was perplexed at how many people were in this station, and the variety. Traveling out of Bemidji, I was excited to remember the beautiful faces of urban humanity. I was out of place in my wool skull cap and ugg boots. I liked it but was uncomfortable. I was going to meet an old friend for appetizers and a beer during this interim. It was strange to see him. His body was still lanky, his hair a little longer and face a little thinner. He was still beautiful, but utterly off limits. Not only was he my best friend’s ex, he also had developed a few too many rockstar habits for me to be remotely interested in anything other than his washboard abs and ability to write music. We were not the same. Our visit was alien. So many times we had sat on the beach in Fish Creek and watched the sun go down and stars come out. So many times, I had braided his curls with my best friends as we dug our toes into the sand. So many times we drank too much beer and ended up naked running through the snow. Why was it so different now? I blame the place.
We walked back from a sports bar with my giant backpack strapped to my body. I struggled with it. I felt like a hermit crab that had over estimated its ability. He sat with me for a few minutes. It was good to see him, and there was a level of intimacy that slowly was remembered. I did love him. As a brother. As a companion from my past. We had shared so many experiences. Blunts. Booze. Coffee. Northern Lights. Laughs. A few tears.
Sitting with him was a welcomed relief from the place I had found myself before he arrived. I had been sitting in a chair with a voluptuous southern woman in front of me. A Tibetan Monk in orange garb to my right and a crack head to my left that kept asking me for money. This was my first experience with Greyhound travel. It is exciting every time.
This trip, like many was to visit my grandmother on lake Michigan.

Mantics

And I didn't think
you'd get my tears.
I thought
I was tougher than that.
But its pretty clear
that I'm affected.

A silly try
to believe your roses.
boys like you
can't see the
beauty in women
like me.

too much to hold
on too
too many crystal
glasses to cradle
and boys
like you cant juggle.

looking for sparks
finding unending lies
I have fallen in love
with shadows of men

not heart broken,
it's rubber
but it's cracked
not because of you,
but because all of you

"A storyteller, Anne Dunn, once said that a person dies three times. The first death is when the body dies. The second death occurs when the physical body turns to dust. The final death is when no one talks about the person anymore."

i read the above section from a paper i was editing by a native american author for a womens anthology. how pertainant it is. that i speak of these people as to keep them alive.

bursting Marrow

Canto, canto
it puts the tempo
lighter in the step.
steel strums
on burnt frets
make calloused
fingers feel...
you tickle the bones beneath
pretty porceline...
what do they say
when you put your ear to
my breast....?
is that rhythm drums
or bursting marrow?
I'll tell you
since you cannot know me
mortar has sealed you out
like tree sap seals out ants
from honey hives.
you are not welcome too far in...
Perhaps in the backdrop
is some faint march
pounding rhythms of unwon wars..
but that sound
that sound beneath my bones is
bursting marrow...
bursting... not blood
but feathers
those,
those feathers
have kept bones from shattering
into ivory shards
under the pressure of miles
and miles
and miles
of black briney seas
and those
those downy peices
have kept me
whole and
kept me sane
dispite the bludgings
dispite the pain...
and you,
and you
with your curious ears
can hear inside that something
strums louder
when you rest your face against me?
is it the sound of drums waged
against unwinable wars
or is it bones
bursting marrow and feathers?
do you haunt me?
or do you free me?
do you, with your curious fingers
damn me or release me?
Place your head against my ribs
again, touch the bones beneath
that pretty porceline
and tell me what you hear...
you hear nothing
you hear absense
you hear calm
your hear breathing

Introduction

This blog is a method to see my writing process in one place. How I, an undergrad at Bemidji State University am going to piece the many pieces, into patches, into tapestry into something with pages that can be read and that have the ability to shake the reader. My goal is honesty. My goal is to create an utterly, unfiltered, uncensored, and unrestricted passionate and hopefully digestable story that tells not only my story, but paints an image of the people and the places that made it so damn entertaining. This is an attempt, a terrified attempt to throw my words into a face that can literally stare right back at me. Here it goes...