The Inner and Outer Worlds

Because I do not have time to write, Because I wake up late, Because I need some warm coffee in the morning, Because I digested food strangely and the windows are open And I can’t turn the heat on because I’m airing out my room- Because all these beautiful books are piling up but I have little time Between work and social engagements and text messages Getting warm—pressing up against my lover’s body to relax before The dreamlessness of sleep comes— Because my hands are dry so I apply lotion that belonged to my friend’s ex boyfriend, a special gift to him from Paris that she carried home with love and confusion All the way home on the plane. Because net neutrality. Because 2017 is hopefully the last dying breath of the power struggle to hold onto the way things once were the lands and the rights that were stolen the assaults that were once the norm. Because of the internet, because of all the calls I always Have on my list to make to my mother. Because marriage, because love, commitment, Investing in someone forever. Because of the yoga and rock climbing I long to do but haven’t done for months Because of the laundry, the chores I’ve put off, the Christmas cards in envelopes Waiting to be mailed. Because of the way my lower back aches, because of the construction at work, All the words that go misunderstood. Because of the social media photos That have me wondering about other people’s lives more Than seeing them on the street does. Because of all the months I have not gone on stage out of fear. Because of the moments I have survived this year. Because of the moments I carve out of my days to relax. To breathe. To take in the scenery because one day we will leave this place, We will continue our journey on and on. Because of the time I take for myself. Because of the beauty. Because the music, the library books, the walks by the water. Because of his love.

In the evening you are heavy, breathing intense, turbulent thoughts left again to their own devices. In the morning you are soft, you are sweet. You are so in love with me. You never lose me, but somehow in the morning You find me again. Thoughts have their places Breathing is intentional. Another day finds us Full of possibility and flowering fruit. At night I am your harbor In the morning I am your wife. I will always make it easy for you to find me again when day breaks and you’ve rested when the sunlight is filling our eyes with what could and what will be.

"Yes. It is possible to be lonely With someone right there next to you. Don't ever let anyone tell you it isn't."

It's Monday morning and I want to be Almost anywhere but here. Last night the notion of event costs and Bills and car maintenance drove me To the brink of madness. Adult life was clawing its way up my legs. I've always had the luxury of running From routine-- Adverse to it like some plague. Some illness. I need it to sustain me now And I have a tough time of reconciling. I want to use all the words in my head That keep getting stuck in mouth; In my hands. I hear familiar sounds, the garbage truck The ticketing car, the distant moans Of the homeless, waking into madness. The city keeps swallowing all of us up daily And we are collectively still looking For meaning. I self soothe with coffee. I sit in my car writing and am almost late For work. I hope the word "work" will mean Something more beautiful for me one day. Something sustainable. Something truthful. Daily life is a quiet beauty, A delicate madness. I am still learning How to make peace with it.

I am simply too tired for writing Yet words are begging for a way to escape from my fingers. Hoping to be released somehow from some endless stream. I cannot communicate with him tonight. All of our words get stuck and we are too worried and rife with exhaustion to find answers. We energize each other But adult life sucks our bones dry, our marrow stiff with routine of daily life and weeks that will turn into years. My phone suddenly won't work, my computer, my eyes barely make sense now. I can't find space in the parentheses of my sentences but I can't stop looking for meaning. Our searching is endless.

I find a restless night without you glancing at the white space on your side of the bed. We drifted into these spaces together so easily. Mine and yours. As if knowing someday this would come. Just like the first night I fell for you, My sentences tumbling so easily out of my mouth. My unspeakable truths, stunted and starving for months Finding a sudden refuge within your ears. I found home with you then— I just didn’t know it yet. It struck me the way fate takes all of us— Slowly then all at once, the way we collided Quietly into each other. I knew I had to fall into you. That I couldn’t give you up for anything That you were worth savoring, having. Holding onto. I want to write a poem about our engagement but my words are suddenly clumsy Because I always knew I would become your wife— No amount of poetry can better describe that truth. I fail to describe what I feel for you, so I will tell the world I am your fiance until I can say I am your wife. That your love has done for me What no one and nothing else has. That a yes from me is always an inevitable moment Of honesty.

Today I sat between jobs outside the small pizza joint By UC Berkeley campus greedily devouring my extra large slice. Artichokes, white sauce, basil. Grease and cheese dripped luxuriously Down my chin and down onto the plate. The passersby eyed me warily like you might Someone walking down the street with no pants on- Unpredictable and pitying. Cheese was church to me. No one else existed. I borrowed an audio book from the libary last night by Patti Smith. “The M Train” I had loose plans drifting in my head For writing a book about my obsession With coffee shops and writing Maybe throw in a bit of my obsession with France But she’s already written it. The lines drift in and out of my conciousness Before I’ve had a chance to chew on them Before they’ve begun to masticate And savor on my tongue. Patti Smith began a love affair With black coffee romanticizing cafes in cities From the Beatnik era. She used to live near one of Kerouac’s favorites. So I pour a bit of whiskey and try to channel The greats. I listen to the honking of cars outside My window, of the traffic on the interstate See the sun set on the distant buildings of Oakland— Grasping for the soul I constantly fear losing To the mundane.

My mother taught me  That if you mindlessly eat  Your digestion will be poor.  So I tell my lover to give thanks To the farmers who grew the vegetables  We consume-- To the woman who loves him  Who prepares his meals How even though I experienced  A (mostly) crappy day,  I can think of a thousand things I love  That make me want to live This life I have. I write less than I used to  Yet I have more  I want to express:  So much more.  I want to write about the gun violence Outside our apartment walls. The loneliness, despair and chaos. All of the country is polarizing Creating a danger that is fresh To this generation of eyes.

To avoid small conversations about small topics I retreat to a corner of the house filled with creative Energy, creative objects radiating from wall to wall. I sit on a wicker couch surrounded by seashells, Half finished paintings, Cassette tapes, CDs, branches of wood, pinecones And various other found objects. I am at home again a little. At dinner, I didn’t recognize myself. I was removed from a conversation with my lover As I relived a moment from the past. This hasn’t happened in what feels like years. I try to examine what has really taken place. I cannot exist at times in tandem with my authentic self, So I learn to hide. It was always physically for so many years And now I can do it in entire conversations. I can confess nothing of substance and it’s so easy. It used to not be this easy. I used to have to take a switchblade to my shallow words Slicing open the stomachs of my language, my gestures, My shrugs and quiet, pacing footsteps. Avoidant eye contact.