New York Morning

6:30 rising while New York is still half sleeping grey.
Roll out the green yoga mat, yawning, stretching,
pulling hair out of face with the elastic that's always
on my wrist.
We wake up together, New York and I.
A pint glass of water first, and apple slices
thrown into a pot with cinnamon, turmeric,
cloves and ginger.
They simmer while we resume stretching.
Inhale, arms over head, spine long, stomach taut.
Exhale, collapsing into foward bend, head on knees, hands on floor.
Downward dog, plank, upward dog and warrior pose.
Each pose slow and breathing deep. Sivasana.
The smell of stewed apples is filling the living room now.
Second pint of water and the Bible from the shelf.
Proverb of the day.
Through desire
a man, having separated himself,
seeks all wisdom.
The apples are almost done.
Eyes closed,
chest rising with the morning.
New York sits with me,
grey haze giving way
to lucid blue.
We take the silent morning
in together,
deep
as we can.

Woman
in you there is no fault

Bruised lips and hips
tattoed wrists and unmet
lists for the future

It was good to hear you laughing

Strong fierceness of a lion
you are the reason
that I came

Head hanging on
long hair streaming
tears down beaten trails

You are all fair
there is no spot in you

Mother
lover
wife
survivor

My hope is met in the hands
of your hungry children
fed with every thing
you've got

You are a woman
and I will wash your feet
with my tears

Hands up for blizzards
us small wizards
whirring in the white
black branches heavy
faces all warm from our breath
and our scarves are tied tight
feet heavy stomping
bodies like snowmen
we fall and we roll
smoke briar pipes and we puff
the death of fall is all dazzling
and white
silent violence of wind
and confetti all over
we sing rose colored steam
and sleep bears in our caves

This is me learning to twitter.

http://twitter.com/OJandRooftops
http://twitter.com/amyleighcutler

Don't judge me. I do what I want.

Funny how words pile up and make mountains behind you
Now I'm climbing high through dates and old words
that read like they were written yesterday.
Editing is a time traveler's task
and I'm back in last year, and the year before that.
Another one is coming. Feel the plates shifting
water rising.
All this will be covered in eyes and one day
my fingers will stay silent.

who walks in with fists unclenched and eyes glazed over
who is wrapped in wire metal and barbed
who moves with fire water and air and is plowed over by earth

grounded by those years that came and went
and come back up broken glass and battery acid
tearing the stomach
eyes tearing from the stench

held onto in smallness
and smaller still
and still

what is a heart and how long are we here
what keeps us together like fish hooks in our stomachs
wobbly steps and years of watching
who were we to keep what was never ours

Body heavy with the hopes and hauntings of the world around me,
hips move slow.

I rise, stretch out this long limber spine,
and walk into the kitchen

dripping with
loves
fears
insecurities
that are not mine.
My body is porous
as a sponge from the sea,
eyes are chalices filled with
hope,
wonder,
freedom;
a darkness
that is mine.
Overflowing.
My head is anointed,
generous shining palms reaching
straight through the sky.
I have held onto nothing;
and I've never gone hungry.
I do not own
the butterflies in my cage of ribs,
the music in my tired feet,
the bells that fall from my mouth when I laugh.
This body is a vessel
always filled with
the water around me,
the ground beneath me,
pressed into by the sky above.

I open my cabinets,
empty.

Bank account
empty.

Body full eyes overflowing feet moving lips parted taking in with palms stretched upwards this city these streets these faces these longings these strangers fill me with familiar questions

I close the cabinets and settle into Saturday.

Another day
I do not own.
Body heavy
heart with wings
all things borrowed
all things borrowed.