What is the Action?

When I first moved out to live in a new city for my studies, I slowly learned to become independent. The new living situation made me more confident in dealing with new challenges and took away my…

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Becoming Barton Creek

You asked me to lay still, and observe
the darkness behind my eyelids
to watch it dance, unattached,
a shadow boxer of myself,
myself unshaped amorphous liquid,
eternal knowing trapped
within the impermeable
inner-lining of this human bag.

I used to dream myself
into a mountain here,
regal and purple and distant
for as long as I can remember
slipping out of my skin
and looking down
on frosted pines from lofty
understanding towards a naive
imagining sketched in dust
because I knew nothing of mountains.

Today, you ask and I feel more humbled,
more stuck, or grounded
on flatter plains. I release myself
straight down, sponged up
drank by porous limestone
relaxed, for the first time,
back into my native skin.

Oh, Texas!
My body that rolls
like thunder across the hill country
once upon a summer flood,
otherwise a sanctuary of fossils,
a history of stone, my iliac
crests on Sculpture Falls,
my weathered skin, jerkied artwork
penned by the sun, signed
In loving memory of the water.

Oh, Texas!
You easy breeze, hell
cooled slightly to moss baked rust
you wide, white scar of drought
cross-stitched Hill of Life
to the bare-bone
earth-chilled Flats.
My greatest truth is buried here,
under fallen leaves:
My bones belong
more to the river stone
than to my body,
but winter doesn’t know it yet.

Oh, Texas!
I mis-remember
my bones are river stone
commemorated under frozen bloodstream.
I forget it matters
to call them by their names,
made in my image
as they are, both
the hopeless quest
of a winter moccasin, and
the seasonal loneliness
of a shoeless sock,
black, frozen,
flattened and preserved
shivering, bitter,
alone each night
by the banks
of a cold hard bed.

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