La Que Sabe

The snail without a shell
the Mother Tree
for shelter.

There, she warms his belly,
him: nothing’s lost

Broken! Vanquished! Vanished!
he says,
I have no home,
just weather!


your body bears the scars
to let
your mind return

to itself.



One night I thought to myself: if I write a verse on the wall in eyeliner, I’ll be committed to my art and will finally view myself as a serious poet. I woke up the next morning facing this violation of my tenancy agreement: “Vandals will be confronted with a decent dent in their deposit repayment,” it warned. I also had a touch of hangover.

I’m not sure how much this little episode taught me about poetry or being a poet or trying to christen oneself a poet, but I did learn that Wilkinson sells excellent cheap brilliant white paint that isn’t too fumey to sleep next to as it dries.

I got my full deposit back – that’s the real poetry.


I want to be at one
with trees
and suns
and fantasies.

It is no fantasy
to want
what I
was given to.

I see their forms undone:
all that
kept me
from harmony/

kept me in disarray.
in an ocean?

You see,

shoes blind my heels and soles
from knowing.

The walls that make me sick
= enclosures.

Screens further percolate
my third eye.


bare feet sense what keeps me

Earth makes me well again.
It’s outside.

The substance is not lost –
regain it.

Let us loose on ourselves now.
Let our feet stamp the found sound,

weighing heavy on the ground
like the Torah on a crown:

There was not form before there was one.
There is no form until there is one.




‘When we refuse to entertain the predator, its strength is extracted and it is unable to act without us. We, in essence, drive it down into the layer of the psyche where all creation is as yet unformed, and let it bubble in that etheric soup till we can find a form, a better form for it to fill. When the predator’s psychic energum is rendered, it is formable to some other purpose. We are creators then; the raw substance reduced down becomes then the stuff of our own creation.’ – Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run With the Wolves