Lions, And Tigers, And Bears


And poetry.

Oh my.

I just received a really inspiring piece of e-mail from a friend I made standing in line at the Chapel piece by Mike Garlington out on playa this recent past Burning Man.

We were waiting to get into the chapel and the dust was blowing and the noise was high and the excitement to see the piece was big.

I gave my poem to a man standing in line with his daughter.

It was their virgin burn and it was sweet to make a connection in the moment, to share my art with another person.

I have had this poem memorized for over a decade and it never fails to surprise me how much people connect with it.

“I realized why I love listening to you,” he said in the dark of the RV, the cold air pressing in, drawing ourselves tighter into the embrace, “I love listening to you tell stories because I love the sound of your voice.”  He nuzzled the back of my neck and squeezed my breast, growled low in his throat, “tell me another story.”

I complied.

I don’t usually have to be asked twice to talk.

I have stories.

I do.

I have poems too and it’s been a sweetness to be approached for my poems.

The man in question found me on facebook and gmail and has reached out to me since he returned from the burn, reached out to say he was honored to have made the connection with me and also to ask for a copy of the poem.

And tonight I got home to another e-mail asking me to collaborate on a piece for the Burning Man ARTumnal.

The gentleman is a photographer and will be donating pieces to the art auction and asked if I would write poems using the 10 Principles of Burning Man as a jumping off place for the poems.

I am awed and flattered.



I am so fucking busy.


I think I’m going to say yes.

The ARTumnal is not until November and I could write 10 poems by then.

In fact, it might be a great practice for me, I haven’t written that much poetry in a while, my main focus has been this blog, for good or bad, and I have a hankering to say yes.

Yes, why not, why not put something else on the plate.

I could write ten sonnets on the ten principles.

I could write one long rambling piece.

But I think ten poems on the principles that are shorter make more sense.

I like sonnets anyhow and what with the lack of analog work in the blinky blinky that is so Burning Man, it might be nice to offer something by way of writing as a construct and art that is woefully underrepresented there.

Although there was a grand typewriter out on playa that one could write missives on, I was unable to leave my poetic footprint there as the young woman on some sort of hallucinogen or other, was adamant about standing on the “s” key and not moving off the keyboard.

I acquiesced to her trip and made my way out onto the playa.

But when I think of some of the big moments in my burn, they were always the small, intimate pieces that happened between me and one person and the connection made there.

The night I gave this new friend the poem.

The same night I got caught up reciting it for another man, a man who I had a soulful interaction with that rocked me while I was reciting the piece, in just that moment, under the lights of the Midway around the Man, we had a deep and profound connection.

One so profound that I was a tremble doing the poem, but reached in there anyhow and pulled it all out.

“You do know that you risk people falling in love with you when you do that?” He asked me at the foot of the Storied Haven piece.  A gigantic shoe that you could access from the bottom door which led into a small foyer with a winged back chair and a bunch of books in the book shelf that were exquisite pieces of art, panoramas, lighted shores and stories, the absolute disappearance of my self into an experience, it might have been one of the most amazing art pieces i have seen period, let alone this Burning Man.

I had just recited him my poem.

That means I recited it four times at the event, which is unusual for me.

But there it is.

The line to get into the piece moved excruciatingly slow because there was so much to look at inside of it and the cargo was so beautiful and precious they only let in a few people, two, three at max, at the same time.

I offered a fairy tale or a poem to the gentleman manning the door.

I blushed when he offered the compliment.

I had never thought of it like that.

Allowing someone to fall in love with me for my words, for the heart-felt stirrings and strivings behind them.

I like my voice, I won’t lie, and I won’t be facetious, I have a nice voice.

But to know that I can be a better artist in a way for having not only written the words but having voiced them too, that is powerful, there is power there.

I haven’t done spoken word in a long time, here, there, at the retreat for school I did a few pieces, in Paris at Le Chat Noir in the Belleville district, but not really anything where I have gotten up on stage and let the voice roll out.

That might be something to look into.

In what time?

I don’t know.

But I do know that I am an artist and I take great pleasure in that, even if it is analog.

Even if it is old.

There is beauty there.

The craft of the words and the thoughtful placing of rhymes and rhythms, means a lot to me.

I don’t have to question why.

I don’t have to justify.

I can just know that there is a singing there and that I need to continue to answer the call and response of my own muse.

And if you want me to write you some poems.

Why not?

I am honored to be asked.

Thank you for letting me be of service.

Thank you for letting me be an artist.

I am pleased beyond these meager words.

I am.


I say yes.

Yes please.


Yes, thank you, too.

Thank you for seeing me as a poet.

That means the world.

It really does.

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