trixclibrarian

In the shower this morning,
I stumbled.
Slippery, my own righteousness.
So uncomfortable to hold,
irritating even, unpleasant.
(no matter how good I get at it)

It leaves me feeling squirmy and cruel,
tinfoil, teeth-gnashing, flinchy.
Unnatural. And way off.  
Like hold a drowning
baby octopus
(of truth)
in my palms,
in the air,
out of its watery sea home
(and I *am* good at it)
The sensation, irresisstible:
slick frantic legs and tentacles,
suckers all over my hands.
I’m winning, he’s dying.

My righteousness, it’s like that.
That icky.
That vain.
Useless vain.
So I let go.
Let it go with my brain.
Like living meditation:
just keep it below the neck. 
What’s next?
The shower like rain.
Rainy consciousness.
Fresh. Down the drain.
All new. Experience grips me.
When I lean over the sink to brush my teeth
there is an expression
of joy in the shape of my collarbone.
I see it, and it shows
in my face.

{this is a broken poem from summer 2011 that I can’t ever figure how to fix, but I can’t seem to let go either so…}