On What Is #8

I'm sick with a cold, and it feels like I'm a completely different person. Stuck, heavy, inert to the extreme. I wonder if the cold caused these feelings, or if the feelings made me susceptible to the virus.

Boogersnot Girl has a life of her own, a body of goo wiggling about inside my body. Mucking up emotions, heating the furnace, stirring the swamp-soup.

Boogersnot Girl isn't pretty and isn't polite. She sneezes and blows her nose and scratches and farts. Boogersnot Girl isn't interested in sex, doesn't take showers, and chews with her mouth open.

Boogersnot Girl doesn't want to talk to people. She just wants to be a swamp thing made of goo, permanently merged with the covers of my bed.

Is that so hard to understand?

Why do all my poems seem to be about dudes?

This poem is inspired by a vision that I had during a session with sound healer Louise Cloutier, who is also a singer and songwriter, and is awesome. She performs about once a month at Life Force Arts Center, definitely worth checking out if you're in Chicago.

Rock-solid man
I breathe and melt
feeling your presence across the desert sands as you stumble blindly,
called to me by an unknown power.

I know you won't find me, not any time soon. Yet I will not move toward you.

I am here, standing on a sand dune as the wind plays with my hair and skirt. I am here, in deep communion with my Creator.

When you find me, touch me gently. If your sight returns, I will be with you.