how i used to move

I remember how I used to move:

I’d let the beat              seep into my bones and fire

my frame

head nodding to the bass

knees knocking right on pace

hips like a compass

I was a puppet

no alcohol needed              cause

tequila tastes like high school.

I remember how I used to move:

gettin a little runout               made my heart beat

and push sprit through my arteries

only thing I seeked, what it was all for

high above a bolt                like what

pulling hard moves with air

under my feet

widened my eyes and got me high

no weed needed                           cause

that shit tastes like college.

I remember how I used to move:

move,                   move,                     move,

like a nomad, happily wandering

van life


under my pillow

soothed my mind as “wanna go to wyoming?” and points on an old map

moved my feet

no need for you to approve            cause

permission tastes like 2012 and bad decisions.

I remember how I used to move:

unrolled my red yoga mat, after two breaths I’d be like

yeah that’s my psoas

and it’s as sore as…

sweat or tears? not sure, didn’t care about that or perfect


just breath, and just, can I say it? God,

yeah I just kicked it with God–

i’d be like oh hey homes, and he’d be like, I’ve got you girl,

and sometimes he was a girl, she’d hold me and call me

sweet Georgie

no begging needed                cause

disconnect tastes like artificial sweetener.

I remember how I used to move:

wrote like the pen in my hand was an IV, blood spilling onto page

straight from my heart,                  no, deeper,

my core, cobwebs cleared out with every word

every last letter clear as songs from the choir

bouncing off the paper, pulsing with life and bleeding

into each other like water color

my journal like a net that caught my thoughts,            held them

with fragile palms and wide, compassionate eyes

no pep talks needed,                    cause

fear tastes too much like right now


I sure as hell I remember how I used to move,

no remembering needed                          cause

nostalgia tastes like a poem about how I used to move.



Do you know about grapefruit?

Do you know what it’s like to press your thumb into its tender skin, to peel back its flesh as the juice runs into the creases of your wrist? Do you know about its maroon muscles, how they pull away from each other to form the most perfect two-bite sections?

We stand at the base of Levitation 29. Our shirts are strung up on a yucca, soaked entirely with sweat. A calm breeze cools the skin of my lower back and moves our tank tops. The sun shines with desert strength.

I look up at the route. A beautiful line of weakness that cuts through the sandstone’s coppery face like an artery. We’re already high in the canyon. I try to think of a route more perfect looking, and at the moment nothing comes to mind.

I want to be nowhere else but where I am right now.

The canyon is narrow. Its opposing wall seems closer than I’m sure it is. From here, the wash looks like a small vein that runs through the canyon’s feet.

My heart quiets after pumping bright blood for me to hike with for the past hour and a half. I sip in the desert air through my nose, I fill my lungs to their brim and empty them slowly. I take a bite of the grapefruit.

Oh my God. Its juice is so sweet I could cry. My molars release its nectar and it pools on my tongue. Oh. My. God. How? How does something this wonderful exist! How is it so sweet? How is it in my hand right now? How can it possibly taste this perfect! How? God. It is too good to be true. All of this is. How did I get to be right here, right now?

I look at Natalie, she is smiling with all her teeth. “This is amazing,” she says.

The hairs on my arm stand up like the spines of a cactus. I just can’t believe it all. It’s all just too good.

I wonder about this feeling.

I wonder, because nothing has happened that should cause me this ecstasy. I didn’t win the lottery, I didn’t receive any good news, find a place to live, or run into Peter Croft. In fact, I’m pretty broke, things are confusing, I missed Peter Croft by just an hour, and I’ve still gotta do my taxes.

Nope. It doesn’t work like that. If I could write one thing, it would be something about how important it is that you’re happy. That’s what will save this world. It’s not selfish, god, can we please all get over that? Please fight every day to be happy. I don’t mean happy like smiling wide and jumping around with joy, but I mean the ability to enjoy yourself if even for a minute a day, and to know about the fleeting nature of this one wild life. They’ll tell you that stuff like noise canceling headphones and having a perfect husband and not having wrinkles is what matters. Don’t fucking buy it. All of those external things are so incredibly meaningless compared to the love that is everywhere and exists the very second you open your eyes to it, compared to what’s in the deepest part of your maroon heart, compared to grapefruit.