// where we go home //

What I think many don’t understand is that a writer is always turning back toward the writing. That we are either in that space, in that other space which we occupy alone, which we sink into with such reverence and need, or we are trying to get back to it, trying to understand and pull pieces out of the sky which belong to it.

We are an eternal return, an infinite homecoming.

It’s like we have a little invisible drawer where we keep the sacred special secret things and we keep bringing bits back: bits of nature, of emotion, of light, color, taste, texture, sound, impulse, desire, hunger, heartbreak, anger, fear, whatever – everything. Imagery, science, the painting on the wall in a dream – everything.

And we are trying  very earnestly to make sure we don’t miss any of it, not one thing, not one blade of grass or shadow or skinned knee. Not one memory or insight or glimpse of this One divine thing which we don’t know, but we know.

We know and we don’t know, that’s the mystery, that’s why we gather so many things – we don’t know how or why but we know they go together, somehow. Somehow all things go together, they fit, they hinge.

All things, all creatures, all words are turning back into themselves, there is an order threading through the chaos.

We know it on some level which grips at the veins. That the puzzle has no edges but it does have seams and this is where the magic is, in the creases.

Somewhere in the fitting together of the random bits, we find peace, we find meaning.

We do not know where the work will take us, but we know this is our work.

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// nightmare //

I am marching
into chaos but the waves
to me
are blind.
So it will be this in plain sight
this
threat quiet like a
knife,
this kind of sickening of the flesh
shrieking inside the skull;
an insidious growth on the
underside of the
truth.
Every word is tasteless,
is fractured, is bruised.
We are not rich anymore.
This rage with no where to go –
its claws sunk deep in the ribs
of the world crashing
in upon itself and we
are letting it bleed from our hands
and our eyes
and our mouths
and our gums.
What happened
HERE.
What nightmares had we been
weaving in our
terrible
sleep.

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// into the dark //

The future has always been dark, angel.
Always unknown and unknowable.
The future is dark that you may remember
to light your fires, to keep them burning,
to stay close
for warmth.
Flare up in the brilliant fires of love,
the luminous fires of hope,
the fires of light
in the caverns of our darkest places.
Inside the human heart it is dark, supple, strong,
wet, flexing, pulsing and alive.
The future has always been dark, beloved.
Dark that we may adjust our eyes
to move out across uncertain terrain,
dark that we may heighten
our other senses:
that of hearing, to listen intently
for what, we may not yet know
but listen, listen, listen, still;,
that of feeling
with hands, feet, skin, breath,
instinct. Memory.
Dark
that we may be guided
by the glow of inner wisdom,
that we may light candles
and explore halls we’ve not yet tried
to navigate, but will need to
to find our way
or to make a new one.
Dark that we may be the burning lights
and be seen.

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// seasons //

Paper tissue snow
collects like crystals dusted on trees.
The distant hands of an astral clock,
tapping the sap veins of porcelain ice,
will hold together gray skies.
A life lost is coming in close
as the printed steps you once made
toward me
are falling softly
behind.
My arms are blue rivers
spread by the moon
wide apart,
as the silence buds,
blooms,
dies in quiet.
If only just now, our bodies buried
long inside,
inhale deeply the lungs
of the turning dark
of seasons.
Winter fires, blind,
my tongue the curl of cold smoke
suckles the flesh of a gliding frost,
night winds licking
on the tender wrist
of another
time.

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spine of the soul

Hours
like little red threads
of freedom
had been stolen from me,
pulled, taken, slid out subtly, slowly
from underneath my skin.
I let them.
I believed them because
I did not yet understand what I had, the patterns,
the texture of the wisdom born inside of me,
generations of the rough and the mild,
the way they must press against each other,
dissimilar grains of similar sand.
I did not yet understand that to write is to grow
the spine of the soul
as it was meant to grow
in all directions
upward, like an ever widening intricate tree,
the wild, tangled reach of expression,
toward the sky
with countless
arms, branches, throats.
To write is to discover the peace and brutality, the light and
darkness of who we are,
to begin to weave those little threads into what might have been;
into what may be yet to come.
Stitching: word into word, self into self, we to ourselves,
we
to each other,
lush impossible patterns.
Writing recovers those stolen hours.
The pen hands the freedom
back to me.

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// pieces of me //

I was so very alone
and it was okay
because
I knew it.
I could finally hear
the space between the breathing,
it had been the gaps which I had missed
so terribly.
In solitude, I am fed by invisible hands,
I am nourished.
I am touched thoroughly by the sweet sombre soak of
the way life falls
so gently
back upon itself, shadows content
to collect
their silent places
in the dark.

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// shape shifter //

It’s about the time of day when the curtains seem to move,
the heavenly eyes of an alien silence watch tenderly as I undress.
The way you’re about to touch me won’t remember the way it was, we don’t talk anymore, just light matches and feed each other fire
until the end of time comes sliding down these afternoon walls.
I miss you even when you’re still here and you’re on the biting heels of leaving and I can never stop walking home with cigarettes and mantras burning holes in my mouth.
When I sleep I try to memorize the stars just in case the world turns upside down because I forgot to look after her,
and I need to recall how to travel alone.
As my hair comes undone all around you, my fingers are sifting ash like rain and I’m searching my tears for clouds.
How is it we can crave such love, when love tells me she’s already here.

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// other //

A stranger’s heart
holds my
hands,
blood of the innocent but I
do not recognize
myself.
This pale body, the doorframe to my
vanishing.
My silhouette a vacant passage,
a dark image emerging
behind an image,
the eyes a silent search
for something hostile
not yet
breathing.

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