// messenger //

Your lips part silently
around words I cannot hear.
Muted, but calling to me
just the same
and persistent.

Your face the promise
I’ve been waiting for,
a message behind the walls,
how the beautiful take long baths
in the
crumbling.
Please tell me what
I came here for.
What the syllables
are.

What is this developing distance
between moving and
standing
still.
The words have stopped
falling from your mouth.

“Patience.”

Time is held by the hands,
held in your hands, sliding
through vanishing palms.

And I am waiting.
I will wait with all the world
for the tremble of
a single word
from you.

.

.

// artistry //

“I was born with an enormous need for affection,

and a terrible need to give it.”

~ Audrey Hepburn

I have never melted into the folds of a truth so deeply as I did when I first heard this quote. It is so strong in its vulnerability. We are only as rich as we are willing to own these things about ourselves, our need for intimacy, our need to find little flecks of our own souls in other people.

Our need for togetherness, for kindness, for seeing one another.

These are very tumultuous times we are living in, they can feel vicious, dark, lonely, desperate. But if I could beg of you just one thing, it would be that you do not abandon your sacred craving to give and receive affection from other human creatures.

Affection, affection, affection. Compassion, compassion, compassion.

This is who we are. This is true artistry.

This is where we belong, in the gentle hands of one another.

Love.

.

.

 

// patience //

Perhaps the darkness
will learn to give way,
in time,
to slender suggestions
of light.
In a dust blue
shadow room
somewhere across the world
the first sound is heard
by the empty air,
so very few
believe.
And in the streets below
this broken window
soul,
nothing passes
nothing flows.

.

.

what will you do?

Hush, my angel,
in the quiet bend of the
wrist, this
is my most tender
undress;
this is the way I slip
inside the gap between the
thighs of the birth
of my resplendent heaven
through the fires of an ancient hell, this
is the way I
open up.
What will you do with
the coming true
of us?

.

.

beautiful light, can you hear me?

Bare feet below me, thrust of chalk white sky
stalking above and I
see myself
flesh to the press of candle glow
eyes,
through the window
the rain is swallowing tears
long dry, returned.

Sorrow curls his fragile spine
inside the hands of freedom,
an ocean of ghost bodies walking
side by side forever.
There are new worlds inverted,
refracted and coming into view –
palm touches palm, cheek to sternum
they bloom, flower, and
disintegrate.

My life is a glass face:
a curious gaze without
and within.
Beautiful light, beautiful light
brave mouth opening the dark,
can you hear me?

.

.

“The great courage is still to gaze as squarely at the light as at death.” ~ Albert Camus

.

.

// her //

I could have been there
a statue standing
in her marble skin,
the swan spun neck and the lines
of the collarbone
thin as ice.

~

My hips an eclipse
of white crushed velvet
snow sky,
the nectar in the clouds which
grace and skim the moon,
so overcast
so eager
so hungry for affection
was I.

.

.

.

.

// 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.

.

.

.

.

// 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.

.

.

.

.

// 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.

.

.

.

.

// 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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