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?

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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?

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

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// 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.

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// 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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// cringe and cages //

 

All they ever thought I wanted was to be myself but I’m only myself so often. The selves, I sort through them with expectant, humble, delicate hands and wonder: which face is it you wish me to pull out and put on for you?

In the place where we came from, out of the resurrection of a thousand suns, I can slip inside your movements before you make them, as you thread your fingers through my plush and thickening mouth, one by clever deliberate one. Another of the selves kept quiet: I stand off in the fog of the distance timing my heartbeat to your hesitant receding; this is how they taught us to be available and remain untouched.

The voices of those who want in will not leave, they reverberate inside of me, they are clamor, I am a skeleton of distraction unto myself, a splitting of the mind of my infinite selves. I search the expansive black for an entrance, an exit, a hallway into freedom from these exhausting dreams.

My own heaviness wears thin within the marrow of the bones, the crushing suffocation of my own voice.

And it is my voice I need to return to somehow.

The only solace is lush and secret solitude. Letting go gradually, gradually, all this light is chaos, all this sound is the nectar of a synthetic womb, all these hungry gaping mouths are a world gnashing in constant against a reluctant house of drawn windows, this hurts me, too. It makes me into someone who needs the need and this is the fevered spiral death of all creative things: obsession.

The animal in me is headlights flashing across endless muddy fields, I crave the energy of the smooth spinning earth, to bury my tremors in the sweet cool of dark forests and replenish my veins. The flow of all creation is to pour forth from an abundance, a ripeness, an overflow, to be bitten, sucked, devoured by the material design of the fabric of the cells I carry, the stimulating vibrations of the seeker; the tear-laced dressings of melancholy desire.

I am at odds with the corruption they bottle and rupture me with, this skin, this skin, they have imprisoned me in, I have given it everything.

And a voluptuous song continues its turning on the tip of my soft tongue.

And these many, many souls and I, wander alone with the rest of me.

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