“Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

14 August 2009





the farm. alas, i dont believe the stars are thus aligned. someone out there needs that farm. i wish them health and happiness, peace and prosperity. i will wave.



the heat and the light are psychedelic, like a certain kind of darkness. thoughts like water like standing waist-deep in thoughts like water moving touching the buffet of wake tide small waves and light broken on the face of the water light pure and absolutely full reflected back on wooden boats eyes the sky.



it was familiar and beautiful and i didnt feel awkward or ashamed to say see? see there thats me. it must not have lasted long cause i was born in '72. born with something to learn something to come to understand a vital light left out the last time. but that was then and what am i gonna do about now?



honor that light and the dark that bore it sunlight on water a beautiful idea. see it as light reflection vibration molecules waves see myself. waist deep. get serious i wrote to myself awhiles back in a riptide dont waste your time. arrange and rearrange the lines connections colors masks dancing weaving ribbons on a pole. rearrange the concepts of you you adhere to. open the boxes and feel what really there. coffee and dogs and slide guitar.



today was the first tomato. the garden rough around the edges beetle and pigroot but feeding me and the honed edge of the way the sagebush smells the way the lavender and the chamomile play together feathers and fins volunteer tomato vine sunward on a cornstalk eared out silks slowly drying. lima pods bean flowers a cauliflower i didnt even know was there. onions i think about onions and roses. grow garlic by the apple tree chives by the roses onions everywhere. i think about the pyrotechnic architecture of an allium. i think about the hypnotic fibonaci seed arrangement of a sunflower. tithonia cleome theres dirt in my hair burdock in the bunches of my skirt my arms scathed with wild briar and rose.



theres a sense of decline. some small leaf falls into and out of a lean rectangle of light. each day a journey in mind along the withy wall one side brackenshadow one side lightfield a broken fence to allow for the exchange of magick the release of secrets. some of the glens have secrets theyre unwilling to divulge. let them be, last years leaf litter creeper vine concealing whats too tired to rise.



moonman and proudbelly sending up dust behind them in the projection of evening light through treelines her eyes are open her lips are smiling it feels so good to walk the seasonal use highway early sundown and be alive. maybe its book about oppenheimer im reading my subconscious in the virid shadow of annihilation. these days, i figure, its the death of an incrementally boiled frog. but a certain end all the same so get serious. dont waste your time.







for your consideration.

38 of 365:

1. this cat.
2. homemade ratatouille over brown rice.
3. kisses.
4. npr.
5. tomatoes ripening.
6. summer in a temperate climate.
7. wishing wanting and then letting go.
8. yarn.
9. breathing.
10. a peaceful heart.

stay light. m.p.

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"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well." -V.V.G.

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)