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

24 October 2009

better.  naming the moons blue glow profession peatbog faerie any moon.  a puddle we pare the bed down swedish socialist gogo boots and thou my rise bluelit always in my umbra a paintbrush thrust in my trunk and write my name is when the wind shakes off the leaves. 


                                            "... I'd like to live on a commune and / People can call me a hippie..."

ringos from the dingle three days ago i read.  spaceman, dogman, talkman are you receiving?  arriving with coffee and donuts come sunup something smelling like pine tar.   in my dream my sister has the old tchotchke box wrapped and wound found among my arid entrails the worn mauve leatherette hole where the ballerina used to be.  in the box was the topaz a babyfist in broad filligree i didnt want it she was giving something else to me.  couldnt see it clearly it was silver and twisted.   

making the scene like he said covering the story.  quivery lips pursed mick not mama candlelight bettes mermaid suit white sheets homemug dream of some coming some driving away.  this timeclock danube takes tinkering with deep preset circadian rhythm two blue to go under and still i get the dreaming ghost voices a black howl of dog around me.  sapped spent satisfied parboiled bed heavy with exhalations my mind wandering toward the dog that ran and impaled and pulled off the obstacles.  bled a clean wound and wandered.  wind among the leaves. 

sometimes theres a smokehole for the spirit to move through go starwandering across silver bays of grain left standing in darkmorning frost.  calligraphy you write with your tongue a brush wrapped in trunk.  palpable filiments like the nod but more easily satisfied a nip and a tuck and alls well that ends on monday.
just resting in random configurations what if she were the sun and i the earth?  he the turtle me the fruit.    theyre somewhere out there in the cloying vapors a rite of passage pilgrimage all we can do is feed them well before and sing the returning song.  wind among the trees.  a million times i begin and i count breaths in infinite space.   

5.  exhaling
6.  mindwandering
7.  little birds at the feeder
9.  (for steve b., DOJ) 
In the darkest hour of the longest night
If it was in my power I'd step into the light
Candles on the altar, penny in your shoe
Walk upon the water - transcendental blues.

Happy ever after 'til the day you die
Careful what you ask for, you don't know 'til you try
Hands are in your pockets, starin' at your shoes
Wishin' you could stop it - transcendental blues.

If I had it my way, everything would change
Out here on this highway the rules are still the same
Back roads never carry you where you want 'em to
They leave you standin' there with them ol'
Transcendental Blues.

10.  autumn 

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Blessed Be.

"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."

"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)