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

13 November 2009

home again pixie lights white sage a little boy what loves me.

unwind the cattlewire from around the hickory stick and breathe.  my facial cavities arid harboring absent days small dog arafat i stood in the forties institutional food arena and swore allegiance to the Prol.
black and white has always meant some tough mother prols, no?


squaretoe boots mingle here have a little dogbone candlestub punchline.

its all beneath you puppetman didnt know you were here were old now and lightyears i remember oranges.  these hard lessons i chose to learn the nixon mask of my ignorant yesterday but ive shriven read atonement but since then it hasnt had me it never come no more. 
all i can think now is i only lived so long so as to be old and so closer to lesson learned be old and knobbygnarly cool smooth clutch at your shirtsleeve my bright eyes twinkling.
i will laugh because there is no time to tell.

one day i will be old and i wont care for forgiveness.

some glorious stick stirs the muck of my puddlefloor.  a lightningbolt in dark disintegration.  something like mica catches light my eye smells the ocean. 
i put it away the old box dryedge split with neglect recycled desert air.
the books i guess a map for someones hindsight.
tomorrow is cars and pancakes somewhere away from waiting the strong bones of what i left behind beside me singing.

ten for today:

2.  cabernet
3.  women
4.  night
5.  home
6.  poems
7.  hello
8.  symbol
9.  magick
10.  pancakes 

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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)