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

25 November 2009


Lynda Barry! 

"Life to morning outside the empire!" 

this ones for tom the bomb


to wiggle my toes deeper into the holiday mire i pull out the cigarboxes.
throwing away the greenman was a step closer to you
i can see that now.
death rebirth space filling make the space make the space for it it will fill
with roses and hello
hello


hearken ye, unto the crucified oracle

but i still wish i had it.
a redpaper heart and wire flower
florist tape.
i think i composted it.

party of one




"Empathy is outright essential to our evolution...The glacier of our being would thaw toward what it must become."

wednesday night this morning in a glass phonebooth panting into a mask.
i panicked at the small pops and witholding.
small strands again tonight, the loosends sweeping
itchy insubstantial fingers across the ceiling

a battle on all fronts, the whoosh of a sword before me
turning and turning everything stretched
theres a point you get to when the
external motion is saturated enough to
create a dead center
the eye



"There is unlimited, untapped power in the world already, but we are addicted to only its crudest, most concrete forms...Calyces and calypsos are unfolding of themselves, without human agency, out of sheer light."

in my dream i replaced the marge piercy poem taped to the kitchen cupboard with one of my own.  in t's dream the beaten boys bathroom was under the graveyard and the children had no toys.
kalimba djembe shanti om
(scribble scribble scribble)

tonight theres a hurdle im not strong enough to cross.  this dead blank thats squatted behind my eyes for a few days now, entirely uninvested, absentminded, elsewhere ether on cheesecloth my head is on the ground, tipping blankly on my shoe.  not panic nor resignation nor dread but  acloud against the infinite deception of sky giving and taking itself in an endless cycle we are mostly water.

watch the clouds.




"The truth is...The neocons don't stand against North Korea;  they would like to make their own North Korea.  That is, they dig the sanctitude, the suppresion of heresy, the well-drilled standing army, in the service of the Idea.  They just don't want it playing for another team."

1.  breath
2.  my popcorn bowl
3.  the truth
4.  this book
5.  acrylic paint and glue stick
6.  i can still play
7.  the concept of a  post office
8.  this song
9.  old photographs

tonight is the second time in two years i craved a cigarette

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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)