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

21 November 2009

"You better not hold your hand over your ass until you come up with thinking that makes a difference, that's all I can say."


rakish in my gardenhat to drain the glare a leather masquerade a tune from way before when the world was fence and fairytale

(tip #76:  remember the gardenhat)

these labyrinthine canyons of familydynamic.  slipping back into my skin is draining water from the bath
 i laugh into a hole but theres pierogies and greek yogurt and dogs.

locate and secure green hat  
walk the bluedog   
beeswax candles

    food books and silver bangles and sometimes its enough just to open the bag of marshmallows and smell.  the drinking glass the blue bowl
    printedmatter soymilk breakfastcereal castironpans
    november cold air a flute i lick ivorypaint off my fingers absentmindedly
    greasy fingers and wood on the stove a bed quietly waiting and some peace in my heart.

    "It's time to take stock, I thought, which is hard to do when you are bare naked and far from home."


    these bird pictures are my favorite, so far.

    the pierogies cut through the gauzy miasma of a wine high like butter through a knife

    i wasnt lonely til i met you.


     "...her butt hitting the keys in a nice way like the lost chord.  We did it right there which wasn't easy...and by the time she fully awoke she was making yodeling sounds like Judy Canova on the Louisiana Hayride program."

    how is a writer like a windsock?

    ballast, but i didnt really want any.  less bathwater.  an omen in the residue.

    somewhere back there i made a connection between migra and milagra.  geese flying negative space in the palms of my hands i thought of miracles and migration.  typhoo with honeyandsoymilk to steady me its still early and theres puttering to be done.  the time someone said to gibbons, "scribble scribble scribble."

    still chewing on the golden wishbone dream. this is me on the phone.
    the terrible pressure of event horizon where at the very last moment we believe we can fly november a story with no words illustrated by arthur rackham behind the yellow light of the windows in the thin valley
    you are one valley over, you are closer, you are too far away.
    something from bloodonthetracks and that mango in the shingledhouse the empty reading room nights wasted aluminum foil and vinegar ive lost my taste for it at last.

    i sand the roof of my mouth with my tongue while i am sleeping he watched wallace & grommit while i wrestled with angels crouching between pages at the bottom of the back of my head the roof of my mouth is a mossy stone under cold creekwater something stuck in my throat.  its maddening and will not be ignored.


    "a picnic, a class reunion, a funeral with no corpse."

    what else?  a pair of shoes a moonstone ring this night of rut and go in the morning this night of bones and fires burns' gory pinion i couldnt do it after all the one thing he was right about i couldnt ever do it.  ive done enough death in my life im full up the world opens wider as the slick settles just below the brain.

    (tip #37: the water plays tricks but the light is always true)

    ironic food scours the mossy stone this stuffed goose is fomenting a revolution.  party of one.
    my people are mongols and viking bead wearers braid weavers boot for horses
    keep eating
    the creatures take to chairs and space before the corner hearth we walked for centuries down the bustling pike reading rocks and waterfountains the town pump and glorious

    as long as i keep eating the shredded skin inside my mouth doesnt bother me

    god forgive me ive gone to ken wilber and a book written by a man who would not abandon the children and walked with them onto the train to Treblinka.  lithium for medea, etc.

    tonight its like knitting with little strands of yarn

    gessoed some pages killed a bottle of cabernet
    younger comes up and lures me with david attenborough
    goodnight, bravehearts


    "...a great deal of time in solitude tended to blur the peripheries.  Reality is perceptual and consensual and after thirty days alone you could forget where your skin left off and the world began.  Then you emerged for supplies and forgot how to behave partly because you never really knew how in the first place."

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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)