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

22 February 2010

happy birthday to him of whom there is just too much to say

 singing along hitting top speeds of sixty-five into the sunset drinking high-end pomegranate fizzy water thruway to main street to back road my turkey feathers tipped over i thought someone had left them as a gift for me but it was the cat and the clutter and the wind.  the horseshoe dislodged from the deer antlers, my gold rings in twine on the floor and then the sink fell off the wall. standing in the scattered abandonment the door opens and its Golden Boy with his porkpie Da.  from behind the appliance i pull fifteen year old mardi gras beads he gave to me.  ORPHEUS in gold on a red lyre.  were planning a last supper, myself and the Beloved and the Fruit of my Womb, one co-progenitor, the issue of his loins with a bartendrix from colorado, and two of Golden Boys creepy underworld friends with whom ive discussed all and sundry driving into the west with dramatic sunsets and singing in the car.  before i hie to Higher Ground and he moves to the suburbs with my dog.  its a wonderful life.

                  "it joined them at breakfast and presently ate all the syrup and toast and part of a plate."

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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)