CV
Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone,
Which three till now, never kept seat in one.
such a difficult thing for me to do dry. trying to explain what the Pilgrim sees on a cold road waiting for signs and trying to lay it down in words it deserves but the words are behind glass i can only stand apart from and ache for hungry for bread and wool blankets behind midnight streetlight defenestration. i crave the alterations that turn my cubes of words to water that wash and reflect my heart to the world it was given to. the feel of the clay between my fingers as it spins on the wheel instead of this rolling and pinching with a chisel and half the face falls away after all. the words dont come theyre demanding burnt offering for an unclenched hand that frees the tongue. its just me here in the clearing a hollow reed with nothing to say. lay me down and look through me, far things will seem closer. the emptiness may guide you but for me its a cold road, waiting for signs to light the way.
in rags and feathers dancing down the new town my little silky thread behind me a root beneath the handshake and hello something left listening the imprint of me on a million surfaces for so long i have been without. and forced to face this world head on falling through the ice and not being allowed to drown ill accept the clarity but afford me my words! why is it one or the other? i know. both times i birthed my babies it was called a dry labor. the water breaks at the onset and theres no buffer, no gentle making of the way. so here i am again, working to be born, with nothing between me and pure experience. of course the midwife was right.
i couldnt tell him why i set her there on the screen in gray robes and sad eyes, the wand and the cup, and all i could bring myself to say was i really like that name. and in my secret heart one day i hope i can turn to him and say it again, and then he will understand.
when he talked it painted pictures on the drive-in of my mind. i saw myself in a hundred happy scenes, skirting the edge of whats happening like a firefly, dressed in cloaks and wings, summer nights between scenes him leading the Fey into twilight, the feel of grass beneath my feet the sound of water over rocks the smell of the world mountains and oceans and a thousand small fires to dance to. i was being led and loved it. or maybe its just the hallucination of a hungry heart, the weary pilgrim on the Threshold of Home the home the soul swims in before that black river, that darkest of rooms. cups and bowls, sieves for magick making.
ive left my laughter everywhere to bind me, each breath a stitch red thread weaving between the keys of a piano and under drums made from historys fire. you showed me the beautiful room a red chair and a photo of your father, the talking water that brings snowmelt ducks and leaves in their seasons sleeping under the heartshaped hole in a hat you wore beneath a million suns thinking mad beautiful thoughts of Bringing Together what had been cast away. The Box long dissembled for planks and nails, the empty space inside it buried under an arc of trees leading the pilgrim to the next gently lit and waiting stage.
the gift of agriculture or not, you cannot pump spring water from an empty hole. look around you, you are the only sign of life there. cowboy
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