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

25 March 2010

 "Sweetcakes God said / who knows where she picked that up / what I'm telling you is / 
Yes Yes Yes."

im only running at seven percent but dont know what to do.  a total stranger to myself, it feels an awkward imposition to make a space at the table, no elijahs open door.  she was what had to be hidden away so long gone her bones are bent from the box i kept her in she bumps around beneath my skin if i loose the locks her voice is rocks on rocks tumbling toward the town below.  she is so beautiful to me i cannot look at what ive done.  my heart aches my eyes slide around and my foot finds the top of the box and the wink of the lock and her smell is in my hair everywhere she is gone and as long as i am without her i am a burning effigy just waiting to burn down.

"in the center of the four directions the star the orange sun surrounded by blue a serpent and a staff appears touch the star again and go south." 

to the south the city a night kingdom past the amber squares of quiet neighborhood evening.  i may go a-roving to take the air, the saturated breath of springtide.  i agree this space is self-indulgent and cloys, but if my star in cyberspace wants to sparkle, i say let it.   and i agree that one only grows in the now, tipping always into the future, but a tree cannot withstand the weather if its roots are not deep and wide.  the light i shed on who i have been is sunlight on the moon, or the phantom light of stars.

"Each of us literally chooses, by his way of attending to things, what sort of universe he shall appear to himself to inhabit."
i painted you last night blood and light in the corners.  this morning winter still a caul over the spring wood, but lilyshoots and pussytoes presage a gentler season.  and then you call me and pass through a portal to pineduff and quiet, bright moss on stones, the sound of running water.  i could spend a thousand days here, slowly returning to the earth.  the grand fan of a tree with its roots in the air like protest.  i could spend a thousand days here and never see the same thing twice, the light and wind are shifting through slate alleys between leaves and all the trees have names.  and i dont want to talk ever again.  whatever could i say that would improve upon this holy silence as spring weaves up through rocks and roots and pushes the dead hand of winter away, upon the sound of the water, the rustle of our hands hidden between us two people on a bench under a tree on a thursday afternoon.  

upon what is not spoken how could i improve?

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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)