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

24 March 2010

"One may go a long way after one is tired." 
   i lost my nerve standing there at the bottom of the ladder.  clicked shut like a clam.  and you came down and went on about pistols and potato parfait edging closer not looking my way until the end with a goggle and all your teeth.  i have no idea what to think.

the bed rose like a sail on the bridge.  you stood on the verge with it propped like a sign on the highway people on their lunch hour no doubt attempting to catch the message through the glare.  i wore my pegasus belt for bravery and tried not to horrify.  mourning doves and those sparrows with stripes at the sunlit feeder, spirit houses and wind over the water in the yard.  the house is clean, the canticle comes on, i crave the snap and billow of a clothesline.  i crave light on the water.  i dont think i did too bad, and we suck the air out of the lifeboat, that much closer to land.

the buds are russet and every morning i watch for the green peignoir of spring.  grim morning grows into brilliant afternoon.  the way your face looks when you set your eyes on me.  thats never been before and speaks more than a million pretty words.  the hand that holds the jewel, not the gem itself.  crow comes for quickbread pickins dressed like a comely undertaker, stiff tail and roman nose.  maus says youre doing well, fitting in with disregard and the girls love you.  travelers all, the paper masks rustling under our hats ready to change.

birthday of Steve McQueen, pall bearer at Bruce Lees funeral, fan of Old Milwaukee, god of gearheads everywhere.
"I would rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on Earth."

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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)