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

11 June 2010

good to see the hill st. phantom.  union drunks with old berries and bones strewn picking red clover in the beautiful light.  even.  good to have the language between us again, the weight.   blond women and dogs gooseberries and greens he pointed to the shining pine resin and said it reminded him of me.  
tonight in the dark with the light through the willow a detraction from fireflies and starlight, little candles in the garden, fairylites through dicentra leaves and the neighbors not coming home soon.  darkmoon heartache.

my hands are getting old.  it was good to see him smile, his wrists easy, i remembered what i saw.  that strength a smell in the back of my throat.  but gone on and transformed into something other anymore.  all this estrangement.   so glad to meet you, angeles.  and then youre strangers ghosts rocketing around your pelvic bowl this evening a skeleton cloud across the sky.  nick drake between the bars a twelve-string and and a back porch swing black dogs in the dark cats in the bean rows let go.  this our little ship over rye fields and macadam most of the old retaining walls broke down i can see you.  and who are they to say?

edgar winter and hats and taft.  pellegrino and captain  black.  ill love them all from afar.  spin my yarn dance down the dooryard build the soil sweat equity on my own soul for this time remaining.  labor is truly made worship, the shakers said.
mr. soundman the water rises in these seven year cycles i meant maid like marian.  a postcard of the arc and you in normandy home for snow and then midsummer i should have let you have your way.  but too gone for me.  is there nothing i can save?

it feels like burying.  grief a fist shaped ache behind your breastbone folding you over fetal and even the light hurts but you start over.  on one. 

om namah shivaya.

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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)