art

when you arrive at the perfect piece,

it sits in your mouth like a kiss,

 

a deliciousness you wish you could

hold onto forever. sometimes i

 

wait at the bus stop, and the big

whoosh lumbers up, and i wave

 

it away. i’m waiting, i say, but not

for the bus. for what, i cannot

 

articulate; but when it comes, it’s

like going back through the tunnel

 

and finding the seed from which

you sprang, and everything else

 

just falls away, and the song you sang

as a child rings like a bell in its wake.

 

multi

every time you visit me

i’m a different person:

 

the levels shift, and i am

three floors up, or two down.

 

sometimes there’s a hidden trap-

door, a cave-like passage-way.

 

you are confused, because it is

the same square footage, but

 

such a foreign place. i am confused

because you keep visiting me.

 

 

 

to enjoy what was

take me to your timberline,

show me where your true self ends

 

and your truer self begins.

i want to see in:

 

i want the spiral of a dream to take me

out of time,

 

put me in the womb,

put me on the edge of battle,

 

put me in the pack

chasing survival;

 

to forget the forgetting,

to feel the source,

 

to see the spine of life continuing

as it passes through doors.

 

to enjoy what was

is to carve joy

 

into what is,

into what will be again:

 

it is all the same clay, the same

tools, the same deep grooves.

 

you call me to the fire, and

i answer with water;

 

and we sit at the edge of the mountain

and conspire to love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

sink hole

what happens when something

finally sinks in, comes in behind the

eyes, down into the head, through the

throat, into the deep seat of the body?

 

where does it land? does it take the ship down

with it? we volley these words back and forth, back

and forth, but at the end of the exchange, they are still

just words; it can take lifetimes to truly unpack them:

 

god, religion, truth, beauty, spirit, art, gender, love — to let them find a

home, a dark shifting breathing sink hole that is slowly unseating the world.

thread

you can say

do not tread on me,

now—but later you will be the soil

under feet. together we make a mandala

in the grass: veins of blood and chlorophyll

meeting & mixing. some thing greater is drinking

us, the cup of us, the gin of us, the high water content,

the root. we are made from the ground, made to return

to our hobbit holes where we will lay down our bodies only;

our spirits, which never fully dwelt with us here, will shed their

shells and fly high, look down on the thread of people coming and

going, long lines crossing over our bones, treading lightly, jump-roping,

dancing, grieving, sewing, stomping, pulling, tying, digging—stuck on the

drunken back-side of this surface: just for the time being.

fluid

you are not

alone.

 

even when you

want to be.

 

you are surrounded by

a big black hole of

 

energy–an effigy

spinning at the speed of

 

the catastrophe you

place yourself in-

 

: again and again, just

so you can test the

 

emergency

brakes.

eighth

o ye of little faith,

o ye of tiny bank account,

o ye of large heart,

o ye of many worries,

 

o ye of few true friends,

o ye of precious child,

o ye of perpetual exhaustion,

o ye of strong passions:

 

if you have but the faith of a mustard seed—

yet even a half, a quarter, an eighth—

 

you shall be seen and heard; you shall be

provided for; you shall inherit the mountain.