café

some people sit

squarely in the

 

world, an umlaut

atop an accolade.

 

it strikes me suddenly as

i flit on this splitting branch

 

that i know    nothing.

 

i watch people watching

me watching them:

 

a wizened man cursing the

maze he must maneuver;

 

a leering lit professor,

emblazoned.

 

i wonder what they see when

they    look-glance    through me:

 

the nesting couple

kiss-whispering;

 

the absent-minded mother

gripping the hour.

 

the über-weight of the rare

gaze-landing, the heady fleeting

 

feeling that    we are one.

words, bodies, clouds

Dear God, thank you for this day.

 

Prayers often begin with these words.

I heard these words in my parents’

prayers all the days of my childhood.

 

And now, I say them in my good-night

prayers with my child, often after the

day is breathed and lived and done.

 

The words have become such habit

that I don’t stop to think about the

meaning of them; the heaviness and light:

 

This day; this. here. now.

 

It didn’t have to happen, this day. At the

very least, it didn’t have to happen to me.

 

And yet, here it is.

 

What am I going to do with it?

What am I not going to do?

With whom will I do/not do these things?

 

Is it really a matter of doing, or can

I just be here in this brand new day?

 

And the thank you prayer-part?  A deep

gratefulness for another set of full breaths,

heart pumps, visions, touches, sound bites.

 

The human body is a mystery-marvel. On the

outside, it is aging along with the rest of the

world; on the inside, it is aging more quietly.

 

At the very core, it is a living raging eternal star cloud

just waiting to be joined with other star clouds.

gate

sun day

i wake to morning light

communion breeze

song birds

child safe, asleep

 

openness, forgiveness: a

gentle bringing together of

dream-forgetting and

kind remembrance;

 

even the pairs of

mother-child fighting

outside my window are

pieces of mirrored divinity

 

attending to each of

these gifts gathered here

with the senses i have received

i partake in a humble holiness

 

this is my church

and inside i am the

minister, choir, and body

of the word of God

tread

 

every one keeps trying to hand

me so many styles of shoes.

 

i like the little quiet of

bare feet.

 

like being wed

to a cocoon,     held

 

in its soft meta

morphosis;

 

openness: whilst

outside cloth-lantern

 

windows, people buzz-opining

 

for the tallest,

sharpest heels.

 

how can you have

laws of war?

 

how can you not?

fire wall

 

think with the body

every thing

is in a state of

change

 

loose lips

living works

torched

everything is in a state of change

 

energy. matters.

the noun moves the verb:

 

makes love to its

self not in sex but in

love-thinking down

to its center

 

particle by particle

until the sum of its

loud quiet parts tips

a hand and for one

 

evening-span makes

a slip of sense.

 

 

the valve of the unvitiated moment

valve

she knows that this is a floating

time on a floating ship, that she is

the floating, not the ship, nor the

captain, and that every thing outside of

 

time and space is the static pulled

taut across seas that hangs gray

garments in place and occasionally

dances and sings and means; in the valve

 

of the unvitiated moment she sees

the delicate moving of a good and

gentle quiet, like the breath of moth

wings against a hungry breeze.

and then

perched on a still point

ready to pivot

 

after whirl-wind years spent

trying to outrun grief

 

slate blue hand

held over tired

 

heart; mouth-moved

legs and panic

 

some climb

some dive

some incubate

some die

 

within all lies

the spirit to survive

 

and then,

to fly