ride

there you are

up on the north hill.

 

i can see you

through the veil,

 

embarking on our

beautiful horse.

 

we share that

mustang machine;

 

we groom her,

we love her,

 

we feel her power

under and through us.

 

we take her down

the same paths:

 

looping in, around,

up, between.

 

but we can never ride

her at the same time.

 

across the time-miles,

 

i feel you in the saddle,

in the reins, in the hard

 

handle of the brush as

i bring her to a soft shine.

 

i manifest you in the

flowing grass, the

 

wild wind, the

impeccable trees.

 

we move seamlessly

through the falling leaves

 

as if coated with fluid.

 

with each ride

we lift the scrim

 

a bit more

to see within;

 

we speak our

vision into being.

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hush & hum

 

the poem

is a prayer

 

you write alone

in your closet.

 

it fights

you;

 

demands

a blessing

 

from the

shit.

 

inside time’s

attenuated tip,

 

you wrestle

with the

 

wooden chest

of your heart:

 

all the

kindling,

 

the hush

& hum,

 

the red

sharp,

 

the perfect

death.

 

deeper still,

you move

 

through the

electric blue

 

darkness, the

great lost—ness,

 

a tiny sign of life

hunting another.

 

you see the

silver sparks

 

brush up

against you —

 

— but you can  not

feel them.

 

you are here

but not   here.

 

you remember

your father saying

 

every thing is

going to be okay

 

with his ragged

breath and big

 

chemo

eyes.

 

even then,

on the edge

 

of death,

he was full of

 

hills

& hopes.

 

now, the

banyans

 

and creeks and

deer and wolves

 

tell you: it is time

to move into your

 

own life, to stop

inhabiting the

 

mausoleum of family

religion-tradition-history.

 

put whiskey in your coffee

and go out into the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the opposite of time

there are no synonyms for

you; you are one of a

 

kind. in my dreams, it is

so clear: what i want.

 

it is the meeting of

body and mind.

 

my mind does not

leave my body; she

 

takes her along,

loves her the whole

 

stay. being asleep

is the real awake:

 

the opposite of time.

 

while not asleep,

i’m in my own way.

 

i hold my blueberry coffee;

i stand in the hospital corridor

 

with my throat shut. the

sickness perseverates

 

in the mouth, jaw,

throat, chest, gut;

 

the non-words

in duress.

 

truth

is terror—

 

a forever

pain.

 

but in dreams,

it is made into

 

beauty: alchemy

as it should be.

 

i go to sleep under

a November tree,

 

between the

bright carpet

 

and brighter

hangings, and

 

meet you there.