dust has nothing to fear

i’m on a long journey, and

i don’t know the way.

 

the dust under my feet

has nothing to fear;

 

it’s been here before,

but it has a lot to say—

 

to the fingers, to the

rib-cage, to this feast, to

 

the miles walked across

this beach: once you are

 

thus reduced, you can only

transform into some thing

 

new—a diamond, a sand-

storm, a brilliant planet.

 

take every thing that is

happening, every thing you

 

feel, every thing you keep

silent, every thing you shout—

 

and kneel: turn it,

churn it into art.

 

it is the only way in,

and the only way out.

 

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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.

 

maybe

maybe the place you’ve been stabbed in the

back is where the wings begin to sprout.

 

maybe we are the same one hundred people

returning to earth again and again until the

 

truth comes out: who we really are, what we

are here to do, how the sun is a dual entity:

 

for life-energy and for fire. if god can feel

wrath and jealousy, what hope have we?

 

multiples recycling through this planet,

spending lifetimes growing wings,

 

swimming through the dark glass

mumbling thank you and please.

 

ovoid

the mamas bring the

music and the light,

 

stroking sweet-

ness into being,

 

inoculating against

the self-made man.

 

every where you look

is a circuit board

 

waiting for

lightning.

 

the stars are

still inebriated.

 

i keep my hands

at 10 and 2

 

as i measure

you, ride

 

your war-

torn body

 

past the banyans

into the sunrise.

mother meek

For Erleen. May your beautiful mother-soul rest in peace.


it took you two minutes to read me,
to tell me what i sound, smell, taste like;

it took me two centuries to come out of my cave
and play, a web of shining sound hanging

from shaking teeth. i am slave,
manufacturer, warrior, priest, king: all

embodied, poised to inherit the earth.
but it is the minor keys of the mother

being played out in the background—
ever layering, ever loving—

that will win out in the end;
the weak in reverse,

the binaries of her
music box—slight and

strong—turning, bending in
the wind, building the

tender-fierce frame-
work of the world.

silvicultrix

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the art of doing nothing,
waiting for the something
to arrive: a glass dipper,
a studded wardrobe, a
silent snake creeping;

the heart of living in the past,
just under the stroke of mid-night:
a diadem moon lowering onto our heads,
a dream within a dream within a dream
removing all doubts and currencies.

i am dismantled again and again
in this place without name,
without boundaries:
in my forest green alive,
in my one knit slipper.

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Miracle

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It is a Miracle that there is a blank page waiting every day.

It is a Miracle that I can write words on it.

It is a Miracle that you can read these words.

It is a Miracle that these words can become pictures, feelings, symbols, connections.

It is a Miracle that each person can experience different pictures, feelings, symbols, connections from the same words.

It is a Miracle that words can form ideas.

It is a Miracle that ideas can form actions.

It is a Miracle that actions can change you, can change me, can change the world.

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