forgive me, father

forgive me, father

for i have sinned;

 

it’s been fifteen days

since my last poem.

 

these first baby steps

are weird and wonder-

 

ful; i wonder where

they are taking me.

 

maybe to you—to the

brightest thing in my life.

 

let me know where

your heart is;

 

let me know your

words so i can

 

steal them away:

the purest relation-

 

ship, you say, preserved

in this crystalline distance.

 

can you see them? the pink

clouds rowing through the sky?

 

humming right along-

side? we’re almost there.

things are not what they seem; things are not what can be seen

joy ride,

woven women,

diagonal snow like

tiny meteors,

stone sober,

an aura

laid over like

milk, wearing

makeup into

surgery, drawing

cream from a

tree, yellow jacket

of gravity,

a gold light,

a silver bell,

the magnetic shell

between.

being

dreams are like tethers in reverse.

 

instead of keeping us tied to earth,

they keep our strings connected

back to where we came from—like

the soft lines of an old, old, tree

 

flowing up to the tallest peak.

 

once you climb it,

the only place up

is the moon;

and memory.

 

there are more characters in my dreams

than people in my real life, more land-

scape, more running, more hunting, more

flying: like the husbandry i was made for.

 

the only thinking is the construct i’m in,

and that’s already accounted for. there’s

no room for narrow cerebral being when

the primordial is tugging at your insides.

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.

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.

 

gallery of the unfinished

the miles move like the years;

the trees climb themselves.

 

when you go, the absence you leave

behind will not last long—the mutable

 

shapes fill in. if you want

something to last, say so.

 

the world takes care of itself,

but will also love you back.

 

 

burn all the money

you write me into existence with

those beautiful veined hands;

 

your phantom sweetness bleeding

through to greet-create me.

 

this world was made to be free,

to be met head-on with abandon:

 

rolling down a grassy hill, throwing

all your gold over a cliff into the sea.

 

do you hear me? all we need comes

from the earth; every-thing we eat:

 

grown up and out like what we know

in our roots to be the ancient

 

trees of self, of

abundant anti-greed.