summer of the painting

i want to live in a

light house.

 

it’s

time.

 

these wrinkles

and lines need

 

something to open

and close

 

with a light

inside.

 

you have the

gift.

 

you are starting

to believe it.

 

you are starting to

love your self

 

to

pieces:

 

a solitary wing

with its lantern

 

pair flapping in the

distance;

 

a flickering

cyclops

 

watching

the seasons;

 

a window;

a wind—

 

to speak through

and in and on

 

and on

and anon.

anselm-kiefer-wolundlied-1982

Song of the Wayland, Anselm Kiefer

 

 

give & receive

taking and receiving
are not the same.

receiving requires open
hands: waiting, breathing,

trusting; it’s
softer, slower.

taking is
like a jab:

in & out, getting
what you need,

reaching in with
one hand while

keeping a fist up
at the face.

are you on
the take?

hungry to
feed?

or are you listening,
watching, breathing,

ready to wait; to
linger; to hurt;

to bleed: are you
ready to receive?

this.

20150708_210010 (1)
do not be afraid of the bliss,
the tender-wristed trembling

this.

fill it;
fill it up

with the hallowed
breath given from

the deep-
down hollow.

open it up like the
gift that it is,

and let it
in

without knowing
what’s next,

the next breath,
the catch.

stop running from
your own pleasure.

cross the pond of numb,
to the other side;

swing wide your lantern
of shadow-light,

let it burn long miles
into the night.

stop running
from the free:

from the carved-out
space of be.

stop breaking
into slavery—

again and again,
stealthily,

saying: take me,
tie me to the post,

to the tree, to this
prison of madness.

what is this moment?
what is it worth?

what is it?
this this?

it is every-thing:

it carries you, tired child—up,
up the spiral stair-case to bed.