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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what do you see?

the first time i wore glasses — and had to reach up

to push them further onto the bridge of my nose — my

hand felt a sudden shock as i remembered my dad. he

would make this gesture hundreds of times a day; he

wore glasses all of the time, not just for reading. when i

cleaned my glasses for the first time, i felt like i was

looking down at his careful hands, his breath on the glass,

his dinner napkin sweeping over the lens as he talked

about his day at the table. it wasn’t until recently that

i felt these movements — these gestures of my father —

down to their core. they seem like such small things, such

minutiae. but they are what i saw of my father all of my life.

there’s even a picture of him pushing his glasses up with one

finger while looking at the camera and smiling. his face is split

in half by his hand, but you can still see all of that smile. at the

end of a long day he would take off his glasses, lie back in his chair,

take the weight off of all the constraints, the tools needed, the

gestures — quieted down into the night sounds: the blurred hum

of the television, the din of family tinkering around him, the

knowledge of another day closing its eyes after a job well done.

look: love

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If I look closely, I can see my self in you.

If I truly love my self, I will love you.

If I can accept my own humanity, I will accept the humanity in you.

If I can celebrate my own divinity, I will celebrate the divinity in you.

Loving God is loving my self, loving my neighbor:

the Light, the Shadow,

God in me, as Me; in you as You.

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roof over your head

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what am i to say to this,

sky wrapped woolly and wet over me,


the itch to pierce that tight skin and

to keep flying threaded in?


the shapes speak to us all day long;

we shun the silence of octagons.


what’s yours is mine: we share this space,

complicit in its undoing.


let it undo you.


let it give you firsts and lasts;

let it thrust itself upon you.

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open

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you’re still very small: you

don’t take up much room,

 

here in this swollen

swoon of little sips and

 

tiny turn-key tips

like bread-crumbs

 

to follow down

this crooked path.

 

you create your own

paucity of time, which

 

is always

just enough,

 

just tucked into your

breast-pocket as you

 

dig through hidden

portholes, running

 

straight-laced lines

directly to the muse;

 

swiftly turning the hurried

world upon its haptic head.

 

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every thing sees

every thing

sees

 

an effigy of

meaning

 

imprinted in

threes

 

every thing

watches

 

time towers

ticking

 

in a long and

winding

 

series of

stares

 

leading to and

coming from

 

a brighter

every where

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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.