A Blend of Longing and Intent

Morning arrives in a mood, rain as fatalism, yet readily eclipsed by the move to write about it. The green world reveals itself and not all travelers are happy to visit. Study blueberries and milk snakes if you want to know Christ.

Is stillness simply the absence of want? Complex aural threads allow one to make contact (mostly wordlessly) with that which longs for resolution. We are not science so much as scientists.

Want breeds conflict and this includes the desire for an end to conflict. Try this: nothing is inherent. What is the brain but resistence embodied?

Night passes and the clouds don't break and so the full moon - the last of its kind in this lifetime - goes attended only by wordiness. Thought evolved to tackle the impossible and - failing as it had to - declared victory and that is the whole problem. The part of me that resists sleep has a secret of which it is ashamed.

Folded blankets on which the dog rests, dreaming and twitching. The first button undoes itself, the rest we manage in a blend of longing and intent. I have always mostly made love slowly, gratefully finding my way by touch to the only altar that matters.

My God how it hurts to see so clearly the war I have waged on Heaven. You fall and fall only to learn you can always fall a little more. Stop searching for a flailing that exhausts itself!

A landscape is a kind of script apprehended only after we abandon our investment in decipherment. You start with empty, you start with open, you go where the sea is darkest.