Trials, Testaments

Night is blue. And everywhere I look is blue. 
Blue light in us. 
Rain falling.
Throwing bodies of dead chickens past the deadfall at the property line, turning away without prayer. Various faiths like sea foam, sand, like pretty shells on leather bands. I know better but not always, or it doesn’t always help, which matters.
What are you saying? Now what are you saying?
We clean the pantry, make love in the pantry, linger after in the pantry, clean up in the pantry.  
Horses. Halters.
Remember that fear is not always inappropriate! Blue crows even.
Crosses, blue.
The miracle always staring you in the face, daring you to remember it.
Idea is primary to matter, which is not an argument but an experience. 
Truth, trials, testaments, Taps. Trotsky.
Tell me again you love me, in ways I will recognize, and not forget to carry with me forever.
Categorized as Sentences

Leaping into Another’s Dream

There is an absence now of any simulacra. Letters home which, upon departing the envelope, go instantly blank. Piety is nearly always fraudulent.
Talking at the sheep farm about the politics of local libraries, watching a storm gather due west and slowly work its way towards us. Gifts, participatory ones.
What slows, softens. What sifts.
Priapic appetites, infighting. Precipices. 
Sexual phantasms making secret demands – eliciting promises we only find out about later. 
Travel plans. Totem poles. 
We who are divested of images go around begging images and then – unexpectedly – encounter the one who makes clear why the image obscures what is sacred. Liminal boundaries, lucid appropriations. Dreamers leaping into another’s dream.
Lured elsewhere, by unfamiliar gods. Noteworthy exhalations. In the middle of you, tasting you, forbidden in you. Mothered in you, maddened in you. More of you, always.
Categorized as Sentences

Undefined Nexts

True or false and more so. If you’ve never been enlightened, how do you know you’ve never been enlightened? Arrivals.
Crumbled feta on salads. After dark, sweating in bed, kissing naked, in no rush for either defined or undefined “nexts.” This writing replaces that writing, and becomes other writing
Don’t be afraid to investigate context. Clouds float through lavender skies, sheep burrowing into amethyst folds. You develop a whole ontology around misspelled words, stomach pains and Elmore Leonard novels. 
Intentions to recover something lost or confused, missing.
The very place of being, defined in part by an absence of either text or image. 
Easing into something forbidden, foreclosed, and going with full knowledge one is going. The night the warehouse burned, the morning after the warehouse burned, and the memory, clear and stable. Blues.
We sing together, moan together, we come together in mid-summer, sunlight cutting the mountains into manageable chunks. Some boundaries you cross. Representation doesn’t work, we’ll need something new.
Categorized as Sentences

A Mere Shift in Description

Ships beget shipwrecks. Thus we are discovered. 
A long silence in which images of you naked predominate. 
Guy walks into a bar and learns to appreciate his wife. Sunlight on the barn roof, too bright to study. Pax.
Basically, magicians are organizers. Near eleven I grow hungry, begin fantasizing crackers and cheese, spankakopita, bowls of clam chowder (and, oddly, winter). 
Non-obvious – and non-trivial – gaps in our knowing. It is the case that sometimes a mere shift in description will undo decades-old knots. Rhubarb pie, pacification projects, rain.
Context has to do with use, purpose, social dynamics, culture and so forth. Maple sugar sprinkled on pancakes. Post-blowjob messiness.
Oh Hestia, oh Hermes!
Making sense of environments in which problems – let alone answers, solutions, fixes – are unclear and hard to discover. And as time passes, even more so.
Narrative competence.
What survives in the cells of eggplant. What you want, ask for, get, give away.
Categorized as Sentences

Us as a Form of Loneliness

Faithless lovers, faithless fathers. Clumps of cardinal feathers on Fairgrounds road. Enormous moonlight, heathen hemlocks. When my tongue ceases its manipulative striations.
Mud daubers, Pam Dawber. Mirrors only work when there is a source of light. Given silmarils. Loneliness as a form of holiness, and us as a form of loneliness. Atop the old chicken shed, blue jays. 
Laughter on Iron Flat road. Mist rising in the cattails. There is hunger and then there are hungry dogs. Atop the local hill, we cry out to the stars the names of our sons and daughters.
Ecstasy has not been a stranger.
New flowers in the tangled bracken just shy of the old dairy farm. What is wild is not alien, yet it feels so, and the feeling is not itself a problem. Kayaks at dawn nudging the black glass of the river. Voices carry.
The sound the knife makes slicing broccoli for a stir fry. Goddess of the image – guardian of imagination – comfort me, who am your servant.
Categorized as Sentences

The Freedom Inherent in Obeisance

Passing back and forth over dew.
Never without bread and water, never without the key. Insistence as a matter of survival. 
How heavily fatigue wears my body! The one who knows, knows, and the one who never knows, also knows (but keeps their knowledge hidden, even from their own self).
Lily fresh grace, blazing desire. Early metaphysical crises at last understood as the only parent one has.
Thank you for last night’s notes which are received, read, and rewritten on the heart. In the liminal chapel you opened for it, my soul offers as lauds “I love you.” 
Pulling back the sheets, doing things we couldn’t do even a year ago. I have been up for too many hours, allowing the many minor deities who haunt, hound and harass me to haunt, hound and harass me. 
Given pain, grief and chaos, I study your image and lo! Whirring fans, the river a quarter mile away through mist.
The nights are quiet now. Fireflies pass over the horses under stars. 
It is as if one recognizes the Lord when they see the Lord in the apostle they honor most. You walk into tall grass along the river and recover the beads you lost lifetimes ago and remember again the freedom inherent in obeisance.
Late chores. Circumstance.
Yet I am with you, utterly, drawing each breath in a Heaven – a complexly mythological Eden – in which there is neither time nor distance, nor even an other, but only Love: this Love.
Categorized as Sentences

Black Bear Sightings

More thunder but far away. No more rain for the moment. I roll the windows down and breathe cool clean air. Cars pass on Route nine, lights on, tires hissing.
I’ve never been to many places but they still exist. Do they exist?
There was a song in college, old then I think, called “Cool Change” and I don’t know why I liked it but I did. Lots of Dead songs back then, until I got hooked on Dylan, and then no more Dead songs to speak of (but shows still, and acid, like having a razor blade in my skull). 
When you arrange your life around black bear sightings and don’t see a black bear for going on five years, then what?
You arrange your life around something else.
I have never been past Saint Louis, but I have been to Dublin and Rome. 
My heart is not a motel, it’s a mountain. Your heart is not a cathedral but the sky into which the mountain my heart is rises. For years I associated fox sightings with death, and cardinals with God, but I’m in a new space now and don’t know what anything means.
We invent new mythologies by falling in love with strangers, which means they’re no longer strangers.
Once I said “fuck Texas” and a woman from Texas made me apologize.
For many years of my living living has been arranged in part – sometimes a nontrival part – around monasteries, the idea of them. 
If Minnesota were New York and New York Minnesota . . . 
If time were not measured in hours and days.
At night the mountain asks the sky what all the lights cast across it are, and the sky does not answer.
Yet not answering is a kind of answer. 
My heart is in actuality a motel, one that’s open to lonely travelers like me who get lost on all these highways because nobody taught them how to steer by starlight.
Thunder, lightning! Time to go . . . 
How strange to discover so close to the end you knew the way all along.
Categorized as Essays

A Benevolent Drama

Many fears, many fathers.

Many feathers.
Fortunate sons surviving on plants and feminine Gods and women who see what can and cannot be shared. 
Despite this. In spite of this.
In spiral with this.
Connotatively deceptive yet not without charm.
The dharma, the dumbass, the diva. The deep dive into the divine.
Yet living.

Lording in a benevolent drama without concern for who is the author.

You see how it intensifies? Towering cumuli.
Simulated succubi. You cry we all cry.
We all die.
But not only that. Not only that.
Categorized as Sentences

Our Own Hands

When we wake up, we make coffee, and then we read writers whose work is hard to follow, and stay with it as long as we can.
Green Man iconography that briefly appeared magical to me. We are built for longing, and what longing produces. 
Be a better engine!
When the other wakes up, we take care of them. We have our own hands. Sentences I don’t remember writing.
Problems that are solved when seen in this or that light. What is extending itself, especially when you are not aware it is extending.
Roots of oak trees, roots of hemlock.
Bad ideas.
Getting clear on what hurts and what does not, and aligning oneself with what does not.
What helps and what does not. 
What’s what. We are not allowed to reach everyone in substantive ways, not every conversation is meant to own the salvational light of the first morning ever.
Sarah Constantin’s point that “feelings that come from good human connection, the feeling of being loved and cared for, are real.”
Gravel in the driveway. Swallows resting briefly on mounds of dirt in which squash seeds open, thrusting green stems upward, towards the sun. “What I meant was not what you took.”
Dust on my sandals again and again and again.
Categorized as Sentences

A Form of Mutation

Was she exhausted with the upper room, was she bored with Peter’s strategies.
One imagines a bitter cup.
We who are children of the same sun, beholden to fortune in ways Feynman elucidated so helpfully.
She teaches me to resist going meta.
Dialogic black holes.
What we’re good at in terms of abstraction.
Pretty things we save.
Misunderstandings of the Green Man and other iconography, and the fatigue of trying to explain, over and over, underlying errors.
Simply put, the universe is not contingent on one’s awareness of it.
Going back to writers I only partly understood – Maturana, mainly – and trying again. 
Cows coming up from the dell in a sentence that wanted mainly to use the word “dell” a certain way.
Early morning walkers, sun in their eyes.
She is sad coming back from the Cape, and in her sorrow is angry, a sort of indiscriminate sense of being wronged, which is familial and frightening.
Off-loading obligations.
Bluets, dandelions.
Rich asks if I’ll wait a day to mow, I say yes, and the we talk briefly about who’s running for selectman.
This poem being clear it’s a poem.
Perhaps learning is actually a form of mutation?
We stop at a roadside farm stand in the valley and buy spinach, a couple bunches of end-of-season rhubarb, and five pounds locally-grown tilapia.
And begin.
Categorized as Sentences