Wednesday, April 20, 2022

Dirges About What Happened

The song lives in me as you teaching me so deeply I live now breathlessly. 

Look, I'm sorry but it's true: getting naked with the other - outside the social compact, transgressing custom and law - is sometimes how the cosmos teaches us to remember we are together Christ, Who knows nothing about husbands and wives, disdaining both ceremony and ritual. 

Doors opening, doors closing but not in an obvious - more a metaphorical - way.

Claims we must investigate, claims we discount, claims we take at face value, all because of our judgment of the one who makes them.

A truth so far beyond choice even to say this much is to abuse it with dishonesty.

She cries out coming, my favorite hallelujah.

We get something and give it away almost by accident and discover that was how we got it in the first place, very nice.

All these desecrations passing away - mouthing gun barrels, slashing at my wrists with knives, blackouts and fist fights - bad memories now, that's all, not destiny or fate.

How happy the demons are when you teach them they are angels, Lucifer the brightest light because of where and how healing is.

Love is not a feeling, try that.

The taste of her in the back of my throat falling asleep is why.

Hubbard squashes, hot asses.

No more disasters.

We are broken when our heart will not open is what I took from Hillman's The Thought of the Heart or am I thinking of Madonna's Frozen or am I just begging someone - anyone - to read this and heal me.

Shifts in the intensity of the snow falling or am I learning something new about attention.

Hansel finally getting clear on the end of fear, wondering is it too late to tell Gretel, basically forgetting who taught him all those years ago what consolation was, and bravery.

It's true the blind horse sometimes turns his head when I approach and knowing my heart is sick and old allows me to rest my head on his neck. 

Pasture mist in winter floating in non-specific ways I nontheless insist on working into poems, over and over, until suddenly it's spring.

Everyone laughing at Ma taking my question about pancake recipes seriously, but we know something now, she and I, and with what time is left we aren't fucking around.

I mean it this time: no more crosses and no more lonely journeys, no more writing dirges about what happened behind the barn. 

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