Stones in the River

Oh not another word about snakes please, I don't want to disturb their rest. 

Looking for the beginning is the only way to see there is no beginning, only a void with which we can more or less be in relationship.

Walking barefoot under the apple trees at dawn.

This hurt, it is too big to be anyone's alone, will you help.

At the Cummington Fair, sitting on a stone wall near the face-painting station, waiting for Chrisoula to leave the horse pull, I pray quietly to be forgiven all my sins, including in particular the sin of taking sin seriously.

In fact we actually have had sex in the barn, handful of times at least, it's overrated but still. 

Suddenly called to a new form of order.

Brother Singh reminding me that even ACIM must go, even the one who studies it so diligently must go.

Cultish.

Lords of the edge, too willing to be mistaken, too proud to be corrected.

Counting stones in the river, sorry for the trout who suffered, the bears whose hunger was not met in cool waters.

There are laws, not standards.

Where do you worship he asks, he means well, I cannot say what I want to say without alienating him, I say quietly "I try to carry the Lord with me everywhere at all times" and he says he will consider it, he can promise nothing more and for once, for now, it is enough. 

Morning kisses, must all anarchists be evangelical?.

Sloppy blowjobs apparently a thing of the past, may I respect our shared expression  - which disregards form - of longing.

Sitting a long time by the fire undoing what remains unhealed in us.

Remember friends?

Rays of sunlight at dawn appear as bridges you could follow all the way to Heaven if you were not so densely made.

Kissing her nipples, her fingers trailing up and down the back of my neck, nobody in any hurry anymore, this is what I wanted.

One wonders, one does.