Becoming unrecognizable. Sitting on the back stairs with coffee, watching yellow clouds skate across the moon. I have not been a child for a long time, now I am not even childish.
Rain falls hard all night, I sleep on the couch, nightmare after nightmare, yet later, driving west on Route Nine bleary-eyed and unsettled, recall a dream of Dan giving me a letterpress chapbook of his insights on Dōgen. All day remembering the soft grain, and none of the words. My brother, my lover.
Half a dozen crows in the far field obscured by fog. Nacreous clouds, the inside of oyster shells.
What is moonlight to those who have yet to learn they are not imprisoned. How we are lifted beyond mystery into the neighborhood of bells, domains of joy attended by angels.
Remember Aunt Muriel's sewing room, all the colorful threads, puzzled how anyone could ever choose between them? Fingers trailing over every spool, lingering where coveting grew especially intense. Of course I love to watch you suck my cock, of course I like to caress your hair coming.
Roads following the river between hills. What staggers, flows. What never leaves nor ever arrives.
Bring your awareness to Sahasrara, the thousand-petaled lotus of the crown chakra and begin.
Falling asleep with Paul Watzlawick's How Real is Real on my chest, waking up to Chrisoula setting it down on the bureau next to A Course in Miracles, asking myself is this a dream.
Arguments passing, griefs abandoned. The devil undone over tea and a couple sentences of Wittgenstein. How happy I am in winter darkness! Between snowflakes growing old. Dancing a little dance the lesser goddesses teach to those who - without virtue or intention - remember at last the beginning.
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