Old Currency

Unexpected snow, you never know when or how the heart will break. Last breath, last vow. Journeys that reach mountains and end, journeys that reach deserts and forget something essential.

What begins, what cannot, ever.

Throwing hay to the blind horse, who in certain critical ways sees better than I do. What we place in the river - bits of the past, good intentions, confusion around fidelity, half-assed confessions - and how the river carries all of it away to the unknowing - the endlessly forgiving - sea.

What are promises, promises are old currency.

Toppling through forgettable dreams, waking to pee, shivering peeing, coming back to bed grateful, so I'm getting old so what. There is no such thing as death, there is not even such a thing as life. Winters around here ain't what they used to be. 

Settling old debts, facing North a last time again. Visiting my dead father out back - he likes the horses, likes the gardens, doesn't remember what winter is - to let him know what I'm doing with loose ends floating through the hereditary thread shop. 

We who travel, transgress, we who are transformed by our commitment to transformation.

Suddenly understanding how sex is the opposite of communication, becoming troubled then, deeply, but then - after midnight, alone with the stars in January - a distant light appears in the interior and jogs closer - it is Dōgen with his lantern! - and I am free then, we are all free. 

Visiting the fallen apple tree. The devil folds easily, he wants to fold, he wants to be enfolded, it took me lifetimes to understand this, I'm sorry.

My brother, my killer, my face in the mirror.

Snow falling in the swamp opposite the transfer station, on hills on the other side of the river, and far away in ways I cannot name or place. Never less, always this, and yet.

We who - becoming responsible for becoming Christ - learn we are Christ, who knew.