longer You
will not love me;
fundamental
logic blooms dearth
when I am no longer You,
Save You be no
longer Me;
freedom inhales
thee blooming
everywhere;
but fundamental,
logic glares unlovely.
our
hours
coming
going
adding
sub-
tract
in
g
ting
a
CT
ti
I
act
acting
tra-la-lactalbumin
g
ting
sub-
incr.
mental
scales
fall
from our
I's.
22 May 2009 at 10:22am
Secrets are delicious,
and should be kept,
treasured,
only shared with other
secret keepers.
Secrets are not ghosts;
rather, they are ligaments
strengthening joy,
ballasts as the the child's
imagination creates
their day. Secrets enhance
because
Secrets are not ghosts, but True.
Your delicious, private
trust. All yours.
22 May 2009 at 9:55am
, by deletion.
I would hope
my ghosts
do not
make me.
Open the books,
read them, write them,
set them a table,
invite their thoughts,
spread their jams
over toast with tea
keep, give everything.
Because it is
company and family;
Never fear
Greater Peace
carrying the tray, serving,
bussing and clearing
the feasts you are pecking
at. Do not be the ghosts You
believe you must Be.
slipped disk
in the still-forming womb
of Us, front
row to balcony
past the turtle grasses
mufflinggrown
the driving
nothingbreakers
foamingsimply
enter, enter
here the edges of the next
water's salt, the reef
baring the womb's
crest, the reef securing
our tanked oxygen, should
our faces look into
the mirror on the sky
and find the disk slipped
island Belize--
sunken galleons
full of gold.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009 at 9:42AM
soul is exquisite melancholy,
eons deep, light years black;
his music is The Flood
of the mountain ark
remembering the waters,
the view, the terrible olive
branch that said, “Land.”
Arable mountain the ship
disembarking your soul’s
grief from drowned friends'
laughter, your building while
they whiled and smiled
and said, “Pause for today;
the rain will not be so.”
But his exquisite soul,
melancholy, eons deep,
light years black, felt
otherwise, the design given
him to build,
my husband’s deep worlds.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009 at 12:45AM
of vulnerability
at close range.
It is far harder
than Frost's mending walls
outside, to stay in the house
and not scream throughout the house
or yell out the windows that the cleaning fluid
is suffocating the man. And the career accoutrements
are bludgeoning the woman.
Wires shorted, bulbs out, circuits flipped,
she will not shut up. she will not.
vulnerability during
renovation is going
to the place of reading
the directions out loud
to find the breaker box; all the while
pretending that electricity
was my broken nail and
not electricity stopping
our hearts.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009 at 12:28AM
is held,
its voice gone
long nothing--numb
its cry,
senses
absent,
it only
stares.
when your orphan
stares at me,
I am afraid
I've killed you,
and pick you up
again, feeling prayers and hope
that you will be not harmed by me.
though neither orphans, you nor i,
we live in papers stacked
for processing.
the birthdays are plump,
the holidays are good,
most dinners are enough,
but the orphanage and
our terrible neglect
has ruptured.
Monday, May 11, 2009 at 11:39PM
when i hear a sob,
there are many now,
i wonder why i ammm
not swimming, dabbing tears
of yours.
the rain is all for
us to walk, this morning's
side streets around and home,
cold once inside again.
I'm stiff. Cold and firm
and stiff and still
your sobs in tired heaves,
soft sighs from farther corners
in the house
where I have failed,
yet again,
to find you, echoing
our loneliness, this business.
Monday, May 11, 2009 at 11:06PM
today's airbag
expectant
she rear-ended the
front of her on the
the hospital to see her
rotator cuff
could speak of
the apple that
from too-
too-fast hands; or the other
getting older in
for mashing into
like the sports
the ground
we believed it would
the moment it
like the
returns with a
could speak of bruises
and soldiers and happy
quiet babies and old
new informants;
television in boxing
fingers caught in small
show immediate
show something has
is worth the body's blood
are tender on people,
fruit, off-putting soft,
soft.
Monday, May 11, 2009 at 10:53PM
Like bruising
the mother
when car
in way
to husband
after surgery,
we bruises;
like dropped
accidently full
or fruit
simply places,
good breads;
Bruises magnet
drawing closer
than be
at grabs.
Bruises headache
that thought.
We on
petals babies
and prisoners
and bruises
on rings,
on squishes.
Bruises healing.
Bruises happened
that NOW.
Bruises edible
in putting
soft
Monday, May 11, 2009 at 10:45PM
Like today's airbag bruising
the expectant mother
when she rear-ended the car
in front of her on the way
to the hospital to see her husband
after rotator cuff surgery,
we could speak of bruises;
like the apple that dropped
accidentally from too-full
or too-fast hands; or the other fruit
simply getting older in places,
good for mashing into breads;
Bruises like the sports magnet
drawing the ground closer
than we believed it would be
at the moment it grabs.
Bruises like the headache
that returns with a thought.
We could speak of bruises on
petals and soldiers and happy babies
and quiet babies and old prisoners
and new informants; bruises
on television in boxing rings,
on fingers caught in small squishes.
Bruises show immediate healing.
Bruises show something has happened
that is worth the body's blood NOW.
Bruises are tender on people, edible
in fruit, off-putting soft, off-putting
soft.
1-20-2009
knit one, pearl two.
Soft on skin.
pearls by swine knit
One, pearl Two.
why swine, Say I, except
for the verse of pearls before
swine. And E. B. White's Charlotte
spider, feminine, mothering,
spinning a word at a time
for Wilbur. Knit one, pearl two,
Soft of skin
that cares, that feels, that is
not a will burr sign.
A fat, stay through the
slaughter time, uneaten
though sweet and heedless
of Scarves in cold, needless,
for skin is so thick,
bristled, the speechless
smart, gentle grunts
knit nothing. Give
no words or begging.
Charlatans will burr white's soft.
Knit one, pearl two.
of ants walks out of a cupboard;
like a string of yarn wound between two hands;
like a string of notes connecting a melody;
like a string of gems around a chain;
like a string of hours in an evening;
like a string of steps on a path;
like a string of bait over water;
like a string of fire to a firecracker.
I could write myself, but why?
when the cupboard provides a picnic,
and the hands provide a partner,
and the melody provides a song,
and the chain may be daisies,
and the evening may be round,
and the path may be dizzy,
and the water may be cool, and still
reflecting, answering the Fire's Why?
Monday, May 18, 2009 at 9:06PM
to find the moon's craters not so deep
in places? deeper in others? Did the astronaut's
light, cold from the sun's fixed safety,
flatten the disappointments that surely would have been,
had their been color to see?
Or were the astronauts so grateful for their oxygen
they didn't mind finding anything at all?
Armstrong's breath of oxygen saying, "That's one small step
for man, one giant leap for mankind."
Or was the earth's and mankind's being there everything?
Monday, May 18, 2009 at 8:48PM
Saturday, January 17, 2009 at 1:31PM
Intimidating.
Can be.
Very.
The word "my"
creates its logic, whether
acknowledged or desired.
"My" "I" is reprehensible anti-chamber
to nothing. it's the vacuum
of clean
that is its only filth.
Intimacy shares
the nothing. It shares
what will not be clean
by logic. Intimidating
is spaces' uncovered, wound
insides. It is not spaces covered with heated
words or measured stars, that balance
"My" "I" nothing, vacuum clean.
"My" "You"
will make intimate.
The pretension of "us"
is not small light.
It is large.
Specific.
Heat.
Intimidating.
Very.
When considered with One other,
owning unwound "My" "I",
I tremble, sharing the
respect "My" makes.
Fearful. "My Bride."
Intimate God.
"My God"
embracing my vacuum,
making Himself
from my nothing,
purifying the heat
of my filth
to canopies
of stars with names
and parts
that He Himself
shall undo.
Ever.
Such light in a black face
all white in the triangle parts
of the eyes and ready
earnest "It's what we should
do, God is so good to us" to my
saying pretty, "It's what we get to do."
Such willingness in His light to give
the triangle parts of his back to bend
toward the heavy of my pretty
answer, "get to".
Such beauty in the black man
to bear the heavy of even
perpendicular, rough and heavy
everyday I watch un-bared myself.
A pretty cross, great
beauty in my black brother.
12 February 2009 at 9:58AM
I love God in a way
that shows that I think He
might die.
I love my husband in a way
that shows that I think he
will live forever.
That's backward.
Where did I learn that true love is mutually exclusive?
And where am I learning that it is all inclusive?
And who gets to say anything about it all?
Maybe that is why a marriage.
So a man and woman
may together
serve
the death
of themselves,
keep company through
the euphoric lies that feel like forever
is now, and death is just a nuisance of time, a sure rendering
of both to Equal One, surrendering good times, bad times, all times
for the *we* end of will-end time. Will-stop day. Will say No
again, because it is easier and shorter than Yes.
Our marriage is in this time together, and you will die, as will
I in this tired, groaning, reeling dance. God's Forever
is happening and to come. I think that means
that I can really love you as I dream
to love. And you, continue
please. Be Mine.
Happy Valentines Day
Monday, January 12, 2009 at 9:54PM
These matters are done singly, chosen for oneself. Other and Else has little to do with the owners and movers of said choice, space, want, substitute, shape or show of decision.
Slow of decision. Slow love of decision. Concrete perched.
I have wanted a dog for a long time. We have a cat. I wanted her first and, nine years later, got her. This past year, I wanted a dog so badly that I bought a fish. He was living last month when I bought the concrete dog for our front porch. Murray Halfmoon Augustbot, a Three Name fish like a baby or something. The dog's name is Haggai. He is loyal and concrete.
The thing about MHA fish long-name is that I said I wanted him, and so I was expected to keep wanting him--to show it, if that meant my solely taking care of him till death did he part. I didn't know that'd be yesterday or today. I didn't know he'd die on a full moon and half stomach, if he did in fact die yesterday of starvation during the full moon. He didn't look sick or toxic or anything.
I think he was starving, because each time I asked if someone had fed him, they'd say "No." (They had fed him from time to time.) I hadn't fed him (though I did faithfully at first), or when I had, he did not eat. Jay told me that MHA was cold; he was eating the plants I had put into his fishbowl; that's why MHA wasn't eating.
Murray wasn't eating the plants, but he was cold. Fact is, Murray wasn't a dog.
What must a fish day be like--if you're starving and a Halfmoon Beta starving to death during a full moon, when a raccoon is on the deck? (There was a raccoon.) Had he been a dog, Murray would have been impossible to ignore, impossible NOT to have fed. He would have whined or shown he was disgruntled. He would have barked at the raccoon, torn the furniture, pulled on a pant leg or skirt, ripped a shoe apart.
A fish isn't that interested, though. A fish isn't that capable of showing he's starving. Can a fish live long enough to starve? Is starving relative to life expectancy?
Is this why suicide rates are higher among the young? Intense sense of starvation? AS fish?
What is a fish day like? And why?
And it's just a fish.
Still—I’m glad I'm not a dog or a fish, or a raccoon, since I am literally NOT those other lives.
And glad I won't be our next fish or the pet dog we eventually get. God willing we agree to love who's home at the same time. At the same time.
Maybe . . . whining or barking or pulling or ripping or starving, half-whole in a full house. A fish?
My dog is on my front porch. I don't have to feed him. He's concrete. Who am I assuming is concrete that isn't?
Who and what am I not feeding? Is it because of at the same time and the family's got my little guppy covered? Is it because of why a fish in a flower bowl for an idealistic human who wants another species entirely, hoping a fellow same species will be able to pretend to be idealistically caring about totally non-communicative, silent, plant-hidden water filter?
Is a fish more?
Much more. To me.
This fish dying tells me that it IS about Me. What I want, say I want or choose to substitute for what I want, as well as how I choose to own or show or go after some thing (as fish or dog or interest), then reverence having it, is FOR ME to do. Heaven will honor Christ Jesus and redeemed common sense. Responsible—be fruitful and multiply. Babies or not. Be fruitful and multiply.
But for the people's sadness, the LORD destroyed them. Joy above their fellows—This is way more than fish.
off track and stopping
goodnight for now
Some thing I love in the old loves
calls me back, asking for another cat
to make the next 15, the next 18 years
persnickety as a pure breed.
I nip, and love this thing,
my old love.
We chose to drive to ashes the fires
we began in the old chimney.
Jay brought his Rover, and I
brought the s'mores, and together
we breathe, our house the world,
our chimney this free standing
masonry we'll find in any wilderness
where once burned a house.
The land outside is soft from rain.
Dig or walk as far as you can.
Stay a garden! If you just knew how
flowers wanted to grow, how strong their Lord
making their lives not at all depend on your enjoyment,
your sentences, your landings.
Soft or not is God's wanting you.
i. saying "Grace"
He said goodbye.
Today, she packed her bags,
left Missing Him.
His familiar voice
she returned in flowers—
grown by his hand, and bag of food
to cook for himself. Again
He continued as before he was himself,
saying grace
without her.
ii. Saving Grace
She said hello to Grace
today, unpacked her heart—
its Missing, to hear His familiar voice
returned to her in flowers,
in his hand, in grocery bags
of food for them. Again continued
as before she was what she did not see
was Grace.
the small bags
by the rear door
house green peace
from activities like
cutting vegetables,
opening mail, pitching
fast food cups and empty
milk cartons.
Most open the rear door
stands, these small pieces of
today in yesterday's
grocery bags.
altitude thins
the company,
as vegetation goes
from forests
to scruff grasses
and rock.
inside holds
rooms where people
dwell, covering
their cold,
their extreme
frailty with thick,
rising, sheer altitude.
Water that sank them,
their boats at the edge,
churkles as silks
beneath the skirts of the risen
thick and thin our
lungs walking
on water
the mountain holds.
O Dear God
the mystery
of collisions
one coming
out of
its mountain
into thee
speeding face
of another’s
switched tracks
sleeping many
through blood
and broken
bodies to You.
5:21 AM
Trains Two bodies to You
O Dear God
and broken
the mystery through blood
of collisions
sleeping many
at night, switched tracks
one coming
of another’s
out, of its mountain
speeding face
into thee