byWednesday, September 12, 2012‘Tis true, the skull is held aloft each night -nostalgia bleeds down the inside wristlike molten wing-glue,yet the metaphors won’t mix in this emulsion:there is no sun here; there is no chance of flight,the hawk and the handsaw are known apart.A straitjacket is typed and named a poem,grief kerned tightly, a weave to filter the passage of madness,and, as though pinned beneathed the vocabulary of forms,Ophelia gags in the stitching.This poem blisters into a catacomb. A mummy’s curse.Every other poem is a virgin’s unravelled womb.A patriarchal tomb. A view with a room.Perhaps a pride of feminists will deconstructthis poem to reveal its penis, obscured by the symbols –it is only the wittiest lioness among them who will yellthat she scraped the interior of each wordand the shavings didn’t hold a trace.Truth is, it was the virgin who was crucified, with child.The son, indivisible from the vanishing mother.The death of the light of the world.Tonight I’ll brave the crumbling parapet,anxious for an audience with the ghosts of my fathers,and hum a hymn for your every barren dream of Elsinore.Barren Dream Of Elsinore
byThursday, July 5, 2012
Live through your Wound.
Allow your monsters to leap and crawl through it repeatedly: let them devour you time and time and time and time again.
Gather the edges of your Wound to you as though a blanket – comfort yourself there, warm yourself in the jet of Hurt that bubbles and spurts like a fountain of Truth.
Meditate on the essence of Wounding, until Wound becomes mantra. On the Emptiness of Wound until Wound becomes Nothing. Until Wound becomes indivisible from Self.
Be the Wound.
Fully inhabit the Wound. Master the state of Woundedness, and therein, all of the possibilities that infinite themselves.
Invite others to your Wound. Fuck there – time and time and time and time again. Have them locate it as the center through which your Love is illuminated.
Love through your Wound. Love only from the safety of your Wound. Convince others that Wound is just another name for Love.
Look upon another’s Wound, then back upon your own. Compare Sufferings. Compare stories. Create better ones.
Or Heal another.
Discover that it is impossible to Dream through the wound.
Dream.Be The Wound
bySaturday, June 2, 2012The votive burns, and basksthe hermitage in tranquil light:yet there is no calm for meditation.What sage could still the mindwhen every fire of the body is restlesswith the burning knowledge of your heart?All prayers and mantra land clumsilyon the pillar of your name: your name, tonight,holds heaven aloft from the earth.Love has covered my mind.It has altered my discipline.Love has erased me from myself.Each ritual is emptied of meaning;sleep is a valley full of startled meninto which I fear to descend.In the small hours, the truth:The name of my heart is no longer my own.My beloved: your name is sheltered there.The Votive Burns And Basks
byFriday, June 1, 2012My heart saw your mighty presence:you walked alone by a riverthrough a forest of slender birches.Your skirts could not silencethe desires of your golden legs,nor could the whirling waters dousethe ample fires of your passion.While sounding out for love,the bell of your body rangin perfect pitch.Inside the resonant truthof longing,the bell of my body awakened.Twin soul, guide me to this water’s edge,so we may know this vital harmony,may know this third body, born into communion.The Bell Of Your Body Rang
byThursday, May 31, 2012These, then – these are the fragmentsthat cannot be unknown,shards embedded so deep in the structure of knowing,that knowing cannot cease.We have exploded on impact,the slivers of our joint perfectionare like slivers of an ancient language,each talking to our longing bodies:the lyric of the blooming earth;the green world, and desire;the song of the booming, thumping life.These, then – these are the fragmentsthat cannot be unfelt,no matter how far torn or scorned,that forever call us backto all of feeling.Slivers Of An Ancient Language
byTuesday, May 22, 2012Perhaps, wide-eyed, you‘ve heard it,your heart pressed hard against some tiny world:a celebration bursts clean from a lily‘s bud,or the flash of plumage from a diving wren.Love draws itself from the sonorous earth,and rouses like a waking god.Listen: it sings at once from the thickest rocks core,and strongly from the ocean‘s coldest deep;is present as the canyon opens wideto receive the naked glory of the sky.The sequoia rises from a gnarl of rootslike a giant vibrant length of praise.Put down all cold books that snare,stifle all verses that barb and numb,to join hands with life is a hymn in itself,bare feet in wild dust: an answered prayer.The divine thrives in the world as sense:no word or name can form its tongue.The sunlight, pooled and gleaming warmin the cleavage of a lover‘s breast,and touch, closer than caressing light itself,holds its secret like a sacred flame:our bodies merge as the Word of God -into love we dissolve as divination.Closer Than Light
byMonday, May 21, 2012It is not the heart that encloses the beloved,but the beloved that fills the void of the heart.The flower, too, opens its lovelinesson the Earth that is itself in bloom.Let us wish we may be equal to the moon,that all the light we receive we give away;or in being equal, we are one with lovein flowing ceaselessly again into the world.The Earth In Bloom
bySunday, May 20, 2012Without regard for death or for previous battlesand their fierce toll, you must go out alone to the badlands.You must go out alone to the badlands,as if to meet a band of barbarians, or a thousand moaning tigersYou must go out without armour or scimitar,without a moment’s training in the art of the fightYou must go out without a feeling of impending doom,as though to be clad in all of vulnerability was to be clothedin all of courage.You must go out, you must go out to meet lovein the open, not as a warrior, but as a hopeful child.You Must Go Out
byFriday, May 18, 2012I.I wished that I could tell her, but in transitone can only ever be rooted in the trauma they are doomed to hold -that is the constant companion, the undeciphered ballof terror (for some, manna for others) – the monsterwhich is constantly rebirthed. How many times will we meetand I be different? How many hurts will be dragged like anchorsinto each new life that I am harboured by, how many wonderswill roll from my tongue to transform into detritus or flaw?She asked me who I was, as though uttering a curse.I quoted a tree I knew – simply stood there: still; incomprehensible.II.There is no clear answer that the talons can give:your life, dropped from great flight and tenderised,will make your crumpled body sing the chorus of all pains known.This is the wilderness one never wants to dream of.The patina of your blood oozed onto rockattracts the same crowd that seeks all glittering things;your soul is touted as a vial of tonic for every ill -you’re a life-changer, a commissioned little factory of happiness.She asks me to become the beast. What if I already am?What if it is all I can be, to grunt and love loudly?III.All this reckless babbling after identity: if in love we are not consumed,we become the unreliable narrators of our own lives.Nothing happens to us but through us – the self collapses,disintegrates – the thumping question is never who,but how love is to be made from the disintegrated self,never how the self is to be constructed from love.Anxious to believe the immeasurable perfection of it’s own legend,the lame ego must whimper, for the answer is a splintered crutch.I become nothing in love – by love I am liberated.Those who seek must know they are looking for nothing.By Love, I Am Liberated
byThursday, May 17, 2012— for JanieIn my not knowing how,in my not knowing why,grace has gathered me upfrom my careful life –has filled me with strange condition.Love has claimed me.The wild bird of your freedomhas taken nest, by choice, upon my hand.In its rejoicingthe wild bird of my heart has taken flight.How ancient this fever’s warmthin its clinging to the body;how ancient this spreading of wingsinto this void above the earth,into this vast sky of the unknown.The wild bird of your freedomhas nestled, by choice, upon my hand.In my not knowing how,in my not knowing why:love has claimed me.Wild Birds