May 27th, 2014

And when I closed my eyes one of the things I saw was you smiling into a sun
that would never cease. Hello. We have never met and yet you have taken my
hand and walked me through both fields and concrete paths. Your name was
vesper, at least one of them was, and when I heard your voice I heard the call
embedded within. Oh lady, how lovely and pure your white hands were. How
hard also, and how strong, your same white hands were. Hello, we have not
met, but if we did, I imagine I would have ducked from your constant blue
gaze, and you, undeterred, would have steadily looked until I could no longer
avert. These are just words, and none of them very good. Your daughter was
beautiful and gracious, and your son, still a boy, hunched his shoulders and
smiled. Both children smiled into the eyes of those who sought them out and
they seemed to know that they must be strong for all the wild people who had
loved their mother and drawn near to her fire. Your husband was tall and his
eyes were crinkled in the corners like tissue paper. Ingrid, I would have, I do! loved you.


 May 25th, 2014

The fabric frays at its thread-level from overuse and light,
gathering mass, almost experienced in the material, as the
material, wears through. Through this we find a waking, a
lucid mind. All the pebbles fathered by the stones and rocks
of the center of the world, they gather at these shores. This is
not the end. We are just growing through layer by layer by layer
and many people are left to be born and live these ideas into
their bones. We are the first ones; we will bring into this fight
new weapons and wise children who will see a wave for everything
it is. Break bread with me and let us laugh like a we are children
seeing rain for the first time. When you are tired, find the swell
of my breast to rest against. I have carved a place for your hand
in mine. My eyes are sharpened to your sight. I can almost see
the curve of your smile. It is not unlike my own when I think of you.

 May 23rd, 2014

We are athletes of words I say to them.
They don't buy it. I have to pee she says,
I'm going to write about that. Some things
are about the act of doing them, not your
enjoyment, I want to tell them. Some time,
not very close to this time, you will be in the
midst of doing something that you hate, or at
least don't like, and you will feel suddenly the
burst of joy that comes only from endurance.
There is nothing like sweat for cleaning your
conscience, and nothing like breaking muscle
to feel yourself, the very core of yourself,
as you are unadulterated. They don't know
many of the words I say, but, I think, they feel them.



May 22nd, 2014

My stomach cried all day, as it had every other day this week and I
wondered if maybe a parasite had moved in and was expanding and
pushing out the gut. It also felt as if a large hand of steal was inside
twisting my intestines around its thick fingers, as if they were curls.
I don't want to be caressed in this manner, please, hand of steal,
remove your touch from my lower abdomen.  Or, if you must stay,
stop forcing food up through my esophagus and into the toilet; I do
not want my teeth to decay before my skin has fallen from my bones.
This is a small thing to ask, I think, of an uninvited hand. Unless,
of course, I've got it all wrong and it the absence of thing, not the thing
itself, that hurts. I imagine a black hole pulsing with black light.
Through it, if you squint your eyes, you can see another universe all
together. But I cannot give myself over to the mysticism of pain today,
for I have worldly things to do. So, please pain, flee.