Morning. Throw hay to the horses. Village asleep, family asleep. World asleep? The only man in the cosmos who knows what shoes are for listens to cardinals in the still-unblossoming apple trees and later writes this: this this. Geese in the flooded cornfields a quarter mile way. I, too, shall try my wings and sing as I go into the light. How soft the earth is underfoot! Call it meditation or contemplation, call it happiness, who cares. I don't have to live the way I lived anymore: this is a critical insight we must all reach. Venus so lovely on the horizon brightening if I had a heart I'd carve it into an altar. Or say yes to Satan. Or is seeing itself the church? Shed the alb, twist the sword into a pruning share, stop murdering Isaac and all the other lambs. Jump! You taught me this and I've got nothing now but this. Let's talk, indeed.
Sunday, April 11, 2021
My destination, my peregrination. One day we will write the last sentence we will ever write and then what? The prismatic spiral opens and the cosmos replies accordingly. You take yourself pretty damn seriously he said, which I deemed merited no response which was, in a way, responsive. Playing piano on Friday nights in college, hiding with coffee in the fine arts center, a way of getting away from the politics of sex and drinking, but also a way of being quiet with something pretty, which I never learned to say is all I really want. A dog named Algonquin, a night beneath stars. Crocuses rising about the time we have to focus on crosses, or that one cross in particular, and the dead man rising in its shadow. Nothing happens, nothing is happening, and yet the stillness is so alive and creative it makes me weep. A lot depends on the language we use, and our willingness in the end to go beyond it. Nobody wants to say so but a little boy needs help and the man who wants to help him is confused about what comes next, want to talk?
Saturday, April 10, 2021
It's nothing, I'm an octopus.
Morning winds laying low fencing, setting loose livestock, driving us to crisis mode but days ago, lives ago.
Jacking off into her mouth, kneeling after to kiss the corners, clean it up, feed it back, tongue to tongue.
The thrill of being where one is only.
Vermont into Massachusetts and the other way around, and all the times we talked going back and forth, and all that we talked about, most of which I've forgotten, but still, Vermont into Massachusetts and the other way around.
Sunlight on phone lines, on the wings of crows, red-wing blackbirds.
It's nothing, don't worry, forget about the fluorescence, I'm a telepathic cephalopod, I got this.
Mummified strangers haunting museums and otherwise complicating our long study of death.
Not wanting to examine one's attraction to opals for basically obvious reasons.
Let there be light and also cattle parades on the Fourth of July and people that hate cotton candy as much as I do.
Let there be a woman just for me and also let me find her soon!
It's too pretty and amazing to be nothing but we can't tell anybody about it or they'll think we're crazy so we'll call it nothing but cherish it privately or in really small groups that can't be readily labeled.
Rain in me, sun in me, now and forever.
Walt Whitman in me silent before Jesus in me silent before Emily Dickinson reminding us what we're doing here and who's in charge et cetera.
Blue underwear that weeks later still makes me hard, closing my eyes and seeing her, back turned and arms upraised against the wall of her childhood home, hips undulating and - oh wait - am I not supposed to say this?
Straining at the fiddle, especially in 6/8 time (which Dan said never say again is just a waltz trying to get away from its father issues).
Still in Dublin in some ways, and still in some ways on the west coast near the ancestral village getting head in an open field surrounded by sheep.
"Lower your voice, you'll wake the kids," she says a minute or two before crying out into the pillows coming, loud enough to wake the kids.
Strange gifts we didn't ask for, can't refuse or return, yet late in life are revealed as compasses and charts which - oh right, I forgot, sorry.
It's not that the ocean is a church but that there's no such thing as churches, and not even really oceans, or octopuses for that matter, but we'll get to that in another poem because this is the twentieth sentence, this is where he says we have to stop.
Friday, April 9, 2021
It's easier without bandages, is what I can't quite bring myself to say but must. The church of childhood is full of new congregants and it's okay because we are called into the forest now where the old witch still wrestles with the twin pangs of hunger and isolation. Buckets of monkey tears in which blind eels thrash and convulse. Silvery moonbeams just after midnight. Names we are asked not to write lest certain someones suddenly fill in the gaps of a narrative so obvious you have to work to avoid seeing it. Train whistles, killdeer cries, deer leaping away. The heart has a cave in it, and in the cave is a pale lotus, and in the pale lotus is the Lord, holding the heart - which is the cosmos - in his cupped hands. Mid-afternoon _______ strips and ________ herself, telling me she wants to _____ me and _______ when I ____. The provenance of Eriugena's major works, coming again to the deep question of whether authorship matters and why. Whiskey-colored sunsets on the border. Complex games of hangman ending in _i____e. I'm happiest at dawn, just as the light is breaking, at peace with the interior Luciferian strategies and somehow still dreamy enough to see a way into your arms. What fools insist on, indeed.
Thursday, April 8, 2021
We talk about the ninth century, the last time I remember you as close enough to kiss. Irish theologians, warring Catholics, Dads with Dad issues making everything a thousand times worse. Crossing from Le Havre, we got drunk on champagne and threw the empty flutes into the sea, a wastefulness for which I still feel guilty. "If you miss the train I'm on, you will know that I am gone." A little gate that opened and closed, roads that snaked up rocky hills from the top of which Dublin was visible due east. My hands are as old as my father's were when I first saw how his hands were gripping the steering wheel, Vermont into Massachusetts. I say "Boston" and it means something different each time, like mercy in the middle ages. All roads lead back to God I saw, therefore you don't have to travel, and the happiness was sudden, indescribable and beyond possession. Sea breezes in the middle of town where we wait in line for clam rolls, cokes, all you can eat fries. Childhood is no accident! A blue sky, an open throat. A confession and more than that. Cash only. I'm here a while longer, want to talk?
Wednesday, April 7, 2021
I close my eyes and see you, royalty, high above me, like the sun or the sun's lover, a flame, fire, fucking the whole sky. What would have to happen to be together didn't happen and at a late juncture it's mostly okay because what else but okay is left. All those long drives from Vermont into Boston, getting coffee and smoking joints, listening to the Dead and Dylan, talking about the world we were going to bring forth, which we did not in the end bring forth. I'm last in a lot of ways, left over and lost, but you keep saying you see something. A handful of pumpkin seeds takes the edge off being hungry, but being hungry makes it easier to remember how to wait for God, so, you know, balance. Cosmic bus stops, angelic Patty Hearsts. One by one the many psychological hang-ups get resolved, and it's like dropping into a warm sea that has no bottom. Pearls on the tongue, oysters in the shallows. Ravens on the church steeple, sentences only you can write. Emptiness vs. dreaming. There was a question I was made to ask and the thing is, having asked it, I'm having a hard time remembering I wasn't made to answer it, don't need to wait, can shuffle on, even without you, right now, et cetera.
Tuesday, April 6, 2021
A crepuscular maple leaf that survived winter finally releases, spirals into bright air, and grazes the window in morning breezes while I write as if my life or somebody's life depended on it. The few times she got drunk, the high price she paid, and now look. What did Ken Wapnick say again in letters you didn't feel a need to save? Cats curl up in broad squares of sunlight that slip slowly up the bedspread and disappear as morning progresses. We are all traveling, we are all lost on highways we made out of memories and dreams. No woman, no cry, nobody knows the troubles I've seen, don't worry be happy, et cetera. If I slighted you, forgive me, and if you cannot forgive me, then at least don't forget me. There are holes in the sky that were clearly put there by God, often indicated by rainbows or starlight. I will wait in you, prayerful and grateful, if you will let me wait, and when you are ready, I will go home with you, if that is what you want. That is what I am saying, what are you saying. Om shanti om shanti amen.