I am hemming the sorrow of a courser weave, preparing to leave.
~
Voluntary simplicity is nonviolent. Choosing to leave lesser forms of loving is also the cultivation of elegant minimalism. The singleness of unity is not scarcity, although I have not succeeded in convincing my ego that it is not terrifying. My deepest longing is for an “other” to share my life’s vision but maybe “God” is the only One who fulfills that completion. I am left in a state of perpetual heartbreak over the world, the ache of authentic intimacy.
slippery brown in the green rains create this blessed scene tasting it all are many small feet playfully they dance as the Nature greets
motherly comfort when they fall transforms to a bed as they crawl massaging their muscles with its grease readying future soldiers by acting as their lee
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How is this possible? You’re telling me, I can’t sit on the grass, collar popped and comfortably breathe in the fresh air? You’re telling me the polo match is canceled? What about the vineyard itself? Is it, too, closed to the public?
And what is “public” anyway? Children in stained shorts? Walmart? What about the private sector? What about the natural, organic spread of pure material? 100% wool vests? Unmixed cotton? You’re telling me we’re no longer invited?
I demand a refund. I wasn’t made to sit, holed up in some closet, only to wither away from society. The public pool may be closed, but my family owns a house on the lake. No, not the lake you’re thinking about. The lake. I’ve been going for years.
You can’t tell me to close up shop. I live in Tyson’s Corner. I was born for a high end lifestyle and I won’t tolerate quitters. You think you can tell me what to do? Who’s your boss? I want to speak to the manager.
I. As the fiery half-eaten orb melts farther into the mountains, the heart shudders in astonished jolts.
A gilded feast of morphing shadows tempts the pattern-hungry brain to arrange dozens of weather-beaten points into monstrous faces of jagged rock.
Vectoring like a maniacal dragonfly the eyes construct (and deconstruct) tensile bridges of silken meaning.
The shifting boundary of the rugged terrain slips in and out of focus; the cerebral cortex strains like an under-powered microscope scanning for a fistful of wind-strewn prions.
As night sounds alight from their distant cliff perches the velvet handcuffs of night ease onto the day’s dumbfounded wrists.
II. Right now, on the opposite side of the planet, day swallows night.
But here, as the crackling firelight concedes to the ashen skies, the entire mountainside heaves like a labyrinthine lung expanding and contracting, expanding and contracting until finally, in a subconscious spasm of breath-stopping resolution, a flood of imagination floats perspective higher:
twin spires spike skyward like the saber-toothed fangs of an 800 pound Smilodon populator, conjured larger than life to stalk the freshly darkened horizon.
III. It was as if, over the millennia, the beast had evaded extinction while scaling the mountain peaks from the bottom up.
As its rock-ribbed limbs slothfully stumbled skyward, an avalanche of tumbling stones lazily colonized the landscape below.
And now, the backbreaking journey complete, its insatiable jaws rise with the curtains of night to prey upon the starry skies.
Who can breathe
with words lodged between
ugly and uglier?
Send in the clowns
the skies are grey
laughter the medicine
a crying world deserves.
Someone trampled my flowers
stole honey from the jar
left bees buzzing around
a crown
I no longer desire to wear.
Spirits descend from tree branches
ready to spread fear
with mushroom poofs to hide a view
already hampered by night terrors.
Send in the clowns
the skies are grey
laughter the medicine
a crying world deserves.
Their voices rage
no longer bridled by JFK
or MLK
we face assassination
we waited too long to remedy
injustice for generations.
Greed
and disconnect
the snowy television screen
hides no tempered noise.
Send in the clowns
the skies are grey
laughter the medicine
a crying world deserves.
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a frayed shirt
hangs still
in the window
thought I had forgotten
that moment from yesterday
a silhouette of oak
climbs up the glass
frame of a moonlit eye
a color so shallow
jumps out of the pane
yet so deep it leaps
back behind the space
it fills with its
strange delight
and a feeling of something unknown
imposes its brief order
like a small bite
then slips its dark tail
back into the night
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