Tag Archives: love

4 million pens and a pencil

4 million pens and a pencil picked me out of a crowd.
I was not in a line up but they were aligning and the lines they drew
made a net and only one line could be erased.
I walk that line because I love the soft graphite path.
The path is in the internet of calling.
Granted, the information can be static, stored
in those warehousing machines on some piece of land.
But don’t be fooled by the ones and zeros,
their apparent conformity,
their nesting among themselves but not touching.
They vibrate to get close.
They send off signals, tiny as they are.
They go out at night in a tribe called 10,
and have such legs as wolf calls can’t even.
You did not know that shimmying was the love of your hard drive.
Go home.
Something in the inbox of your pillow vibrates
just before dawn and you won’t remember that is
why you woke up in love.

Those Thieves Who Wake Me Up

Rather than being overwhelmed by the number of writers writing their hearts out
I could join them in this hang gliding,
this trench digging,
this tree trimming.

Rather than be jealous, or fearful, which are the same thing, like fraternal twins,
I could pull together these years of punctuation like flotsam on the river in spring breakup:
Ice flows are temporary and edited by seasonal heat
and riverbanks
and each other
and the lake at the mouth churning milky, milky brown.

This trimming happens at night, too,
when I dream of desperate lads stealing my hard drive
and wake up remembering I have an external back up.
Maybe the back up is the love of others for the punctuation and other signs of life.
Back up is remember.
Love does remember me.

My heart is climbing to my throat.
The green place in my throat where my voice purrs quietly waiting
is married to the green place in all the other throats.

The spring heat is present at night when it is still cold but not freezing.

I love those thieves who wake me up to what I forgot I had.

Skating in the Morning

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Love.
Integrate the research.
Dream the bright shadow man who asks a question,
gets an answer
and continues on his way
not needing to be nice
and polite
and stalled
at the intersection.

The top of my coffee is a micro-climate,
a biome of steam trails on the brown sheen.
Hot skaters cut across the dark, circled in ceramic.
I blow them into swirls and then tip them into my mouth.
I can be a morning monster, too.
I can smile and chuckle and swallow.
No one, to my knowledge, is injured.
I walk away,
the powerful mouth of destiny.
I am a humble monster and say a prayer
of thanks and request:
May there always be more skaters and coffee and heat.

This is the other side of love,
the consuming, the ingesting, digesting,
letting fall away the unnecessary,
discerning what the hell that is.
So many looking for meaning
and I say from my detached brain:
We make our own meaning.
Then I’m stung,
the dream of the Buddhist yellow jacket wasp
teaching outside the church.
My dreammaker called that in,
a balance to this meaning making:
a lover’s opening to the facts
and a happy monster’s spitting out bones of the past.
All these monsters and lovers inside the source,
the Great Mystery.

I want to feel it in my skater body
and stop grieving for the bones.

When we channel the souls of the incoming
it is a sacred thing.
We need to be clean.
We need to let them choose the best landing pad.
We need to surrender
to our own strength,
commit to serve the path of possible.
The shadow of our human world is resisting the wise
monster mouth and eating all the wrong things,
never full.
Spit out the bones and let them return
to the constellations,
or mountains,
or reefs
of possibility.

Feel this heart yearning.

Preparing,
asking directions,
walking.