I held that, indeed, the higher was better than the lower; but better than the higher alone, was the higher and the lower together.
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Today something fell
inside me, I heard it crash.
For a moment I'd been distracted
by the intimacy between
autumn and sunset,
and let go. I don't know
now what I'll do, because
there's a kind of ambush happening
and I've got to save what I can
of who I am.
Not to say fouled, but folded as
the wings of a downed kestrel, as wind
gone from the oxygen bellows
when the family says done.
But if you must, say it: a virtuous idea
may be fouled by prejudices and need
while the heart, fouled by fear, will
howl and destroy what's near.
Life Path Rest Stops
The priest held open
the young man's
fly, airing out
his nest of notions
about love &
That I care for you
is unnatural, she said,
& God will make
If you save the world
before you save
yourself, there'll be
no place in it
My body pities me,
she whispered, & pretends
to be drunk.
So bereft of beauty,
he found an
in a mosquito
near his ear.
this blossom has
its own star.
Between each breath
we learn to worship
Love is the only
Mud Wrestling the Angels
I'm warning you, this is a fantasy
about angels. But first some preparation:
it's best to think how leggy insects, trapped
dancing in golden sap, become esthetic moments
fossilized, become amber. I may not have the time
sequence exact, but every week, about 3 a.m.
on Tuesdays, our entire class of questers would disrobe, then spread
their limbs and torsos with molasses. Some needed help.
Who it was first knew angels liked watching us
move thus in the nude, move behind the sweet amber glaze,
that I can't say. But this was only part of it and, I suppose,
was pleasure enough. The angels also liked the mud we made.
It was a special mud, combined of gingerbread cookie crumbs
and spirits. I'm sure you get my pun. Really, though, it was rum,
and we kept it warm. We poured into a horse watering tub
the sticky mix, that spirited mud, and they'd literally dive right in!
We'd see the lumpy pond part as head and shoulders
went deep, their hips and legs following. An angel
might be submerged for awhile (some seemed
to like it under), then we'd see shaped empty space emerge
from the brown surface, pasty cookie smears clinging just enough
so we could guess a celestial face, a neck long and godly elegant.
We'd know they were smiling, and licking their lips.
Then amongst us they'd stand, they'd dance.
That's how molasses brought the angels.