Notes from this week:
//
Why wood? the construction worker asked me….
“Wood is just a world
of memory and knowing.
It holds us, somehow in place
until we ourselves, remember, who we are.
The Cross was made of wood.
The ultimate juxtaposition. It’s a material meant to hold stories,
without splintering, recalling endlessly,
the ultimate story occurring forever.
Skin and bones of the right one, on wood
the memory of that wood still echoing in my bones…
tells us who we are.” Sorry if that was too deep an answer.
But we, definitely, need to work with wood.
Perhaps, i over explained
or responded on the wrong level
Still, wood matters. Let’s go with that.
 we clearly, need wood on that particular
counter top.
//
I’m not sure the difference between light and glory.
We are told to walk in the light, but to move
from glory to glory…
Perhaps glory is her contour.
In the meantime, which is where we all live,
this grilled corn
tonight in yellow texas evening light,
looks nearly perfect.
//
you gotta do what you are
then you’ll mean it.
//
across the street a young woman tends the elderly.
today they are watching rain fall
and being thankful in small ways
she often wears blue dresses
but unlike a nurse, for pleasure.
today, she leans over the railing with one elderly man
looking at a freshly wet blue bird
strutting around for seeds or something
the bird is startled to be seen, but then returns to his happy hunting
into the moist earth. today, i notice she is pregnant,
while caring.
//
write your own name on your loves
as they say
define things with your love
tell them, they are, they exist, they matter
the pen we write with is Love, the ink, His Blood. That’s how we contour things
into Being.
if you can’t tell something it is loved,
you can’t be yourself, yet.
//
europe is lonely.
in a dream, i come to her to listen. to be with,
her thoughts seem so deep and distant, as if
she feels irrelevant to herself.
i ask her what she thinks about at night-
“all that has come before
how did i get to this place
given so much foresight?”
we talk for many hours
i slip my hand into hers
as the sun, finally rises.
//
don’t pare down your life.
the old man said, then he went on…
i gave my wife a bucket once for her birthday
told her to fill it with things she wanted;
she chose chocolates.
i was happily surprised as she could’ve
filled it with car keys or diamonds
or anything else which made her smile;
we ate dinner, then made coffee,
and eventually made love, and then
 had chocolate for dessert.
////HE
 He went around shining, in a
simple, understandable, form.
People could mingle in His Light at will.
He was trying to make Love
conducive. To make a condensible tangible expression and compression
of “love
one another.”
Or, of Love itself.
He, a more exacting symbol.
/…
what we said here to one another, were pools of light,
to dive into, to become in, whenever.
the mediums hardly mattered…
just, wherever language made us
most likely to jump in! we gazed our way there,
then, we gave this to one another, for many seasons
until we all became ourselves,
eventually.
the morning was the sound of cigarettes and thought.
bereft of interruptions, finally.