from out of the tangle of grey

a small voice 

coming/going

it is not because it is pretty that i stop to notice it
it is because it is so painfully/beautifully temporary

existence, part iv

it is morning, (it is always morning except when it is not) the fog is heavy and we break out of the crust of shore, fracture ourselves from the particle of being and become.  outward we go unknowingly, knowing in our core only the pull of particle being through the long (if we are lucky) reverberating string that extends itself through our lifetime.  one day we will find the island and climb aboard, once again, that which is our home.

there is a crack in everything

that's how the light gets in (l. cohen)

how we break upon each other

will i always hear it in my ear?  her small voice broken:
 yes, mommy.  yes, mommy.  i'm sorry, mommy.

how we break upon each other.

she has gentled herself, surrendered.

(in truth:  lost.)

we are all losing.

 yes, mommy.  i'm sorry, mommy.


i'm sorry, too, dear.  the sorriest, sorriest, sorriest.

it goes out from me in waves.  i am only a pebble.

 yes, mommy.  i'm sorry, mommy.


i am sorry too, dear.

it is a cruel hard life.

(it doesn't have to be.)

morning

i remember his short white shirt sleeves 

as he walked out toward the field

how they left room for him

and how he occupied that space

or at least i think i do

investigation of self vi: history

this is my mother upon highschool graduation.  who was she?  who is she now? 

how many countless layers are there to each of us?

just how is it that we exist through our history? and how does our history exist through us?

investigation of self v: the snare of self

who is trapped where and by what, or by whom?

we are in the woods

we are in the woods and we have stopped, we have stopped our bodies, our bodies that had been working, had been moving through the deep snow, we are in the woods and we have stopped our bodies, our bodies with a story, they are friends of ours that we have brought together, introduced, but we are in the woods and have stopped our bodies;  at the base of trees we stare up and consider every inch of tree and every meter inside of every inch and just to the left of this and just to the right;  who knew all distance existed here? the trees imperceptibly moving at first, travelling across universes after a time in our eye, we are in the woods and we have stopped our bodies;  sound bends and curves and moves past shape and we leave our bodies to join it,  my soul rides like a hand the long bend of your swell, and your soul caresses like a tongue the inside of my arm, my throat, my stomach, the one i've just left behind;  how is it so? and yet this is how it is in the woods when we have stopped our bodies;

high up in the branches of the trees we nearly perch, but while we have stopped our bodies, our souls do not know how to stop;  almost, almost, and then beyond, we move forever outward and formless into light beyond, beyond, forever outward from the tops of trees.

existence, part iii

i come here to be here
(do you understand?)
i wake up and long to touch the world
any small poem i write or words that i mumble
these are my fingers, my hands, my spirit reaching out
any photograph i take is an effort of my body to move closer
but distance is an illusion - i do not move any closer
(nor do i wake up any further away)
only the longing is not an illusion
only the longing is real

existence, part ii

existence, part i

bearing it

it is a beautiful life

that we must bear