Sunday, May 6, 2012


Falling drops me down another notch, leaves me flat out with questions of how and why. Then I ask to be pulled up from the mud by any low hand outstretched.

Upright, rolled over and red-faced, still stunned by sharp wet words, what remains but to acknowledge that this moment is among the final ones.

Go on. Get on your feet. Continue.

If a hundred and then a thousand agree, concur on the crimes, call out slurs, shun in unison, the vigil of the ignored truths can still exist outside this circle.

Upward then. Rise up.

Let go of the clinging. A hard heart gains only through its softening. An expanse between what came before and what might be.

That's the way I must now go.

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Rain Returning

Up-raised, in the wind, a fist. On comes rain slapping and seeping between knuckles. Fist, strong, defiant, head up as wind leans in.

And, in wind, now a palm, opened, accepting. Rain pocking on pink skin, flaying fingers. The palm becomes a face, red from the unrelenting.

Now a second hand rises like the first, twists and bobs, braces against the cold and wet, summoning an echo of old stories, of your life, of mine, of vanishing and the come back.

Let these slights slap me like god’s tears, the flood of every possible being crying out, everyone knowing we have now begun what can’t be stopped.

Captured, every single detail, and spilled in the mud, seeping into yet another storm. We are standing with both hands raised. We may sink below. We will be back.

We have always proven stronger the second time through.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Chairs at Sundown

Blue chair in the corner. He sits. Within himself, he rises and sinks, signaling presence with a spark of recognition, revealing retreat when his eyes take on the darting agitation of a man falling below.
During the rise just a minute ago, he spoke to his wonder on the workings of weather, dry and wet on the same day in different places, oceans filled in their sandy beds but not spilling out, rocks and mountains remaining rooted. He describes systems as finds them, and in them finds surprise. Then he sinks again.
In bed now, on his side, chatting with others that I can’t see. Desk chair empty and papers scattered. He has phantom friends in this place who come to sit by him as the sun goes down. A half dozen confer on pending re-organization; this room, his history, the ranking of his lineage, the order of all things past and yet to be. Facts split and connect with older drifting fragments, forming new transient wholes, un-tethered, notable until, like thunderheads, they release their shape and recede.
Wheel chair in his path. One of us on his left to steady him. Sit in this chair. Sister invites him, uses a singing voice. Assurances. This chair belongs to you. He wants to give it away, give it to his wife, give it to someone who needs it. He needs it. He needs very little. He needs everything. He turns and crumples to the place marked out for him. One of us rolls him out.
He shouts. Angry. Someone has lied to him. Demise! There has been a demise he says. A drowning in the pool. Why will no one speak to him about this death? A classmate, he says. A boyhood friend. Someone he knew. His body is seated as his mind roams. He roars. His magnifying glass sits a foot or so to his right. A book rests, face down, opened to the same page as yesterday and last week. He draws in air in small breaths, makes smaller words and becomes quiet.
Biggest loves, though few, find affirmation in completion. They say: I am complete in your life and you in mine. I am witnessed in your eyes and you in mine. They hear the omitted bits of language and can reassemble the whole of what once was. You do not need to remember these truths anymore. They have done. This house is warm. Quiet your fretful mind and be still.