The road I walk is neither ash nor sand ( Read more... )

The Lark Lies ( Read more... )

I'm driving with Christina (and another person??) on a scenic coastal route.  We encounter my coworker Chumlee who is driving the same route in his big-ass pickup truck which is, again, enormous. He offers us to ride with him, I get excited about this, as he's a fun guy, and hey, carpooling.  We climb into the back of the truck, and we start ( Read more... )

breath life into our old iron stove
and heat us in the cold

Woke up this morning from a dream where my priest had encouraged me to check out the liturgies of other religions, to give me a broader sense of world religions. I went to a buddhist temple: a long, fairly narrow room, clean and cleanly decorated, with a similarly proportioned marble slab running through the center.  Around the marble where old ( Read more... )

unsteady are my feet
unsteady is the ground
unsteady are the doctrines and
unsteady is the sound
I drive into the deeper earth
and finding only ground
I tear my nails with digging and
the finding finds unsound

#1 - I'm in school at a table with mike s and another person.  He's in a state of real angst and confusion, I offer consolation.

#2 - I'm remembering the previous dream in another classroom with Justine P.  I'm moving through the sadness of remembering the dream and missing Mike S and she's consoling me on it.

We had such plans for this morning.  Christina and I were to work on building the second chicken coop, harnessing the cool air while we could.  The problem was, I fucked up.  Riddled with anxiety and some existential pressure which I find difficult to describe, I stayed up late, later than I should, reading news on my phone under the covers, ( Read more... )

hands to the clay, light grey clay;
hands dipped in water, shape the form
lift first, then narrow, together and apart
portrait of a memory, a curve and a dimple
next a finger into black black ink
draw it upon, right to left
thread my hands in and back
gently I hold a face, cold and new
the ink drips down, from eyes
to nose, to chin, to you

Going strictly by a calendar's measure, this isn't Spring yet. But I can drive with the windows down, and I'm wearing an undershirt while doing some writing on the front lawn, and to me that counts as the first day of Spring. I went into the barn and dragged out the best lawn chair we own, so I could write while the sun came down.  Not too long ago ( Read more... )