I have seen balls turn uphill, neither rolled nor thrown, when the world went upside down. And the streets grew wider making a way for thousands to walk abreast holding hands. Sheets removed themselves from lion-clawed chairs. Food and drink appeared on tables. Warnings turned into eyes wakening, dressing for time captured during the day. And the mudball needed just a light rub or two to become golden.
Hunger brings me to you thirsting for what is hidden.
I said, "The flower must die for the sake of the fruit." She asked, "Are you purposely being morbid to make a point or seeking to pollinate conflict?" I answered, "Just passing along the latest report from the stars." She said, "Without the first stars exploding into dust there would be no flower." Satisfied, I said, "I was hoping to land ourselves into the midst of an infinite regression." She said, "If that is the case then let us dance in the vastness of all that comes before us."
“I am used to making ink from my own blood.” - Abdulla Pashew I sighed with relief when evil passed by unaware of its existence while mechanisms for bringing goodness began to turn with the first bird call of the morning to raise the sun. Remaining anonymous carries ferocity yet dancing unknown steps for something calls the poets to liberate pens and letters onto pages stained with the marks of history.
Yesterday unbinds the conscience of today twisting happiness free from the pressed grip. Gripping hands wrench happiness away, claiming some divine birthright over all others. My right to birth claimed nothing and everything when I arrived from nowhere into expanse. Arriving, somewhere rather than nowhere, I learn how to be sadly dangerous. Danger and sadness merge silently when blood threatens to appear on white pages. No blood found on pages, black and white, means demands have not yet crossed borders. Borders demand to be crossed so as to unbind the conscience of tomorrow.
First cause of all that is of all that will be of all that was introduce pause before us as we go discipling furious to be known as ourselves by others. Amen.
We need differences in order to be most fully human, Say the wise, articulate theologians of the one g*d. I spend my morning walking the same path carefully Placed by the laboring hands of cement workers, Thinking beyond the advertisements inserted inside Mailboxes in countless ways by the systems of the world. A mourning dove coos for no apparent reason other Than to hear the sound of its own peculiar song. And the amaryllis sends two blooms colored with blood into the morning air to ask, What difference do I need?
To be released from the search for constant bedazzlement into a rest area along the road I have been walking for years. To cease contriving false romances with those things I do not own and will never have in my back pocket. To get out from under the bright lights of the big city and move, slowly, into a dusk where I can stretch.
"But smaller bundles - Cram" - Emily Dickinson I said, "On the way to loosening up, stumbling blocks appear at random encountering my understanding." She asked, "Do you want your days to be as easy as a bird of prey riding the air, upheld by nothing?" I answered, "I am looking for a way to share my joy of living so others may recognize what makes me smile." She said, "In this time, the difference between recognition and figuring out what matters lasts only as long as the time it takes for a tear to slide down a cheek." I asked, "Tell me, did yesterday's peculiar ending shape the melancholic words you speak today?" She answered, "Halfway endings and unfinished finales and hazy outcomes always, in the words of the poet, 'Cram.'"
stirring leaves of this morning return me to yesterday morning's memories