Monthly Archives: January 2010

Dear, what you’re imagining–if the colors came through

Been reading this book about spiritual solutions. Keep thinking: yes! yes!

And how positive thoughts have higher vibrations.

Everything moves. Or if not, goes stale.

So I sat in the bath, read, thought about you.

Perhaps you’re grumbling before bed, writing though your fingers are cold because the space-heater just isn’t working properly in your home. And though you love the cold, as you told me once you do, the night seems to stretch on for ages. A long field in Wales, perhaps, though there are no sheep and the side of the road is not littered with hedgehogs.

Perhaps you’re trying to write despite the cold. And thoughts of work, of the bus, or even the Liverpool sun, which hasn’t shone its face in ages, crosses your mind with a weight heavier than when he left.

But can you see it! Just in the corner,


An imaginary beetle. Count on it the fingerprints of God. Tiny at first, then larger, until whole rooms swim with them, laughing at the windows for trying to keep out the goodness of things.

I wish you could see the words I want to say.  And no amount of writing could place myself there. Or you here. Or us in Yorkshire like we always said we’d go. Probably not. The colors of words don’t exist yet. Such as, when I say


the biology of words, unknown.

Imagine us in India, trying to find the Mother to word-bodies!

I said I would write.

Perhaps you’re waking.  And your orange scarf is missing.

The beetles lie unattended. And something keeps calling in your hipbone.

Cold, you think.

It’s just the cold.

Or the tips of things turn blue. Like some coral eye of whatever desire cooled when sleep left its body for yours.

But I tell you: the bus spills with love-gone-depressed. Look at everyone’s hair!

And the shoulder of the road holds its body to you like  prayer.

Don’t keep things to yourself..

And now you’re writing the sky’s love for you in the window, blue fingertip pressed to glass.

And now the sky, grey as ever, keeps secrets from the shoulder of the road–your collarbone,

left in a field of orange scarf–

your body, a bluejay

trapped on a wire, on the fence-line, a score-sheet

for beetles with the finger prints of God, first small, then larger,

until the breath of the bus toward Liverpool sings

a song I know you know. I know you know I write

what you’re imagining–if the colors came through–



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Passing Through San Angelo the Other Day

….I was living in Greenwood when my Grandfather died,

and this guy, James, came in, wanted to buy the farm.

Oh, his family’s big ranchers, cotton farmers. Smart.

Always thought he had an alternative for befriending widows,

trying to buy land after the husbands die.

Now he’s been dead twenty years. Got kicked in the chest by a donkey.

Lived in a simple house, though. No one’d ever know the man was rich.

Kinda like my friend, Larry, told you about him. Recently got a divorce.

He carries around thousands of dollars in his pocket, cash.

One time, someone’s granddad was sick, so the family took him to a VA hospital to die.

He gave 50,000 dollars cash to the grandkids. Just carrying it around in his pocket,

looking for reasons to give it away.

Larry amazes me. Hard to see a 60 year old man go through a divorce like that

right before Christmas.

I called him around 8 at night.

My wife left me, he said.

I said, Tomorrow morning, I’ll pick you up.

His wife got in with a religious cult.

Can’t get ‘em out of it. Brainwashed.

She had it made, too. Cadillac SUV. And her sons,

who aren’t his kids,

he gave them all salaries.

The mom won’t even call her own kids. And he’s left

having to tell his stepsons their mom’s joined a cult.

Married 40 years and then someone changes. Don’t even know the person.

Sad deal, man. I don’t know how he’s made it.

I think he thought about killing himself.

I said, man, look at all you’ve been through.

He was working in an oilfield when he was younger, in the summertime.

Something went wrong with the rig. Lost his leg.

Went on to get a civil engineering degree. Done a lot of good in his life.

He’s something like a 26th degree Mason.

There’s lots of secrecy with the Masons. You have to be asked to get in.

But you know, when he met his ex wife, she was a waitress

with a drug problem.

You don’t wanna try to save somebody.


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Dear, There’s a little death


This is a little death, which will give birth to a newness you’ve been waiting for.

I’m waiting on my next death.

You’re not self destructive.

Things are being held for you. You’re being held. You can’t see that now, or sense it, but its there.

All the pain, what you perceive as “mistakes,” are working toward building more of you, who you are and will be.

It’s good to feel failure or pain–even that is a joy–because growth requires it, structuring requires it.

The strength of voice requires silence. Moving-toward-othernnes sometimes requires stillness.

Perhaps longer periods of stillness are actually a faster moving-toward.

Assessment–though in the end futile–is, at the same time, necessary.

I say these things with a knowing I can’t explain–a rooted knowing that will not shake.

And yet, I don’t write because I presently know–that’s impossible.

Present-knowing is so false!

I know nothing, and that’s where anxiety blooms–the dread Kierkegaard loved as his own shadow-birth death,

and this is why, while writing these words to you, I at once know, and shake in fear in my own unknowing when it comes to my own life.

I can say– I am depressed, I fear it won’t lift. Or,

I am here, counting my regrets, afraid the Muse has abandoned me. Or I can cry

about trails in the Universal wood, wonder if I’m lost–

because from my limited space, vantage point aimed inward, the vision is blurred.

There’s a magnetic interference of sorts when we try and evaluate our own lives, selves–

the masks we exchange from moment to moment.

But for others, there’s a mesa where we can see clearly the rooted-truths of Universal gladness, Universal holdings.

I know you are held, and knowing this, a still small voice says that I am as well.

But we can’t fully believe our holding– that’s why we need others.

Independently, we need each other, for there’s a higher place others can stand to see our paths that we will never reach to perceive our many selves.

So, tell me more about your lack of inspiration and why words fail you at this moment.

They won’t always.

I say this with conviction as though I could tell myself the same.


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