Monthly Archives: May 2010

God speaks in text messages too, apparently

Lately, I’ve walked into the door of things, waiting for a voice. Holding out for what will come to me.

And it will come, I say to the bird. It will.

But inside I worry that I am not in touch with It. With what You want me to say.

Wait. I hear wait. But break my fists against my own chest. Breaking into impatience.

Still. Stay still, and it will come.

Tonight, I grabbed a beer after listening to various iTune podcasts, searching for something to speak to me.

Learn Hebrew. Listen to various theological arguments about Jesus. Who was he? Christ? Son of God? Rabbi? Heretic?

Carl Jung’s Red Book delivered today. I flipped through, read:

“The years of which I have spoken to you,
when I pursued the inner images, were the most important time of my life. Everything else is to be derived from this. It began at that time, and the later details hardly matter anymore. My entire life consisted in elaborating what had burst forth from the unconscious and flooded me like an enigmatic stream and threatened to break me. That was the stuff and material for more than only one life. Everything later was merely the outer classification, the scientific elaboration, and the integration into life. But the numinous beginning, which contained everything, was then.

When I have spoken to you.

When I spoke, you listened. Signs dripped from the trees like honey. Nothing kept me back from the speak of you.

Listen, today I walked toward myself, unknowing. Unaware that I was walking toward her, I said, let me be filled. Though I thought I was empty. Though I thought I could leave and not be missed.

Just last week, I said to You:

My chest won’t stop hurting and I’m convinced I’m killing myself.

Part of me worried because part of me doesn’t care..

People think I’m happy all the time, but I’m hiding from my demon.

If I was better at things I’d have killed myself by now.

I’m able to see the child in you. I can’t see the old in me, just sheet rock.

If I said “I want to die” most people wouldn’t believe me.

And You answered back:

The closer we get to speaking the truth
the closer we come to whatever it is that says,
“TRUTH MATTERS.”
And if Truth Matters then it is not all for nothing.
Sometime that’s all I know for sure.

Ashamed, perhaps, but myself was answering in you. And today, I see the land of myself, open in flower before her own prayer.

Thank God I am not “better at things” or higher than the ground You placed me on.

So I listen to podcasts, waited for signs. Though you say they drip from the trees like honey.

Text messages.

The man I’ve never met texts me as I drive from the 7-11 after buying a beer, thinking “what have I done today, but search the web for God and avoided hearing You?

Man: Getting drunk and thinking of poetry

Me: Me too. I can’t write anymore. Doubting if Jesus was the son of God or just a prophet.

Man: So glad I met you.

Me: I’m glad I met you, too, though we’ve never met.

Man: Jesus was a great presence in the world. We are all sons and daughters of God.

Meanwhile, my iPod plays Chopin, and I am drinking a beer in my parked car, outside my house, thinking, I should be writing.

Facebook status update, in between sips of beer. Feeling lighter than before. Perhaps I am Jesus, too. Blackberry messenger smiles, notes a friend said something.

“I’m sure there’s a reason you’re not writing right now”

I respond: yes, writing is about faith/waiting.

And I think, why am I so impatient? Who am I to want the words to come to me?

So I say, be grateful. “God speaks in texts, too, apparently”

And just then, a buzz.

Mom texts, says:

Do you remember the Dr. in Fort Worth that did your sinus surgery?

Me: Jay Palmer. He checked my hearing levels, too. I’m 30% def in my right ear. Maybe that’s why I was so loud as a kid.

Mom: What do you mean, “was” so loud?

Me: I knew u were going to say that! He also said that’s why I’m sensitive to low frequency noise. So I wasn’t lying when I said I could hear Austin’s music from my room! LOL

Mom: You are a mutant.

Me: I’m “special” like in my poem about as a kid I thought the ringing in my ear was angels, turns out it was from years of ear infections. People love that line. They laugh.

Mom: Still could be angels. You never know.

Me: Prob is angels. I liked to think I was Isaiah. I named all my beta fish Isaiah as a kid. Who does that?

Mom: did you know Amber?

Me: Yes, I went to school with her, why?

Mom: Amber was married a yr ago and was living in Illinois. Her husband was out of town last night. She had an asthma attack and asphyxiated. She called 911 but it was too late. She’s brain dead.

Me: Oh my God!

Mom: They harvested her organs and pulled the plug this evening. Pray for them and stay alive!!! This is every parent’s nightmare.

Me: I will stay alive as long as God wants me to stay alive. I will pray for them. I love you.

Mom: I love you too.

Chopin still on iPod. Still in my car, Blackberry buzzing, my head in a lightburst.

The man I’ve never met texts again, now, says:

I’ll be going home soon. Home…I could fade away.

Me: You won’t fade, but dialate into joy.

Man: That would be perfect. I am hindu.

Me: You are you and perfect.

Man: You the same. I am ok with no longer suffering.

Back in my room, thinking about Amber, the text messages, the lines reaching out. No longer suffering. Harvesting.

Not that I am fulfilled by today, but the day is fulfilled by me. Step toward the door you’re most afraid of. Wait. Soon, the breath is last and in it, as Jung whispers in the corner: “the numinous beginning, which contained everything.”

Just last week, I wrote to You:
If I was better at things, I’d have killed myself by now.

But I am not better, I am nothing. So the current keeps me listening. Text me, God. Text me that life is not mine, but Yours.

Seems you’re listening, You say.

I try.

Just last night, I thought, why not do it? Why not hurt myself before You as an offering?

Of what? You said.

Myself.

I already have you.

But I think I’m more than that. Think I’m more than this breath.

Take it away, or let me have you, You said.

For I will speak new things you have not heard.

I guess I wanted to die because I thought I wasn’t needed, really.

Die, then. But keep your body here.

Write on the walls, in eternity, I have no name. This is dying. Into me. The Universe, Child.

Truth. Text me.

Of course. All you had to do was ask.

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That’s a lonely desert

You have told me nothing is coming to you. That when you wake, it’s as though someone else is home within your body and perhaps you’re somewhere in a loft, counting spider webs, listening to wind and shadowy things.

You write that your mind has left a space you cannot fill, though you try, drugging up snails and bits of words as you walk to the bus stop. I know. And have avoided writing about it, have slept for hours instead of stare into the blank page to answer you, because I, too, am off somewhere counting the geometry of spider webs.

Honestly, I hope that’s where we are, you and I. That our bodies may be in mud, but that we are somewhere higher. Though shadows persist even there, as we count the webs given to us.

When will this lift? You ask. Ask me tomorrow. Today I am wandering, like you.

When was the last time a current came to your door? Perhaps it is coming, but still distant, far off and crying “faith!” I hope.

Because this morning, in the bath, I caught a moment sputtering by, shadowed in a mess of pain. Poor thing, it could hardly walk. It was crawling in the wood paneling, whispering. It was taking it’s own skin and shedding it.

I know what that’s like. The desire to peel away the excess of day, the film of boredom. Self-induced or not, it’s alein. The moment kept circling, crawling, whispering, peeling, bit by bit, its own skin away. Reveal! I said. Go on, let us see what’s under you.

Like when I woke, arm next to me. Wanted to scrape, see if I could get a bit of bone to show through. But flesh is flesh and my mind is off somewhere I cannot reach. Perhaps with you. Perhaps we’re singing and we don’t know it yet.

Don’t you feel a shadow hanging over you? You asked.
Yes.
When I lie down it builds mountains on my chest so I can hardly breathe.

You say you want to fight against the alien inside you. I know.
When you speak, it’s void, when you write, it goes nowhere, reaches no one.

And that’s a lonely desert in which to have no resources, no moon or cactus flower to speak to.

But the current is coming, and whether you drown from its power and never find your body again, or it trickles in, slow and with tenderness, it will come, speak your name, give you back to yourself.

Lie down. Be dead. Still. Tear skin away. Hear minutes unhook their scales.

When will this lift? You ask.

Ask me tomorrow. The shape of things vortex at my door, too. If I go one step nearer to inquire, I might drown. Sometimes the questions feed the shadow. It grows into what looks like starlight, what parades as promise.

And that’s a lonely desert. Thinking your next word will be what saves you.

Lie down, I told myself.
And I tell you this, too. Be still.

The alien inside? Don’t fight it. Let it breathe. Tear skin away in segments. Minutes will unhook their scales and we may never feel real again. This is what it’s like,

daydreaming of cactus flowers to speak to. A moon.

I’ll answer. Step nearer the vortex. Call myself from the loft where I count geometric webs.

Shadow, I answer back.

Wait. A current is coming.

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Let it be done to you

Let it be done to you,

night, grace,

whatever is left–let it

sleep, bone-heavy. I’ll lift it

by morning, spinning

out the mouth– you’ll think,

God did this! yes!

Through this woman’s hips!

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Tell me what this says: 106-16-8888888

I know I haven’t written to you for a while.

The paths I walk each day numb and abandon the beauty I could sing.
But your body is the desert in which I wander, idly listening for howls, counting them, placing a rock before my feet just to stare. For hours. Undo this.

I wait for your body to sing, or laugh, or tell me secrets.
The other day, driving from a job interview, the hunger for more intensifying to the point of reaching through my fingers and out my chest, I felt the urge to scream. Speak!

But my brain stills. In a river of everyday, the past-me who used to dig up your beauty in the woman’s hair flowing out her window driving next to me, in the child walking across the street, in even the leaf budding new through a stem, is lost to me now.
Still, you say things quietly.

Stopped at a light, I noticed the clouds between the trees moving.
There it is, I thought, the body of you, spinning somewhere.
The moment I tried to express this beauty, it left.

Do you understand? I woke this morning feeling I was better off if I slept all day.
Kept in my bed, staring at a ceiling, doubting I’d write again.

Whose face is this, whose hands?
The past-me would have leapt, kept herself busy with the influx of numbers, counting steps and seconds between stoplights, thinking they were signs.

Count: 1, to 24.
Added with the 40 steps I made to the car,
that’s 65.
And gas cost 41 dollars,
that’s 106.
Which, given the breaths I breathe on the treadmill, the calories I burned,
something like 333.
And 3 together in 3 is a complete.
So my body would shiver, holding the rock I saw, called Isaiah, in my purse.

Now, I deaden myself with the blind.

So, I kept you in mind, said I’d write.
But I didn’t.
Now I do.

Unhooking my jeans, untying my hair, I’ll lay down.

I read in a poem the Beloved comes in secret, when you least expect it.

She said, I made love to God this afternoon, and if you run fast enough, you might find her legs still spread in my apartment.

The past-me emerges, sometimes.

Outside, drinking a beer, reading what others said I had within me, I reached to a branch and felt you. My body shivered.
Something told me to keep you close. Hold this moment.
The clouds drifted by again.
There you are.
Your body stirring.

So, unhooking my jeans, untying my hair, I’ll lay down.

Make me into her, I said, pointing to my past-self in the corner.
Or into you, whose desert body I now wander, counting howls.

Howl now. Feel the mathematics of it. Count them now.

Talk, yes. Others talk. In my head.

How they say, write clean. Keep the line short.

Tell me about the desert.
Leave me here in front of this rock.

Last night I dreamed I was naked in a room, walking with you. I asked for words and you gave me a vision of a girl chasing a goat.
I said, no. I need to write poetry.
No you don’t, you said. Travel to New Mexico.

You see, I’ve been so desperate for words, a girl in me thinks if I cut myself again, the blood will release you.

And when I woke, I knew it was all ego.
Wanting to write works to feel alive.

This afternoon, drinking a beer, I reached for a branch and felt you. Shivered.

I know I haven’t written to you in a while. But your body is the desert I wander. Counting howls. Listening for number sequences.

Tell me, how many times have you touched yourself in a way that Spirit could hear you?

Not once this week, I said.

Why not?

My body looks toward clouds and wants to see you there, spinning.

Forget what others say. Just write to me.

I am. But I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning. Nothing kept telling me to stare at the ceiling and look for number sequences.

How about I give you a sequence?

OK.

Now, tell me what it feels like: 392-482-7201-2110

It feels like a river, unkept, dirty.
Listening to Bach.
Telling herself she will be alive in the next few moments, but will lose herself to the dark before she has a chance to write it down.
It feels like the time I asked him,
What do you want?
And he and I both knew it was over.
That God was my first love and he was jealous.
It feels like guilt.
Like if I didn’t smoke cigarettes, I’d write more poetry. That the nicotine is messing with my serotonin receptor sites, and perhaps that’s why the Divine cannot enter.
Feels like how I wished, for centuries, to be your bride, but kept cutting myself on stones. Feels like I want to make my body be air and enter the body of every being.
Or just that river. Unkept. Telling herself she will be alive.

What about this sequence: 291-34-12-235

Incomplete.
The way J tells me I’m brilliant and I don’t believe him.

And this: 108-225-1-52

The body of a horse. Saddle against me.
When I was a kid, I’d sit bareback for hours on my mare and watch the sun go down. Hoping a man would connect to me like she did.

Tell me what this says: 106-16-8888888

Your grace.

And do you believe you’re holy?

Not yet.

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Split the body / Kept the eyes

“When you can throw yourself into That in which no creature dwells, though it be but for a moment, then you shall hear what God says.”

Dear Lord,

I cannot hear You. I have tried by my own
Failed. Swept the streets.
for a pair of eyes. Speak of worlds
other than my own. Whales. Washes of them. I have
knocked doors. Others’ chests, seeking

the Original. What of.
Am I missing? Far off, faint for

Nearness. Girl has a world. Whales. Nothing
Her body.

Bed of a truck.

She had string. Lace. Fingers, talking
Take. Take.
So I’ll open her up. Bed of a truck.

What is it I am taking. Breath? But
I breathe. And I breathe.

Worlds I cannot enter Whale of her.

Ask me, do I want her. Yes.

Nothing breaks free when their spirit hangs to another and not you.
I walked, well, Whaled myself into a chest and found nakedness.
I am tired, she said.
I said Give.
The Secret.
Kill me then.
So I said, fine. Kept her eyes.

Lest I lay down and break open this piece of wood. Her whale.
I will.
I Will that I am God speaking to You, now split bone
by bone into my own. I spoke
to the field, said, Bloom. I said,

be my blood and keep the chest, I said,
understand, I am your ground. I am in you and through you,
shoots of blades will place their offerings.

Then she was gone, to that Otherplace, where That dwells.

Well, she said.

Why build a temple to nowhere?

Tie me to the truck.

And that is their right, I said.

That is the right of the children to keep their hills and speak their caves into mouths of Dead. Caves of children, asking the sky to be their secret holder. Hold the secrets. Whatever I say, I Will and I Will this to be true. I will my mind to be a mountain on which I sacrifice this child whom I will set free.

Love. Love stands a shadow next to me. Asks me things,
where are you going?
To the market. I will buy a dozen eggs. And in those eggs I will place my script.

What have you writ?
I Writ this. And with that, That expanded its belly into me, and she was mine.

Whatever you want. I said, Get in the truck.
OK.

I will split her body like wood where you said I’d find You.

You said I’d ask and the doors would open. I am.

I said, Let me see your Whale, girl.

This is what it feels like to pray and not hear a single word—

Tear her open. Look
for You in shouting,
What did I do?

Keep still. Shouting.

She said, I’m tired. What you got to eat?

Peanut butter.

Can I have a little light?

Keep still.

She said, I have a Whale. Salt in my eyes.

Lord, we must be salt of the earth or else cast under.

I asked her chest and it answered in a pool of water.
Is this your ocean?
Whale. Is it?

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I know where the wind wants your body

Not that I am a saint.

Not that I stood for an hour on your door and knocked, tilted-like until faint.

Not that I woke up holding teeth of what-you-said in my hands. No.

Not like that.

And if I suddenly felt you in my chest, suddenly

wore myself out writing scripts on lines toward a desert I knew once but forgot,

if I called down stream to see if you were casting stones.

Hey, stone-man, what are they saying?

The stones? You ask.

Yes. The stones.

Bits here, bits there.

Two say under our feet, a land of honey. A couple say,

remember the break inside, the crack of unmending?

Find me there.

And if suddenly I kept every stone I found in my purse,

weighted down until spilled-rock called to spilled rock

and a girl, stopping on her way to the train said, Hey,

what’s with the rocks?

What’s with the current? I’d say.

And she’d shift nervously, touch her hair.

I know where the wind wants your body.

Excuse me?

I know where to go. I know what it’s like. And no,

I’m not saying that I stood for an hour at your door, tilted-like.

Something walked inside me, just now.

Walked inside and threw their arms out wide and said, are you listening?

Hey, look, it’s not like I wore myself out. Not like that at all.

If I called the stream my caretaker, my belly,

if I name myself land. Then what?

Find me there.

Suddenly, a window and he’s against it.

Not a man, a canyon.

Do you understand the importance of routine?

Text me when you get home.

Drive. Take the car as understood.

Find me there.

I found in my purse a letter you wrote on my birthday.

Stranger, mind.

Body, yours, my temple.

Excuse me?

What’s with the current?

When nervous, laugh.

When you suddenly my chest, laugh.

I am not myself.

A canyon.

Stop on the way to the train.

Rocks. Bits here, bits there.

Said, sunshine break through.

Write scripts on lines toward a desert where stone men lay hands on the land of honey.

I’m not saying I woke up holding teeth.

I’m saying I did.

And the prophesy slept, unmending, in the break inside.

Remember? You ask.

Yes.

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