---

 

∴

the lifetime of coal
in a body
is perhaps equal
to that underground.

 

the closer to heat –
to the heart of the earth
and ego’s crucible –
the faster a diamond is formed.

 

the nearer to the surface,
kept cool
by what the breeze may bring,

time

must work
its inching, etching efforts
to erode and wash

black

into
faceted glass.

∴

 

 

---

Note: I understand that the “diamonds come from coal” myth has been busted since I learned geology in school. However, I’ve heard there are still a few, rare subduction zones that would allow this transformation to occur. For the sake of poetry and metaphor, please allow my pre-millennial knowledge base to prevail…

 

---

∴

we do not rise
as if on ladders
and scales,

climbing,
climbing,
to unearned heights,
despite the hard
and hustled working.

 

we do not rise
by adding on
and adding on –

how could we?

with all that weight
holding us down?

 

we do not rise
by the inflated
affirmations
and approvals
of the infatuated,

for these are bubbles
that lift
and pop
and plummet
the rider.

 

we rise as if on waves,
that sting with salts
and shock with their cold realities.

that send you gasping for breath
as they toss you back in on yourself –

your self,

that preened creature
which eventually,
hopefully,
becomes a drowning mop –

shedding every last garment
to survive.

 

we rise
when we find our buoyancy
in this all.

in this danger,
in this glory,
in this dark abiding sea,

we lose “me”

and find every
more honest
thing.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

the world is full
of spider webs, now.

at least,
if you live
in the natural places.

there are many of those
concrete buildings,
continuously maintained
and swept,

as to disregard
the passing of time
and the aging of days,

in hopes that the inhabitants
would not know
themselves
and be caught off guard
by death,

locked in pre-aged dementias
of blocks and glass
and devicive screens.

 

but if you look closely,
there are even a few webs there.

their makers sneak in on the flowers
that adorn polished marble,
and hide in the corners,
too tall to reach.

 

this is where
the true self lies,
advertised by morning dew
that will fade by midday
if you hadn’t caught the light.

 

this is where
the true self lies,
winding and winding
‘round the buzzing flies
that would rather you swat
your days away in frustration.

 

this is where
the true self lies,
leaving a most magnificent
and ornate frame

and hiding the spinner
so well,
you might wonder
and think
she had gone.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

things that are true
themselves renew
even when lost
or forgotten;

 

they are the seasons
of the psyche

dying, falling, budding, blooming

again and again
into deeper age.

 

the newness
of old things
can shock us
back into love,
solidly out of hate,
and splay our spirits
over it all
like the heavens.

 

what was meant to be
and what should never have been
is of little consequence

in the end.

∴

 

 

---

 

 

---

∴

when i was a child,
i would collect sea shells
along the beach
near my grandmother’s home.

some were flat
and broken.

some were shards
of larger conchs.

some were tiny,
and perfect,
and easily lost
by seaweed that tangled them in,
by feet that buried them under,
or by foam that carried them off
and spun them back
to the ocean’s blue.

 

you could hold the old ones
up to your ears –

the ones that had deep
and twisted caverns in them –

and hear the sea.

 

it didn’t matter how far away
from the sea you got;
waves were always audible
from the hollows
of these hallowed
holds.

 

i like to believe
the sound was actually
the memory of origin,
irrefutable in it’s bones
and it’s being,
that echoed and echoed,
tide after tide of time.

and that despite the hard,
or spiked,
or scratched,
or glossy
exteriors,
it could not
forget the sound

of home.

 

it is also my comfort now,
to think
it was the elder shells,
the crooked shells,
the ones who had twisted around themselves
and finally opened at the end
into a smooth fleshy pink,
like a polished pig’s ear,
that could make such a sound –

the whole of the oceans –

by simply being open,
and finally,
and sorrowfully,
and thankfully

empty.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

 

∴

if love

can be a choice

then happiness

must be one,

too.

 

and i’m sure,

one begets

the other.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

it may not take much
to fool me
for a time

and as long as i’m game
for the price
of foolish errands,

but there is a sage inside me
growing
that can smell a rat
a mile away
and who might let
the smoke and mirrors stay

for a time;

but my vision
is becoming less clouded
by all that reflected smog

and i look clearer to the heavens
without a conscience
clogged.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

the things
i have come to know
are many
yet not the same –

 

i know i will fall
and i know i will stand again,
though when i rise,
i may not be obliged
to the same sides
of old fences.

 

i know i will cry
for lost souls
and grave offenses
and for my part
in all their losing.

and i know that i will laugh
again
and again
and heartily
in a way that makes me know
nothing so bad
will ever be
that changes
what deeper
is.

 

i know love is untrustworthy,
and broken,
and selfish,
and cruel,
and is also
the most beautiful design
of grace and good
that could ever be given
or received.

 

i know that we cannot hold light
without casting a shadow
nor can we live in dark
without glowing –

by the whites of our eyes
we see.

 

and i know this
as it has always been known
by the eternal,
internal,
younger
parts of me.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

some people
do not believe in purgatory;

but i believe
i have found
where it lives.

 

it is such a place
of lovelessness
but awareness
of what love is –

refusing to refuse it,
unable to obtain it,
in all ways not coming –

to the self,
to the other,
from the one
who lies in fires
next to you –

burning,
and never consumed.

 

i doubt this is a celestial place
but it takes the heavens to hold it;

to hold us in it.

 

but the promise
of such purification,
if we can endure it,

is a promise
worth waiting for
in deed.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

∴

nowhere land

is a strange place to live

but let’s you call

any place

home,

 

every woman is mother,

every man is brother

and friend.

 

nowhere land

cannot be staked

nor claimed,

 

and no one in it

is forced into

same –

 

yet all life

is citizen

and

native.

∴

 

 

---