February 28, 2011
The concert hall built
at the cusp of the sea
has a window to view
white capped waves.
Upon entering, no one
took our coats.
Walking amidst the overdressed,
the rouge caked skin
shimmering slacks and camphor tweed
I wobbled, thrust forth
my glass, pronounced and pretended.
Outside, God's rosy breath, dissolved.
Hours pass and we part ways.
I rush out trembling,
Rockport strikes my cheek
like a granite edge.
There, above me, a camaraderie of stars,
my own breath dissolves in black as
Dread pools in the holes of my bones.
Walking the street home,
I am nothing but godless.
March 1, 2011
Approaching the Delicate
We enter with gratitude and awe
take the untraveled path and walk
on finely tuned crystals.
Life here is stripped bare, but dressed
in virgin white.
The slender ones bow,
others curtsy, taking up the hem of
their shot silk gown when we pass.
Our breath is labored, we slow
as soldiers cross their rapiers
We are interlopers here, but welcome,
so long as we breathe with silence.
March 2, 2011
I got the box on Saturday filled with drugs and needles. It sits on the dining room table. There may be a baby in this box, I tell myself. But I still find it daunting.
Today I have to drink some barium chloride so they can illuminate my stomach. Maybe they can find the crow I accidentally swallowed. I feel him squawking down there when there's nothing to bury him. Aside from this little test, the day is spacious. I sat on the mat today and called God's name. I felt my mind groan. I told it to find God in the spaces, or at least learn to breathe there.