if
from a place
far away

I can
reach
              out

and
send

What circle
encircles self
And
contained within
all aspects

though I shadow
myself
with raiment forced outside
too

And then
what room
within the room of my
self
Do
elbows fly
and bruise with funny not bone

Like a tiny
mansion
all divided
or loosely seperated
with grand jambs
but
in any case
apportioned.

I have lost myself
in the hotel of myself
Looking out
or into rooms
to find myself.

Or, know the
edge
edges,
not always gentle

And between these two states,
or multiplicity
really
a multiplicity

I stand
a bit confused
and debate.

The inner self is
much like a darkened room.
Furniture layed out, in places known,
and you walk around, or sometimes stumble.

A long forgotten meal, all crumbs and rinds,
but for that half unfinished strawberry cake, in the
center
of the plate.

And books once read,
lie blurry lined
as memory fades.

But the most surprising thing,
or amongst them,
is the camera obscura,
that paints the inside
from the out.

Not that, we don’t have frequent
peerings
(pairings?)
out windows of the … the eyes,
you know.
Binocular truths,
agreed upon by
lens and frame.

No.

It is the unintended
unlooked for
or caught out of the corner of
intention
pinhole
that disassembles my
mind
Changes spaces
into here
and now
altogether different
All different.

I walk, still
following paths, invisible to all but my heart
and inner eye
shaped of you

Stoop to pick upbits and things
Place in my pocket
Collecting, treasures nowhere to share.

Read the signs, looking for
petals from flowers
she loves me
loves me not

Hear a thunderstorm
See the sun
Take tiny steps
and watch the little things on the path
so complicated in form
My heart in my throat

So then,
There it is.
Writ in things and places
Which could be said more simply
Still, still.

That would be,
I love you.

A crop with lots of filters and masks. Just playing. Someone would chastise me.

Somewhere
Between the dark in me
and the dark in another
is a bridge

We
cannot see this
for
our eyes are not
adjusted

We canot feel it
for we are afraid of stumbling
falling

We do not search for we
are afraid of
failing.

So we sit alone in the dark
waiting
and shivering
never really believing
but hoping.

Cast the leaves of dead trees about
hear the rustle as your feet shift through
Map the night
by touch
braille of the heart
and mind.
Walk the journey slowly
Hearing the echoes, of the edge.
Feel the touch of another
The bridge a hand in the darkness.

I find

All the little parts of me
strung out on a necklace like death

Hand prints and foot impressions, in tracks around
her hips.

She is the black.

I have cried at her feet,
and she gently swooped down
and bit my neck,
freeing me of body.

I have lost my soul and wandered
ages and cultures
until she reeled me back in by my
umbilical cord, my intestines
and pulled me to earth again.

And here I stand, in
chains I have made of unbreakable
Parts of me,
and she offers to cut my body
to pieces.

I have died many deaths at the gentle hands
of this Goddess.

I die another to be
reborn, to me.

Bless Thee
Black Goddess

There is a discourse within, of all the valuations of life.

Trees and ice cream and cars.
People, places, politics.

The self, my actions, their consequences.

Sometimes, this myself needs review.
And this is good.
Very good.

But the process is stressful. It taxes me.
Wears on me.
Not that it fails.
It succeeds.
But where success takes you, when you evaluate yourself,
is a breaking down of the parts,
a letting go of things you’ve clutched to you,
an awareness of attitudes you didn’t know you had.

Good.

But dismembering is tiring.
The complaint, is not, a reason to not do.
I do.

I write not about the day or week tiredness.
But about the tiredness as the self starts to feel worn out.
When the edges are worn so that the world is hard to deal with
in its little problems.
When the need for a sidewise step, is more than can be cogitated.

And the still the process remains.

This writing is healing.
It renews refreshes.

It is a good way to return the energy to myself.

It is creative.
Alive.

I look at myself and see only the frailties
I see the ways in which I don’t work in this world
the parts that are broken, or hanging on hinges
rusty, unsecured.

But in this arc of a life, there is a beauty which
has polished me. Shiny metal, where grit rubs.
Angles, constructed so as to deflect anger,
which in turn, teach me about balance.

It is, has been, a life.

But I forget the boi.

I forget the path I’ve walked, the cool things I’ve seen,
done,
been.

I forget I am.

How funny.
How sad.

The boi.

I am he.
If I only

remember who has taken this journey.

My companion.
My myself.

To stop. And remember the world,
as it speaks in its eternal hubbub.
Is a whisper, a noise.
Not my heartbeat.

To be able to listen, to this whisper,
to let it be my mirror,
shape me.

And yet.

Not forget that as I stare into its lense.

I see me.

Reflected with all of the other things in the background.

How then.
Don’t throw out the boi with the
noise.
Let them entertwine.
Each is strong.