Category: Secret Religion

-I just want to write today, to leave the little markers of time that may, if viewed in a certain light at a certain angle, mean something. Leaving the scratchings of my thoughts and the meandering of my mind poured upon the white abyss in its lightness, an attempt to add weight. To scrawl little black etchings, like the clawing at breath, attempting to fill lungs with a smile and never exhale. Sit in a posture that is not of benefit to my frame or back, but which allows me to disappear as it remains, leaning in over the screen […]

-stubborn, like a child, fist balled up the high pitch growing deep in the throat knees scathed blood forming into scab tears welling, falling resolve unaffected breath choked, chambers crumbling the soul scarred, eyes focused, still-the dream

-It comes on its own, fills the chambers of life with a flurry of thought, an image taken, reshaped, stretched and reconfigured… syllables sweeping across the mind, an echo, a wind – the same sound… a yearning which wakes you in the middle of night arousing the physical apparatus, which contains the heart, to stretch and reach for a body, a soul, a beating heart- beating with your own… the lingering of scent, the ethereal presence carried by the breeze, in the morning dew, the presence left when there is no presence—what you hold onto until the return of the […]

-I let go counting the prints left by time in its passing

-The darkened horizon the obscured view the act of clarity vanishing Opaque clouds besiege the sky as vision stumbles, stolen in the cold wind chill of night.

-The soul aches like a broken wing Salt scatters like ash with diminished return Promises break, the rupture of a heart Breath fades as lungs struggle

-The remnants of breath, hollowed passages of dust. Sediment remains, enough to form ash.

-Somewhere near the 37th parallel north, and a hundred and twenty seven degrees east, there is a mountain from which the chants of monks can be heard. To get there, one must walk along a solitary stretch of road, along a ditch. In the cold dry wind of spring, not a sound, other than the scratching, each footfall, digging at the dirt road, pebbles scattering under the weight. Somewhere on that mountain is a path that leads to a cliff, peace inscribed on the mountain’s side in stone, an image, immovable. Each step must be overcome, upward, along the ledge […]

-“My heart is yours,” she says in almost a whisper, as if, it weren’t meant, as if, the words had found themselves standing already at her lips, perhaps, they had waited long, they had been there, not intended, but yearned for, invoked by desire, and not by the moment, not by the presence, now standing before her.

-yearning to fade and become that which is not; the silent wind discerned at waking in pain and screaming without a voice in the obscure dusk when the darkness disappears under the weight of light yearning for each nail and cell of my being, to collapse to its becoming ash and of the ash, to make prints the kind that disappear at the breath of the wind without sound yearning to breath in cold and fill my cavity congeal the pulses and the throbbing of my heart