no such thing as a little death
it's strong as snake
catches you by the throat
shakes everything hard
til all that's left
is the good
leaking out of you
all over the people
all over the bread you give away
all over the thirsty world

a pansy seed will come up a pansy every time

and never once turn out to be a refrigerator

but in all our brilliance as human beings, 

we are so easily plugged into living and dying 

as if that's all there is to it

seldom acknowledging 

our birthright as eternal beings,
content to be pretty as a pansy

or as cool as a tin-lined icebox

i.
nothing could be said
with people sitting there at the table...
words would have tumbled out of me

like puppies pushing open the gate,
rolling over each other,
jumping from one thing to the next

all wiggly with nonsense and joy.
but my words had to sit and stay like big dogs.

 ii.
when our eyes caught and held
it's a wonder others didn't notice
the two hotties at the table  
in a holy moment 
over forks and napkins and chicken and asparagus,

...naked to our souls

right in front of them.

iii.
time moves alongside. but we don't feel it.
it's the oddest thing.

is this how it will be to grow old with you?
moments in tablespoons,
years by the gallon?
until we're gone?
you over there, me over here?

iv.
now and again i wonder
if talking takes up too much space. 

thinking and talking get me in trouble anyway.
but how can i sacrifice the words of my heart
on wednesdays...
can there ever be such a thing
as too much love spoken
one day a week?

but if i did it--

held it all back in a burden of silent trust, 

without unpacking my feelings in nouns and verbs--
would it be sacrament enough in this life

to earn my wings to the next level?

v.
hell is weeks into years of getting by, making do,
busying up days, tossing alone nights...

but for wednesdays,
and the music of my own heart,

heaven would be too far.

perdido key

some days are more magical than others.

but i doubt the author of love sees it that way.

not that magic and wonder and awe are words too small for the divine force,

'just that i can't take it all in as a human in the linear world.

and yet, it is enough just to stand in the sand and breathe 

with the rise and fall of the waves,

and to feel all the magical wonderful awesomeness of this day 

and the pounding and crashing and starry bliss of the coming night.

the exigencies of prayer

Ants and Whales

when he said ''lift up your hearts''
was that not simply a call 

to higher consciousness?
perhaps to a higher vibration, 

setting us apart as human beings?

a little higher than the intrepid ants,
a little more than keening whales?

animals live their wild natural truths

in savage harmony with the cosmos.
we wise beings strut and blame and wonder,

conjuring rules for prayer.

we are not dissimilar to

those we disdain.
we have ant moments
trudging our lines in the queue,

living small in tiny steps 

getting over and through the hard hours.

and we have whale moments
living large in earnest conversation
casting about in our watery bellowing ...

singing ourselves home.

another well.

there's something seldom about
how the words come sideways
how they go here
and not here,

or balky

or just gush out.

what is all this fierceness about writing ... 

it is only the passionate must
as the mind meets heart,
and the relentless, pounding, 

come hither

always on the edge of epiphany

tonight it's nothin but stars up there
and yet there's thunder rumbling all around
alleluia on that
songs spring from somewhere in the night
that hold a message when i wake if i'm listenin
more alleluia

livin this life may be less than a soulbreath
but it all comes in either seconds or eternities
merciful alleluia
and most thoughts are streams that current by
with less than a minnow to show for all the fishin
alleluia, alleluia anyway