it cannot know

all of me

who is me

who is you

lines between

a bird who

knows knows knows

it cannot know

all of thee

a great gift

on which its perch

faith, that branch

that appears in winter

skeletonly

but inside alive

roots are listening

what a strange bird

has me laughing and playing,

i see the truth as i am in it.

you know how we cannot be seen

except in eyes named love?

the gift of you

the heart of your eye,

startled and startling

beholding life,

that inside and everywhere thing

that says,

“i see it in myself”

that you in me

or who in whom

the rhythm

the alighting

always another way

to see and to say

i love you

is light

says my heart’s ache

where the grief and the pain

find their right loveplace

where the ribble and the rabble

break through to the truths

faster than the security

of a word and its rules

of how it’s supposed to speak

to and of you

and the messages i send carry weight

a little bit more please

a slow pouring

a back and a forthing

a small dance

standing and shifting

when i speak to you, i speak to myself

and find in me a root

to take on faith your love

how else am i to see

behold, the you in there

you can tell, as much as me

the lines, the lines

they're everywhere

the towing,

the storing, 

the knowing,

the knowing

what does it mean to love, again?

the truth is hairy

and loves the well

the spring in the garden

the show and the tell

the truth in the silence

cannot prove itself

so what of the proof

that the pudding tells

when i speak to you, i speak to myself

i keep checking back

am i loving well?

when i listen i hear

of your ache in forgiving

not knowing when—oh when

the heart—and it hurts

and then—and then

it folds its hand

surrenders its tale

in a quiet tone

a hum, a warble, or a gentle wail

i know you know

when your heart’s exposed

for when you speak, you speak

because i know you believe

in the stir

in the stone

in the soup

in the meek

in the tome

of the world

and the home

in the spring

in the field

in the taste

in the space

in between

when i speak to you

i speak to me

The confusion I speak of is that which comes from seeking a fix to what is not broken, and thus its nature is breaking under the name fixing—and so, I call it confusion.

A man at the library approached and accosted me for not opening a book I had picked out and had sitting next to me on the table, as I typed on my computer.

I was taken off guard, as he took the book away from me and returned it to the shelf.

Ten minutes later, he brought it back. I thanked him for bringing it back, and he said, “You should’ve opened it when I told you to.”

I remained silent.

I imagined he was accosted by the librarians for staying too long, for taking up space, for being out of place, for not following rules he didn’t know existed—that he was simply repeating a lesson he was taught, teaching me that you can’t stay too long at the library without reading the books, or that you will be met with anger if you do not do as you are told. I imagined this for my own sake. I do not know what the truth is.

He appeared to me like a window that reflected all the misguided light aimed at him back outward, but he did not lie to me. He let his life tell the truth of his life.

I was disappointed he did not receive my thank you. I noticed that he seemed scared of me when I approached, frozen like a stone when I addressed him.

He was alone, and he was confused, and there was no fixing to be done.

People have ideas that a person must fix people into being people properly, and he is self-evidently a product of these ideas. I recognized in him something in myself—that voice I wield against myself.

What comes to mind is teaching a child to read by scolding them when their attention strays. The child learns that to focus means scolding one's attention and reading means focusing on words. Good teachers don’t do this, but it is teaching, because what is learned is a kind of knowledge.

This is an analogy.

We do this to each other.

Confusion recruiting confusion.

“We must cease fixing what is not broken,” I should like to say, but then you see the confusion is baked into even this, as it is both a fix and presumes we can see what is and is not broken.

There is nothing to fix.

“So, what do you will?” comes crashing back the presence of otherwise.

even when you think it is

then what am i?

i am a who

that you heard

on the mountain pass

who lost himself

in the rhythm of sun beat breath

making offerings— love

what is love?

the storm is not you

in the setting sun

when the work is done

and the moon strikes hot

like the anvil's mother

and the cold scythe

chill worn metal

annealing father

in the rhythm of howling home

who knows what will keep

what have i kept?

the storm is not you

i am the eyeing

opening

dying

the mother knows death in giving birth

the father knows life in receiving death

we know their gifts

their bearing

unseen love, the both, and

what is seen— why do we doubt?

with this, i am done

tell me nothing more of fear

yes thank you

i've learned his names well

and she needs no more lessons

this is what i learned

the storm is not you

it is the teacher of who

every time i open my mind
to canvas
my heart leaps 
“target practice!”
sin is off the mark
god is on your marks
get set
go to the edge where words
don’t make sense
and will get me in trouble
多分
it’s funny how
broke & breaking words
cling
between the cracksides
like plaster
straining to hold together existence
as if that were the grand mission—
until truth
after a long last
dragged to an end
dragged like a dagger
trying to cut its own blade
the truth rushes to the between
and the world collapses
the out turns in
the up sides down
and fear knows no answer
or questions
what then? or is it now?
to all my friend-hearts
welcome to apocalypse
you, the world in you
how you think of you, “me”
implodes
along the spi 
                       der 
                   ing 
window pane
of your pupil’s corset
i can’t breathe—
    this world’s withering wordgames
—like i used to mean
life is a circle
from end to beginning
we don’t like the part we can’t see
until we reach the other side
of a terrifying trust fall
until we know a kiss that means
what a kiss means
and the dying that comes
with kissing me
all that plastering up with jesus!
and other figures of speech
fall away like the skin of an acorn
that had been waiting patiently
the salt of time doing the work of the sea
readying ripening fruitening
in the folds of the inside space
for you
all along
dear-hearted friend
do you know?
i’ve never fired a bow & arrow
but today my heart is a festival
and the target in me
i see you
like the horizon’s widow
you approach me
tender footed
freckled with sun spots
etched in the retina of weary eyes
wondering will it be okay
to drop the sticks and stones
i use to keep the monsters away
in the shade & tones between
the words i speak alone
i don’t know
either
if i knew, i know i couldn’t miss
but if i knew, i know it wouldn’t be a kiss

The depth you see is the depth you hear.

Instructions: Listen with headphones, otherwise you won’t hear it. Fuse the stereogram by crossing or relaxing your eyes until the sphere in your left eye overlaps the sphere in your right eye. I find it easier to fuse stereograms by crossing my eyes, but some people find it easier to relax them. Stretch your eyes here, if you’d like to practice first, or see the tutorial here.

Piping…Yah!
Hotter to the touch
Than tongue
Peppermint cool
Warmth like friendship
The heart is home

integration dilemma
o perception
resistance—therein lies
a grief
expectation
a love
correspondence

it’s like moby dick

steadying your feet first, you

enter the space between your breath

then, you ask

“what will you have?”

he taught us

that in opening bottles

lies the art of concentration

i’ll have what he’s having

on the rocks

the shore collects

message-in-a-bottles

like love collects tears

in listening

we make ourselves vulnerable

to being changed without control

over what we will hear

this way or that

if we knew the way

the wind blew beforehand

it wouldn’t be called love

when you take aim

gauging your heart

remember

no one knows you

the way your target does

like love telling you a bedtime story

and you’ve already drifted off to sleep

words seeping into your dreams

enter the banter at a night-glug tavern

moonshower shackled eyes

the who’nya done it mystery tails chasing

your name wanted

posters plastered through backlit alleys

detectives whiskering questions

tussling over who gets to be good cop / bad cop

star-dived punks with laundry bag sleeves

you put ‘em up buttercup

the hands you used milking the days away

unknotting all that pain from existing in time

opening your eyes back to awake

you wonder, who am i?

we’re back in the light

the poem is framed

because love like an afterthought

squares the circle away

without a reason

like learning to speak

just another word to say

i love the dance

of this beautiful universe

laughing in play

i checked again
it still looks like
everyone is
telling the truth
even the liars can't seem
not to give themselves away
all this falsehood the world over
is going on about
i can't find anywhere
i checked again
all that i found was—
hey you there
have you ever met a dragon?
you make me feel like that fire

asked “what is your poem-prayer?” and the answer came to me instantly. this poem has a special place in my heart and has affected deeply the way i see the world and understand, experience, & relate to love.

here is a reading of rumi’s a great wagon (translation by coleman barks), with some avatar the last airbender soundtrack playing in the background for no particular reason, making it feel a bit more epical than it normally reads in my head.

i’m very much in slumber party mode rn, and i really liked reading aloud. maybe i’ll do more poem readings!

A Great Wagon
Rumi

When I see your face, the stones start spinning!
You appear; all studying wanders.
I lose my place.

Water turns pearly.
Fire dies down and doesn’t destroy.

In your presence I don’t want what I thought
I wanted, those three little hanging lamps.

Inside your face the ancient manuscripts
Seem like rusty mirrors.

You breathe; new shapes appear,
and the music of a desire as widespread
as Spring begins to move
like a great wagon.
Drive slowly.
Some of us walking alongside
are lame!

~

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

~

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn’t make any sense.

~

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.

I would love to kiss you.
The price of kissing is your life.

Now my loving is running toward my life shouting,
What a bargain, let’s buy it.

~

Daylight, full of small dancing particles
and the one great turning, our souls
are dancing with you, without feet, they dance.
Can you see them when I whisper in your ear?

~

They try to say what you are, spiritual or sexual?
They wonder about Solomon and all his wives.

In the body of the world, they say, there is a soul
and you are that.

But we have ways within each other
that will never be said by anyone.

~

Come to the orchard in Spring.
There is light and wine, and sweethearts
in the pomegranate flowers.

If you do not come, these do not matter.
If you do come, these do not matter.

about the line between

a message of acknowledgment

and

a message of receipt

the difference is inside of me

and that’s why i want to name it

it’s not so important if you can see it

but because you can’t, i find myself delinquent

when i click ❤️

and what i mean is “read it”

i know when

because

there is no lingering

simmering

being swept away by

how you’ve affected me

words reduced to “words”

like the poem that screams “poem”

the difference is in me

i’m the reason all for these bad poems

(forgive me)

anyway

what was i saying

oh, right this was a plug

for my new product

ahem

ARE YOU RECEIVING TOO MUCH LOVE?

ARE THE VOICES SAYING “LOVE!” SHOUTING TOO LOUDLY?

TRY LOVELESS TODAY

AND SEE THE WORLD WITH MORE…

WELL, MORE… ( space )

aaaand cut!

that’s a wrap

and this is just a for fun experiment

here’s the link (if you use chrome):

https://chromewebstore.google.com/detail/loveless/lmcfndpihmaodhblidmcpbnleocakggn

but saying it carries it away

how i want to hear your soul sing it-does-not-matter-what

when you're drowning in those what-ifs and something-more-i-could-have-dones

when you ask me for reasons for my love

as if it would be empty without an explanation

i don't care where i live or sleep

i don't care what i do or eat

all i want is to hear your whistling

as the world turns by your presence

but who believes like this anymore

the child's wings clipped from our beds

so here's a song from the lips:

there's no way to get it wrong

when your heart beats like that

you know what she means

i can tell by how you shed tears like that

the truth is when i'm scared of you

this is why

this is why

the gifts sound like promises

but they're already delivered

if you'll believe without reasons why

i wish i could tell you world, my friends

you sweet birds just what i mean

but saying it carries it away

cause looking back is poverty

the heart knows truth like scalding tea

so please sip me properly

i do not say this is how you should treat me.

rather, when i stay your hand from moving for my sake and ask of you “what do you see?”, i am telling you what i mean by how i want to be treated.

treat me the way you want to be treated, so that i might learn something most precious: that little something in the way you see.

for the golden rule is a golden compass: how we say what love means—without saying a thing.

this is how the word speaks before a word is spoken.

treat me the way you want to be treated, so that i can see how love moves well beyond me.

this is where you fly:

listen to the music of it

the refrigerator's singing

the high pitched ringing

the dog scuffling across the wooden floor, four-legged tempo

wind chimes whispering sweet somethings i don't know what downwind

upwind to someone too, doppler shifted

it's hard to estimate that sort of thing

what it sounds like / looks like from a perspective far far away

just listen to the music, it's for you

the troubles of this world are a part of its charm

if you can take them & their part in the truth

like the universe saying, "we can if you want to, but can you handle it?"

my mother speaks of "the orb" after the sirens in the distance rotated like gumbo

now we're listening to the orb and dancing to the inventors of the ambient house genre

"if you can take them," she says—the universe i mean

anyway, here's the deal

for a certain type of object, you find what you look for

so choose wisely or gently, well or gladly

here's where i was searching for what i had:

"that is never going to lead us in the right direction"

diagnosing what isn't broken is like coming up

with a theory to explain why the orb didn't take off like taylor swift

intentions rule at the brink

have you ever let somebody believe for you?

have you ever let somebody's belief of you...?

fill in the gaps first—what do you think i mean? start there

your answer is information that i don't have

the power of humanity: the diversity of our imaginations

the diversity of conditions in which our imaginations dance

forget the pink elephant

tell me about the flapping of your ears

as you listened to the music of it

what did you notice inside this place?

today i noticed this:

“mother is always right” like tautology

and father softly behind the scenes—in the field beyond—holding space like always

for all the wrongs made up by the rights

lending the lawful disorder of things back to nothing

is defined by context

here is today's definition

the plan is made now

simultaneous to the choice

where when with all the information

the truth presents itself

patiently waiting

for the world to make

the true choice for you

"don't jump the gun"

like timing games

the moment where when

all messages have arrived

are arriving

will arrive

we call it home

or origin

or love

or please call me by my true names

the canonical relationship

upon which all others reflect

what i mean by god

is defined by an instinct

to fill in the gaps

except its complement

what i mean

is violation of conditioning

that you didn't see coming

when you give it up

i am tired

of searching for the right

the magic words

to point just right

when the search

for truth comes to you

like a babe lost alone

in the woods

love comes to the

wailing one who waits

don't make me cry in this place

i can't handle what it takes

i can't explain my tears away

sometimes the truth feels like pain

anticipation of the call for your name

when you've been waiting and waiting

wondering if hope was the wrong move

this is for you

because if my words mean to you

then you know i know

a letter in the mail

a message from the past to the future

well here's a trick:

if this sinks beneath your skin

you already wrote back to me

before i left the mark

your imaging left its sound

on these bits

not poetically

but it's this:

our images live in each other already

like ghosts in the machine

making love of attention

there is no you and me actually

how do i say it, friend

this is what love means

and today's definition

is complete and whole

when it is not expected

of tomorrow

Instructions: Fuse the stereogram by crossing your eyes (or relaxing them) until the poem in your left eye overlaps the poem in your right eye. I find it easier to fuse stereograms by crossing my eyes, but some people find it easier to relax them. Stretch your eyes here, if you’d like to practice first.

Instructions: Fuse the stereogram by crossing your eyes (or relaxing them) until the poem in your left eye overlaps the poem in your right eye. I find it easier to fuse stereograms by crossing my eyes, but some people find it easier to relax them. Stretch your eyes here, if you’d like to practice first.