Friday, November 23, 2012


Sculpture by Olga Ziemska

It always begins with
a moment of doubt.
don’t know.
An unsure.

That is the exacting part.

The part where
the mortar cracks and
the armor falls and
we quest for hidden stones
on the muddy bed.

The part where,
There must be something to this.
I will have the last word,
slips in.

The mind greeds for its victories,
so the words congregate,
and the stories spill.

But stories are
the swaddling clothes
of the wounded ego,
the flawed foils
of a thieved reality.

Promises. Promises.
Come. We deliver.

But one intimation at proximity,
and they smugly demand
we keep our distance.

Only the body discerns
without vacillation.

Only blood is
voiceless and

Everything begins
and ends

Inside this body this life,
this labyrinth this journey.

Inside this vastness this space.

Inside this wall-less temple.
Inside this wordless language.
Inside this chariot without wheels.

Saturday, November 3, 2012


Shadow of a Woman, Megan Headley

Something demands me
From behind that glass.

Longing. Ambition.


And I just want to stand
Beside myself
For a spell,

To observe myself
From this conventional distance,

To ponder why
I stand like I stand,

To ponder why
I wear what I wear,

To ponder why
I look like I look,

to ponder why
i fear what i fear

But then . . .

how blind, my winged ego!

To learn of these things
I might want
to thieve myself
from this place
To re-enter myself,

To see what I see,
To hear what I hear,
To feel what I feel,

to brutalize
this unutterable numbness

And then to smile,
And maybe to cry,

And maybe . . .

to weave tightropes
between clouds

To ponder why
And how
I am who I am,

i am who i am

To ask every question,
Without pause, without mercy,

And never to find
unbuttoned and
unpainted as i am
The Answer.