Salt

 

Photo, Aaron Draper

Sometimes I stare at a window

or a door, trying to make out

the phantoms that stalk it.

 

Do I think I can decipher 

the missing glass

if I look hard enough?

 

But... have I ever told you?

 

I have never told you about

the time I heard your voice

like a blunt knife twisting in my vitals

whispering to someone 

something I had asked you

to hold tightly inside you.

 

Something to be kept sacred,

moist with blood and tears—

my relic, and yours.

 

And I always thought you innocent.

How speechless my disbelief!

 

But I heard the manic 

thunder of transgression,

as if from an impending storm.

 

And I felt the window quake shamelessly

before it swung wide open and

s.h.a.t.t.e.r.e.d.

at the sin

yes, the sin

of it all!

 

My eyes splintered when the question

Do I know you?

swept in like a sinuous hurricane.

 

I could not hold it back.

I could not banish it like I wanted to.

 

I could not separate it from the vacant,

keening face of that window.

 

I could not keep it from wanting to

kidnap me from you.

 

So I angled,

delivering my body to its voice,

 

And I caved,

wearing my crown of jagged glass,

 

And I surrendered,

wordlessly, letting it carry me away.

 

Like a bent sail rocking in a restless tide.

 

Like a fragile vessel filled to the brim with

the evidence of your crime.

 

Like a sunken statue, stone cold,

bristling with submission,

sworn to infernal silence.

Transcend

Art by Roger Guetta

sometimes my voice leans into me and says 

i need to tell you something

it no longer wishes to belong to me

or to anyone else

but to flee

can you understand?

to fly away 

rising against the wind

impaling the sky 

circling the stars

slicing through orthodox chambers

ascending

transcending

beyond hope 

beyond impossibility

 

sometimes i you don’t dare desire

what did you say?

desire

you don’t dare

i desire desire

oh, how you do dare!

let it thread its way through my veins 

 

your blood 

 

i desire desire

 

let it rise

 

let it flare

let it flame

 

immeasurable

bold

igniting everything in my wake

Fierce Equanimity

Art by Leonor Fini

I know what I need.

Now . . . and . . . Now.

That is what matters!

Confusion doesn’t bother me. 

So, why do I travel the hazy unknown 

while gripping onto false assurances of certainty?

I dream of taking to sea in a seamless vessel,

grazing the fusion of water and sky and 

breathing in the ocean’s immensity.

Yet, I linger in the covert spaces

between beginning and ending,

between purpose and goal.

I resolve.

I journey. 

I flee. A random body on a premeditated ferry.

Where am I going?

Desire unlocks promises of consummation.

I wander inside my imagination.

I lose count of the hours,        

the days, the years.

Flight. 

Oh, and fantasy!

Come, now! Be present.

A shadow stalks the horizon.

A clock ticks on a cloud.

Here 

And now,

Time flees indignantly.

But, Oh, deceitful spirit, I say.

Beware! I, too, am insolence.

And, I am sovereign.

And, I am risen 

from this false dream—yours, 
not mine!

Confluence

Art by Dan-Ah Kim

I cannot tell you how or why.

I am sitting here in love 

with life and the world. 

Beyond.

Something else emerges. 

As if darkness were meeting light.

a ripple in one space resonates

throughout eternity

What are the parameters of

these false boundaries? What

am I too terrified to unleash?

Once again, my rapture

stretches out in every direction.

I falter… 

for one moment.

                            And.

                                     Tumble.

Wait.

I know what you’re thinking.

Don’t make assumptions.

Don’t say a word.

Just stay.

Bear witness.

Watch me tether

myself firmly to this ground.

Elemental: A Meditation

Unknown Photographer

After the storm:

Jade. Mint. Olive. Emerald.

How vastly these greens transcend my vision!

And, my vision . . . how infinitely

it pulses to the cadence of Demeter!

The sun glints off a dewy blade of grass.

The light streams in through a sliver of open window.

The air is honeyed with the scent of rose and helianthus.

The crape myrtles dally in the richness of earth and sky.

The fire of life burns vivid, unhurried, idyllic.

I still. 

Quiet, now.

My window—animated with spirit—leans 

into a stray breeze.

I am inside outside.

And, I am sun. And, I am rain. 

And, I am seed. Cracking.

Snapping. Eager to sprout.

Somewhere within this auspicious paradox

lives a certainty that resonates like gold.

Ceremonial

Unknown Artist

This is how I recall it:

A light lunch at my well-loved kitchen table:

crusty bread and baked camembert with

walnuts, rosemary, and honey. Then,

the coy invitation to take dessert outdoors.

Shall we? And, Certainly!

Crème brûlée? And, Unquestionably!

The streets glittered from the light rain,

and travelers came from near and far.

Taking cover beneath a bright umbrella, we spoke

in simple words—but, with what majesty!

Between us: two ramequins of saccharine rapture,

a sweating bottle of Chablis, and the sounds of

the ancient town, mingled with the voice of

Carla Bruni rasping out Enjoy the Silence...

or was it Quelqu'un m'a dit?

June held us in tender folds of silver and gold.

Immersed in our togetherness, I reflected:

Is this a betweenness or a withness?

But, oh, pranks of malleable memory . . .

Anything to lure us back into what once was!

Today, I stand in another June light—silver and

gold—remembering two women on a soft 

afternoon in Lille, and beaming. 

The grass holds tight to the ground, and to

the ten thousand blossoms here for the day. 

The bumble bees quiet and disperse.

A smile parts my lips as, ever so gently, evening

steals in—mild breeze and violet hues—startling 

me with its magnificent proximity. 

The symphony of twilight hums in my ears.

I shut my eyes and raise a glass: 

Santé, ma belle amie!

In this field of memory . . . nostalgia . . . 

wildflowers . . . 

dreams . . .      

I exult in

the enigmatic communion of then and now.

A Glimmering Viridescence

Art by Edvard Munch

I awaken from a dream.

I have a question:

How do I negotiate

this non-geometric space

With ardent blends 

of color? There are no sharp 

arrows commanding a direction or route.

I shut my eyes. 

I desire.

Inside,

my breath sighs

through my veins.

Outside,

the vast emptiness 

gathers sunlight and prism.

Profoundly kindled,

I ask: What is it

to exist with no gravity? How

does one endure without anchor?

I am the ubiquitous forest, brimming

with nerve and breathlessness.

In this instant, if

you tear my heart open

you shall find the indomitable sun.

The steadfast earth. The brave leaf unfurling.

The Anatomy of Wonder

Art by Christian Schloe

I have been down that path

twice before. It has 

no more gifts

to offer me.

Within.

I have gardens.

I have oceans.

I have skies.

I walk in dreams.

where not to go?

I string out infinitely.

Nothing will stay me.

I am imprinted upon

the skin of the ether.

can i protect myself

from this crude vulnerability?

Here comes a new gathering—a

portal, unraveling.

Oh, Self-Discovery!

I have body.

I have wings.

My spirit hums,

long-breathing and bold.

this moment 

contains every moment

I leap,

brazenly tracing

this new unknown—

un-invisible, my being

painted with sensation.

Shine

The Guardian, Freydoon Rassouli

You confront me with such graciousness,

My Shadow!

You wait . . . and persist.

This time, I am the one

who is distant, far away.

And you?

You are the patient one,

the evergreen vested with endurance,

the poised, assured watcher on the hills.

I leave the shore

in search of other unknowns.

I sail . . . remote, ineffable, stitched with 

the music of the wind.

I live everyday life 

with acute attention to detail.

I attach myself to the unspoken.

I feel your voice inside me:

Not knowing is a source of knowing.

Emptiness is a necessity.

I search elsewhere for miracles, 

entering deeper into the unknown.

And you?

You pursue me

like Pan does Echo.

You dwell within me, My Shadow.

The joy of your presence twists

oh, so deeply!

within my being.

My breath falters.

You mirror my movements.

Your lips graze my teeth 

with their closeness.

If tomorrow’s sun doesn’t shine . . .

I abort this. It is not your voice.

Nor is it mine.

A window opens inside me.

A door. 

    A ceiling.

A stairway.

The sun is high and bright.

Intense. Ubiquitous.

Why do I still have questions?

I ask myself.

And, I hear you sigh inside me

and—with empathy—mutter,

Emptiness, Dearest.