Blog(s)

a living god

i am falling
(it's true)
so far, i think

a living god
holding
in this abyss

am i ever alone?

so tender
a feather
floats...

alone
but this tender furious
God
is holding
rocking.

i am none
in black
soft vertigo
to where...

is that
un-knowing?

remember in absense

Memory is a world

the sawing bow:
a violin strung with humans,
quiver with melody
and ache forth tears.

I am a world
I carry with me
dying a life
somewhere else
I am a memory.

a poem
frozen lipped and dead
the world is this woman
gorgeous, a keening wail
the wind kisses her hair
she is memory
and I the wind.

and walking back
to walk the slumbering walk
in this world someone killed
but vexes continually

The Taming of the Verbs (or) Fathers and Sons

The Taming of the Verbs
or
Fathers and Sons

On all sides we were beset
By Adjectives and Nouns
They pressed against relentless
But us Verbs, we held our ground.

They tried to hold us still
To ponder where and what,
But we quite had our fill!
We held our tractless rut.

Like footprints in the sand
They wooed our formless band
To mold our frenzied act
Like beads encased in hacky-sacks

But we proved
Impossible to ride
Foam stallions of the tide.

We rushed about in frenzy
Like tumult of the gods
And I was one made dizzy
Smashing through the odds.

Liberation Theology: the Essential Facts about the Revolutionary Movement in Latin America and Beyond by Phillip Berryman

Recently another book accosted me and gripped me for several days before I was released, barefoot revolutionary priests dancing at the elusive edges of my vision. The book was entitled Liberation Theology: the Essential Facts about the Revolutionary Movement in Latin America and Beyond by Phillip Berryman.

The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea: Yukio Mishima

Yukio Mishima’s work has the delicacy and grace of a Japanese garden. In his book The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea, he sketches the story of a hero who falls in love and is pulled to shore. The story is seen through the eyes of young Noboru who discovers a peephole into his widowed mother’s bedroom, and, in the name of objectivity, observes her night-time exploits with her sailor lover.

This is not a sappy love story, nor is it a sex story. While erotic at times, it is handled tastefully (like sipping, not gulping, a frostie), and does not indulge itself in overly-erotic description, though it artfully evokes the proper emotions.

Pages