Muck

Whatever could be said

Of the two of them

Would not include

The true essence

Of their bond,

Nor what tore them apart.

The only way to look back

Was with fondness,

Unabashed remorse,

And a profound, incomprehensible yearning

That swept through them

On nights

When the full moon shivered

And the clouds formed tear drops

In the autumn sky.

All they could do was weep,

Or harden their hearts,

Whatever got them through

The dirty muck

Of separation.

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The Nameless Sob

Came home last night and sat on my bed.

Got to thinking about my purpose.

Felt this immense amount of energy begin to move through me.

Up my spine.

Out my head.

I saw the star suspended above me.

It’s inconceivable light pouring down on me.

And in the ensuing silence,

The words, ‘please don’t leave me.’

Rose inside me,

Came to my lips,

From a place deep within.

And I sobbed the nameless sob

Until there was nothing left

But smeared mascara running down my cheeks.

There is a wound in me.

And last night it made itself known. 

My heart is not for dragging 

It’s sunny out. 

As I am not especially sad today, 

There is little impetus 

For the written word. 

But to look at suffering, 

I say this,

I have allowed too many strangers 

To find their way into my camp

Familiarize themselves with my altar,

Lay their heads upon it 

And turn my crystals to ash,

My shells to dust, 

My idols to emptiness. 

When they leave, 

And I peer upon the ruins,

I see only the sad remains 

Of failed attempts 

At true love. 

When praying goes wrong, 

And my words fall on deaf ears, 

When the sacred soft animal 

Of my body is desecrated,

I must offer grace.

I must heed the words 

Of that still small voice, 

Which tells me to stand up 

On the porch 

On a sunny day like today 

And give thanks for this life, 

Rather than rage, 

Rather than ruin.

My altar is not for stomping, 

My heart is not for dragging 

Behind you. 

If you will not hold it, 

I will gladly take it and place it once more 

In its right position, 

At the center of me. 

The Shaman

Want to know something about the Shaman? 

He’s not Jesus. He’s just a guy who stumbled by accident upon the waters of eternal life. 

Making pie is not about immortality. 

It is about leaving his burdens behind. 

Getting out of his mind. 

Away from himself. 

From his sins.

His memories. 

His past. 

But his past isn’t going anywhere. 

It’s as present as the noon day sun hanging over the Pacific. 

He wakes up and faces it every morning. 

It’s his cross to bear. 

And Anna has not come to set him free, 

Nor has he come to enlighten her. 

Of this we can be certain: 

The two have things to learn from each other. 

For they are more alike than either know.