Sunday best

Gathered holy clothes off the
Sunday floor,
shades down darkness
let linger a touch of time to prime us

Scrubbing faces and fingernails
for church
we search familiar streets
to find the seats that
wait to meet us and our borrowed sorrows

One sigh and
alltheweekisgone
we weave our thoughts and graces
into sacred spaces
mumble words-not yet words
and unformed prayers
prepared for us to breathe

Together touch
peripheral lovers
watching Love
and waiting.

chico d'oro

Early enough to climb trees unseen, I rise.
Proud and sleepless and troubled with the confusion of a child
I rise.
In coffee cups and letters, folded recipes and duty we seek
some dry ground for our feet.
Build a day, there's a method
build a day there's time
Build a day on a whisper, on a whim, on a dime

Who's talking caffeine baby, are you spokesman for the mute?
grown up to hold the world atop
your teaspoon full of smoke
Build a day there's a high to come
build a day there's more
Build a day on a drag, on a cup, on the floor

In spaces dark and silent, with thickness gathered round
some quiet sit unknown, untold
without their greatness crowned
They wriggle through the sermons
and shuffle through the door
Build a day from the ground - (they say)
build a day from your knees
Build a day on a death, on a promise, on a please

Of creation and feeling

"Art no longer cares to serve the state and religion, it no longer wishes to illustrate the history of manners, ... in and for itself, without "things" ... feeling, after all, is always and everywhere the one and only source of every creation." Kasamir Malevich

On our tail, the evening star

Trail us home O evening star
and hang your tail above our door
send battalions
with each, my lovers
and guard them too
before night fall

Trail us home O evening star
and stalk the dark away from us


I heard a story the other day about my friend who used to believe that the moon and stars followed people when he was a child...makes perfect sense to me.

Weathered

Inside weathered hands, lines where heat and water have run away with our strength, we now indent each other; aged. We calm down time and cup it pealing the skin of each minute and like love lost children we soak each falling kindness and hypnotically follow its trail.

Inside weathered hands lives a little warmth where we can hold each piece of broken moments lost. We bear evidences of things no longer remembered but worn, and like young favour the savoured relics of the gone.

Inside weathered hands is room, narrow passages next to fingers and valleys for you to leave me and return, to burn and scar and hold the moon. We do not demand, but lend and borrow and bend, always bend to reach each other tomorrow