Dec 09
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The Moth

It’s past midnight. 

The rain drips, 
resigned to the passing moon. 

An ancient hymnal
of old stone 
and old stars, 
plays in my ears. 

Lamp light 
all the bright things that fade away. 

My small glory, 
presses itself 
against my secret belly.

A quiet song of faith. 
Dec 07
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The Romans were made of marble. 

With the heavenly grace of carved muscles and pride, 
they equated Divine Providence with bureaucracy. 

Each empire has its own currency,
it's own series of sacred faces 
It’s own iconic blasphemy. 

The Romanovs sewed gems into their underwear. 
And then, in their nightgowns, they were shot. 

Bullets commodified just to pierce their hearts and diamond encrusted corsets.

Like banquets, blood baths are opulent.
Like religion, philosophy corrupts.   

Dec 04
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Her Constellations

The light was soft, painfully soft. The exquisite gold of the sunrise muffled our passion. I reached for her hand, but she pulled away, regarding her own reflection in the lake with clinical poise. I understood then, in the smallness of that single wordless movement, how I chafed her. My human smile, my human lips, my desperation; she ached for the clean emotions of love and hate. Our relationship was filthy and confusing. 

We sat on the edge of a round lake, surrounded by tall pines and implicit shapes veiled by the thick summer air. I grasped helplessly at hidden flowers.

I fell back onto the wet grass, the light had solidified, revealing the dull clarity of morning. “I find you beautiful, you know. Like a collection of unquantifiable stars I have tried to flatten into a constellation.” 
Dec 01
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Sweat soaked and delirious in unflattering khaki, I smell durian:
the notorious stink of custard, sweet side alleys, and jungle sunset,

Tourists dream of cheap cloth and translators, 
hungry for golden temples, sticky with mango flavored fervor. 

English gets you plastic shoes and psychedelic old world charm. 
The markets sell the same words over and over again.  

My khaki is washed clean by sudden thunderstorms. 
I am running and panting and floating and hot again.
Nov 29
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Hocus Pocus

Through my astrolabe I see the universe’s concentric squares. 
My longing keeps me captive and sacred in God’s incomprehensible geometry. 

God is an empty battlefield. A vast space filled by the intimate conflict of our desires, by the veneration of our passions. We feel the intensity of a battlefield because we fight in it. We understand space because we sculpt it. God transcends the dualities that define our religions, yet religion is our way of making God tangible. It is our way of grasping the pervasive, yet elusive, rhythms of mysticism that fill the space between atoms. We grasp at God because we position ourselves outside it, in a world defined by convictions. By separating ourselves we give God shape. To make something holy is to hold it apart, to imbue it with faith rather than reality. 

The curvature of prayer is parallel to linear logic. 
Hocus pocus. 
God tastes like bread and blood
and clouds.

Nov 29
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Fleeting Fire

Metal to metal; sweating and sea ready, 
he mends his boat. 

We drive through the blue shipyard, 
listening to Christmas carols. 

Dusk is quiet like the sunset was, 
flat and full of absent colors. 

We slow to watch his ceasless fire
as it pours into the grey water.  

Little songs become big in the singing.

Nov 28
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What I remember most about France was the sun. Even though we visited during a time of historic storms, it glared. 

In June of 2016, Paris flooded.
You wouldn't believe how green the hills were. 

Marine Le Pen
Climate Change, 
Cobblestone Streets that shimmered under rain, thunder and bright yellow light.

Nov 28
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Wine and aspirin 
Post hoc ergo propter hoc:
A phrase I learned watching The West Wing, 
My prize for tolerating incessant mansplaining.

Each night, a bath water baptism. 
Soft jazz, a cluttered desk swept clean.
There is so much Latin to learn.
Nov 28
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Round stones

This afternoon I step delicately, avoiding the cairns peppered precariously down the undulating edge. I fondle the many colors of smooth granite, noting the short distance between green and pink. 

Almost grey, 
the grey of the sky, 
the grey of the sea.  

Only waves drive the stones to dance. We surf the tilt, balancing round rocks, watching the water crash against the shore.  

In our wild watching,
there is no horizon, 
only round stones, 
flat sky, and unsteady sea.
Nov 26
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Tradition transcends history; 
genocidal feasts 

have become something lovely. 

But what right do we have to ignore our roots, 
while we give thanks for life? 


and cranberry sauce,
and cold November air.

My many-times great grandfather came over on the Mayflower 
And my other grandfathers were proud of their ancestry.  

The turkey doesn’t sit quite right. 
But it’s bathed in candlelight. 


history rooted in a rhythm
that carries the piercing notes
as well as the soft ones. 

I am ashamed, 
but I’ll give thanks anyway.