I hear Jesus speak in a language I do not know.
He takes my limp hand in his, looks at my thumbnail and addresses the atoms by name.
They are neither male nor female,
Like God or colors, Read More
A monsoon summer day, I weep over my past choices and what will come, and watch a film about Virginia Woolf. When her husband asks her of her novel by which she is consumed, “Why must someone die?”
“So that all else can value life more. It’s called contrast, Leonard.” She twitches. Read More
Foliage dense on mountainsides
And wild’fires burn
Thicket heaves a smoky breath
Monsoons drown the afternoon.
The world is alive.
Rapt and ravenous,
Passionate the elements and
Susceptible to pride.
Does God not tire in rescuing us from our God-given nature? Read More
All were in their proper place–
The hedonists on the slippery slope
The proud upon hearths of their own function
The saints in the silent center of the sequence–
When the world ended, its perfect pied way Read More
Here we go ‘round the prickly pear, full circle needing prayer
Ashes to molasses, dust to suckling star dust
Sing your celebration, don’t compensate for your salvation
Only to look upon Creation and see what you must: Read More
This is the day that completes you
With the first rays of the mighty eye
Playfully pulling you to play your prelude
Written in the last sunset’s sky Read More
Form. I can now respect it because I am at the point at which the slope of craft unfolds in a rolling wave – a lush Brisanchu knoll of light and deep shades. But before reaching this unexplored scenery, I had to die. And before that I had to know the God within and without were one. And yet, before even that struggle wrought by youthful temerity, desperate groping and inchoate spirituality in the seven-year crepuscular dome, all culminating in one terrifying moment in Hengyang; I had to love and trust a God I couldn’t even feel, but for the myriad wonders of the world, believed in. Read More
Sadness about the angels who must forget what they are in order to be here. Tiny ones gathered in my daughter’s cheek to pad her from when the kindergartner had a seizure and dropped her onto the floor. The incident replayed over and over again in my mind keeping me from sleeping, my husband turned away from me, furious about the whole thing. “Where is your mind?” Read More
It wasn’t the cult that made me do these things. I am as unaffiliated as the man stranded on the island who built a swing. We all thought he was out of his wits –or maybe that’s all that was left—but here we are all on the same universal pendulum and no one ever says a damn thing about how fuckin crazy we all are not to jump off. Minds and cells all jostled from a lifetime of the up-and-down, back-and-forth, yet we still convince ourselves we know what is best. Go down swinging, that’s how we like it. What do I care about a guy who got it right in his dizzied brain? How was I supposed to know that jumping is the only way off this nightmarish ride?