black albino bones

She smiled with teeth as white as newborn elephant tusks
she said I was God
it frightened me
she doesn't know how to lie.

Fire Mythagos

To trust in the dance with a billion tiny tongues of flame....

I live in your heart and everywhere!

Beauty: she is the mother of all Gods
She has no face

(** an update - I have decided she does have a face. It is Mystery.)

You Are Beautiful

Mysteria lies close to dreamland and the unknown regions, yet we can walk there, play there, create there. A heartbeat of fire, brimming with love. Thank you, fellow Mysterians, for your effort and determination that made this year's Transformus completely magical and real.

Mother Bird Shrieks Thank You

I hold in my hand the hearts of a million tiny birds
each tiny life beating as one
their mouths open
stretching wide
their beaks meant to startle me
so perhaps I will drop them
and they will fly away free

I climb the fig tree
with the screaming, beating hearts
of these birds
the feathers like soft dew
but not wet
placing these tiny beings
in their nest
I descend
feeling a smile arise
in my own heart.

identity of being

"On different levels of existence one takes the leap and tries to reach the other shore. The idea of the return--present in all religious acts, in all myths, and even in utopias--is the force of the gravity of love. Woman exalts us, makes us come out of ourselves, and simultaneously, makes us return. To fall: to be again. Hunger for life: hunger for death. Leap of energy, explosion, expansion of being: laziness, cosmic inertia, fall into the infinite. Strangeness before the Other: return to oneself. Experience of the unity and final identity of being."

— Octavio Paz, from his musings on Poetic Revelation, found in The Bow and the Lyre

I remember mistaking an old woman for a trout stream in Vermont, and I had to beg her pardon.
"Excuse me," I said. "I thought you were a trout stream."
"I'm not," she said.

— from Richard Brautigan's Trout Fishing in America

silver eyes of the sun

A door opens to nowhere to lead everywhere. I peer with eyes birthed in the sun and remember.

Silvertrust

A damsel with a dulcimer
in a vision once I saw.
It was an Abyssinian maid,
and on her dulcimer she played,
singing of mount Abora.

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge

As last we face the reckoning, eyes wide-eyed and rolling with the smoke of innocence, the ethereal hip-shake of beauty, a voice carrying a song in the last spirals of desire. What does it mean to perceive Goddess in a flash of hyper-stimulating undulations, movement, heartbeats, and swirling love shakes?

I am not sure I know how to respond to this communication.

I am not sure I can clear my thoughts to hear it pure.

The secret heartbeat of an Aum whispers—maybe a human makes it, or maybe the wild, blind wings of the wind.

My eyes open.

In a Birth of Honest Reflection

In a Birth of Honest Reflection

A free man lies sprawled on a bus bench
He once knew the path to God
He hasn't forgotten, but the path to
Go numb is so easy, so welcome,
The path to know leaves you a freak
He's a liar, they say
He's an acid casualty
He's three eggs short of a dozen

I was struck by lightning once
I still have the scar on my wrist to prove it
A scar like an inverted five,
A long three-inch arc of pinkish-raised flesh
I rub at the bumpy ridge
It hadn't hurt, or maybe I didn't notice,
When it happened

Outside I hear boys playing hide-and-seek games,
They carry packs on their backs,
Skateboards strapped in
They create adventure from raw enthusiasm
Making a game out of life
Before life makes a game out of them.

filmmaking

This photo brings me back to the process of making a film, being on set, where the story is coming alive and one is there to catch it with unique eyes and ears. I miss it, I need to immerse in this again.