rain and the brown plastic bags

In the name of the rain and the brown plastic bags.

Sister Moon

Sister Moon

Coffee and the Meaning of Life

By the side of the highway the wild rose is in bloom.

Coffee and the Meaning of Life

Sort of reaching for a Tom Waits ballad. In a very ham-handed sort of way.

gnome, in repose, August 2012

in the basement
of the swedish institute
my friend

points out a
gnome, seated,
in the foot and a half space
between the ceiling and the top
of the garish kakelugn

crossed ceramic knees
red-gartered
make knowing

immoble eyes
and the glazed lips
have a tiny curl
at the end
just before the brush
lifted away

perhaps
when you have sat
overseeing the same five
square feet of floor
since 1903

nothing seems simple
nor simply
ugly
and mirth
is the commonest beauty

The unpardonable

is there anyone here
unperturbed
by the inner ear?

The scriptures speak of an unforgivable sin. I heard a sermon about this passage today. I think I understand what this means--I hadn't thought much about it for a long time.

We often think of ourselves as having potential to become even better versions of ourselves. I think we realize we might also become worse, but mistakes are usually dealt with as a misstep which helps us understand how better to continue on the path we are on, which is more or less a good one. By continually fleshing out the basic narrative of self-improvement, we cope with the people we are. If I am content, it seems possible to say that it is because nothing is barring me from triangulating my sense of self from the relative position of the person I wish to be and the person I think I actually am.

There will only be a few cases where making a mistake has consequences which disallow this generic narrative. Those cases are the uncomfortable times when I am made aware of the fact that one of my selves makes another more desirable self impossible. But of course, my awareness of such a consequence is of absolutely no issue toward whether, by a certain state of being, I have forever lost the path toward some other state of being.

I think of a short story by Gogol, in which a starving artist, who had the makings of a true maestro, takes a job doing a portrait (which pays well). Eventually, after doing hundreds of portraits, and growing rich, he realizes with horror that he can no longer paint anything except portraits. Any other painting he tries simply comes out in the form of the useless backdrops that fill the canvas around portraits. So, he realizes that he had but one chance to be a master, one stage in life during which that path was open.

In the same way, one realizes that there is a way to kill the soul but still to walk around for years, alive. To be more specific, it is possible to become deaf and blind to the divine. What is chilling to me is that this might be a permanent deafness and blindess. Just like the portait painter, I may understand what the sound of the divine should be. I might understand how my hand would move so as to paint the masterpiece. What is wrong is that I can no longer see the painting that must be painted. Analogously, when I arrive at the sin against the spirit, I can no longer triangulate a reality (perhaps not even a sense of self) out of a better self and the self which was breathing just a moment ago.

What is strange is how many ways it can seem right or necessary to go about dismantling the connection to the divine.

target, home depot, liquor store. MSP airport across hwy 72.

the jet
just when it first
flies
away from you
and sprinkler heads first spit
in unison
on mulched daylilly

there are no
sounds so
weary

in the parking lot
the people pass

a girl
with her two
best friends laughs
her new
hysterical laugh
she has no idea
what else to do

the night approaches
with its smoker's cough

does god forgive
if we simply misunderstand?

The circus

When did you have the time to make tunnels under the place?

Let's leave the circus.

The Old Book Brigade

Return with whatever you can plunder.

The Old Book Brigade

afterlife, ante-life

someone says
at a funeral
i wish i would have known my mother
when she was young
and carefree

will my children have this wish?
it is a beautiful idea
in one way, to wish to know
a thing that requires you to cede
your existence

a funeral is the right place to feel this way
someone has just ceded their existence
in one way
and will begin to know
whatever there will be to know

the things that come after life, i think,
must be like the things that stray
into pictures from before we were born

like this one of grandma at 19 or so
on her bike
ready to go wherever she is going

which is a place
whose reality hangs
intermingled with the fact you are here
boxing up photos