I may cry out for help

and moments later forget that I’d even asked,

as the word and the moment can’t stick around.

Never fear: I will cry out again.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

You set me on fire.

And when I say you,
it is because I cannot stop writing.
The words and the water,
like rivers,
like rapids,
like the green green moss on the sides of the rocks
and light, like gold coins
like the rivers above Deadwood, South Dakota.
Your eyes.

Burn through me and
burn through me again.
Whatever is left of me I throw into your light
your utterly compassionate light

flames so intense nothing can survive them
except the pureness of love.
Both the flames themselves
and the emptiness of their remains.

Light me on fire again and again.
Your burning, the gold of your eyes,

thrown and dramatic on your fire,
laughing all the way.

Water in my mouth is heaven
and I don’t know where I am anymore.

I see a box on the corner of the desk
with construction paper flames
red
yellow
orange: it is the God Box

ha ha and when we get in it,
the whole thing explodes.

The Question by Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)

One dervish to another. What was your vision of God’s presence?
I haven’t seen anything.
But for the sake of conversation, I’ll tell you a story.

God’s presence is there in front of me, a fire on the left,
a lovely stream on the right.
One group walks toward the fire, into the fire, another
toward the sweet flowing water.
No one knows which are blessed and which not.
Whoever walks into the fire appears suddenly in the stream.
A head goes under on the water surface, that head
pokes out of the fire.
Most people guard against going into the fire,
and so end up in it.
Those who love the water of pleasure and make it their devotion
are cheated with this reversal.
The trickery goes further.
The voice of the fire tells the truth, saying, I am not fire.
I am fountainhead. Come into me and don’t mind the sparks.

If you are a friend of God, fire is your water.
You should wish to have a hundred thousand sets of mothwings,
so you could burn them away, one set a night.
The moth sees light and goes into fire. You should see fire
and go toward light. Fire is what of God is world-consuming.
Water, world-protecting.
Somehow each gives the appearance of the other. To these eyes
you have now, what looks like water
burns. What looks like fire
is a great relief to be inside.
You’ve seen a magician make a bowl of rice
seem a dish full of tiny, live worms.
Before an assembly with one breath he made the floor swarm
with scorpions that weren’t there.
How much more amazing God’s tricks.
Generation after generation lies down, defeated, they think,
but they’re like a woman underneath a man, circling him.
One molecule-mote-second thinking of God’s reversal
of comfort and pain is better
than any attending ritual. That splinter
of intelligence is substance.

The fire and water themselves:
accidental, done with mirrors.




painting by Janice Toulouse

http://fineartamerica.com/featured/fire-and-water-janice-toulouse.html

It isn’t even I that has to rest.

It is that this body is resting.

Being my own authority
I can find nothing to do
But warm up my tea

Will I get out of bed? Will I eat? Will I straighten my apartment? Take a hike? Have an Artist Date?

My shoulder is really sore today. Will I go get my xray?

I’m hungry. I’ve been awake for hours, and also hungry.

But so tired. Hard to get going when so exhausted. 

Nothing, no thought, moves me along.

the day cannot be found

the date

 the name of it

january 26

and i feel jealous every time i see a woman in one of neal casal’s photos

and i relish this!

life, right then, is presenting itself as a wave in the belly of this body and a thought of i-wish-i-was-that-girl or whatever it is (wow, to look now, might actually cancel this, making this whole deal moot but still! how delightful!).

i feel like i’m pushing myself in some ways to see through it all in order not to … what? it’s like i’m counting down days and yet 100% right what?

i sort of want to brush my teeth again now that i’ve had that cough drop.

will i stay home and rest tomorrow?

what will i eat