PASSING GAS

Maybe the Big Bang

was just one epic fart,

a cosmic flatulence, of sorts.

I have gas, but mine is not  

of mythic proportions, 

thank god. At least 

that’s what I tell myself.

But maybe it is.

Maybe those trapped 

bubbles inside my belly

are nothing more than 

a deep desire for expansion,

like hydrogen and helium

had at the beginning of Time,

that gave rise to 

the stars and the planets,

the suns and the moons,

the constellations and the galaxies, 

all inside  

an expanding space,

a boundless belly.

Maybe all my bloating

is an intelligence

all its own,

roiling for the chance to join

with a source and force

greater than the body

and bubble my narrow being 

can offer. I am ready 

for that day to come,

for my own Big Bang moment,

a release of such a magnitude

that everything I carry inside me

that might be fuming or swirling 

finds its way free

and in that singularity

becomes lighter and brighter

than it’s ever been, 

and oh what a glorious 

heartburn that’ll be.

CURATING CUBISM

Every day I wake

and look 

at the figure

in front of me.

And every day

it shape-shifts 

into some new

form

that has me 

think 

some new thought

about it. 

And with this 

altered thinking 

my soul grows heavy

or light 

depending upon 

how I am seeing

the thing I see 

that day.  It’s not 

easy going through life

with a kaleidoscope

in my mind.

Oh, how I wish 

I could take all this 

thinking 

that gets 

stretched

across hours,

days, weeks,

and months,

and put it down,

into a canvas, 

collapse it

into a cubist 

painting, 

strip it 

of time 

and space,

render it 

into 

one muted 

flattened moment,

that I would hang

like a mirror

on a gallery

wall. All that 

thinking, 

all in one place,

within one frame,

within one room,

what a relief 

that would be,

how free I’d be.

I could visit it,

the painting, 

the thinking,

whenever I wanted to

instead of

it visiting me

randomly, compulsively

all at a moment’s notice.

It would be

outside of me

as something 

I could witness

instead of being 

a thing inside me

like a cancer

I couldn’t cut or cure,

like a child I couldn’t

comfort or cradle.

With it outside me

I wouldn't 

feel so 

powerless over it.

I'd be the curator 

and in control 

once and 

for all.

HOUSES CLOSE BY

Apart like

stars or atoms, 

notes 

in a fugue.

Like voices 

held      in silence,

in the 

expanse

splayed      between

the in-between.

These houses

 might as well 

be minds

trying 

not to try 

to think, speak.

What do they     hear

         in their      separate 

 confidences          

among the       walls 

 and          windows

ceilings and doors,

tables and chairs,

inside         all the insides 

                in their       distances,

            surrounded by

 

all that’s 

outside and gathering

                in the space 

 around them?

  Is it hope, trust, 

      peace.       A prayer?

   Or simply       a breath 

                breathing 

                 its way 

back home?

 THE LION’S LULLABY

Sit with it.

Be with it.

Look into its 

anguished eyes.

Do not flinch.

This will be 

the hardest thing 

you will ever do.

Eventually, it will get 

drowsy, then drop 

off to sleep.

Be with it also

as it sleeps.

The next hardest thing 

you will do will be to 

know what to do 

knowing that this lion 

of shame is asleep

inside you and will 

wake soon.

When it does, 

remember … the eyes.

Stay with the eyes.

This is the practice.

Presence is 

the lion’s lullaby.

TRUST

Use what 

you cannot

 

control 

or see

to power you 

on your voyage.

Hoist 

your sail high.

See the canvas 

swell and billow.

Trust

the wind.

Before that 

you must

trust 

in trust,

which might be 

even more

invisible than 

air itself.

 

THE INVITATION

You can fasten

feathers to it.

Hear the air 

riffle through

its wings

as it takes flight.

Imagine it

carries you,

buoys you 

up and out of

the grinding

mind of time,

where the

days, the hours, 

and minutes 

aren’t counting

themselves down 

or arcing 

or spiraling

in one direction

or another

toward some

weighty destination.

There is only

the unboundedness 

of being, 

the now

that’s underneath you

and all around you

like a wondrous 

altitude or wind. 

The all of everything

is here. This is 

the invitation

you’ve been invited

into as a breath 

that’s airborne.

What are you 

waiting for?

Drop into 

this moment, 

the moment 

before you.

Don’t let the fear 

of falling 

keep you 

from flying.

Say yes 

to this most

beautiful bird.

     ROPE 

I take the braided strands

           and unwind them 

    from one another 

               so rope is 

      no longer a tie 

           that’s bound up 

      in its own binding 

   cut off from 

           the intricacy 

        and intimacy

             once woven 

            within its

                weave. 

                    Now free          from its 

             own bondage         no one would 

                             dare         call rope 

       twisted, tortured         or entangled.