The Never-Ending Story

We are, rest assured,

eternity localized.

You

being the metaphor

and axis

upon which a real life

is imagined

and inspired

by a dream story.

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Choir

“Myths, so to say, are public dreams; dreams are private myths.” – Joseph Campbell

The correspondence

between public and private

alternated choirs.

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Practice Run

To get ready, daily,

for the stories inside,

the voices,

yet never losing sight

of the fact

that they are

phantoms

skating on waves,

and to hold on

would be like

trying to clutch

and contain

sea-spray

between your fingers–

in other words,

flow,

in good faith

that practice makes practice,

and your heart is the raging epic

by which all other stories

pale in comparison.

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Dollhouse

 “The lamp in the window is the house’s eye and, in the kingdom of the imagination, it is never lighted out-of-doors, but is enclosed light, which can only filter to the outside.”–Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

The young girl

noticed,

not only

the one lighted window

in her dollhouse,

but also that its front door

was half-opened.

When she peered

through the glass

of the window

and saw a dark-haired doll,

one she had never seen before,

dancing with the porcelain figure

who was meant to represent her father,

the girl almost screamed

but held it in,

that is until

she reached her bedroom door

and found that the doorknob

was too high to reach.

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Illuminations

“You know of course that slowness is the only illumination I’ve ever had.” — Peter Handke, The Afternoon of a Writer

A writer,

fastening his worth

to the tempo of grass,

to the yellow leaves

separating their grief

from their longing–

immeasurable farewells

and hellos

so slow

to burn.

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Vouchsafe

“Once it had been the other way around: one summer, while daydreaming a winter story, he had reached into the tall grass  for a snowball, wanting to throw it playfully at the cat.” — Peter Handke, The Afternoon of a Writer

In those chanced

moments of supple reverie,

when the seasons blend

and merge

in hybrid fluency,

and you find

the fugitive words

dancing from your pen

to annoint a page

your confidante

and vouchsafe,

then, and only then,

the ceremony

of a slow reckoning

toward most treasured intimacy.

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What Was It You Said?

“Distraction is the only thing that consoles us for our miseries and yet it is, itself, the greatest of our miseries.” — Blaise Pascal

Oh, distraction,

you paradoxical bastard–

Sky laughs, stays open.

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Morning Ritual

“I’d woken up early, and took a long time getting ready to exist.”– Fernando Pessoa

In the early morning, a yawn

brought tears to his eyes,

and then the agonizing consideration

of his metaphysical wardrobe,

and how he should appear to himself,

or to the mirrors held up

in the back of his skull–

Breakfast,

he crowed loudly

to no one,

yes, some buttered toast

and good strong dark coffee

before attempting anything

to do with the management

of self

along remotely intimate

psychic edges.

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Intimation

“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star” – William Wordsworth

Once upon a star,

lyrics mated with the dark–

Memory was born.

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Living Mythology

“Essentially, mythologies are enormous poems that are renditions of insights, giving some sense of the marvel, the miracle and wonder of life.” – Joseph Campbell

Brokering

the truest gold

from the radiant core

of melting mortal want,

your life

is the poem

and metaphor

upon which

a course

is carved

and set

with infinite regard.

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