Sunday, August 30, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
We two sit on our bed, you
between my legs, your back to me, your head
slightly bowed, that I may brush and braid
your hair. My father
did this for my mother,
just as I do for you. One hand
holds the hem of you hair, the other
works the brush. Both hands climb
as the strokes grow
longer, until I use not only my wrists,
but my arms, then my shoulders, my whole body
rocking in a rower's rhythm, a lover's
even time, as the tangles are undone,
and brush and bare hand run the thick,
fluent length of your hair, whose wintry scent
comes, a faint, human musk.
Last night the room was so cold
I dreamed we were in Pittsburgh again, where winter
persisted and we fell asleep in the last seat
of the 71 Negley, dark mornings going to work.
How I wish we didn't hate those years
while we lived them.
Those were days of books,
days of silences stacked high
as the ceiling of that great, dim hall
where we studied. I remember
the thick, oak tabletops, how cool
they felt against my face
when I lay my head down and slept.
How long your hair has grown.
There will come a day
one of us will have to imagine this: you,
after your bath, crosslegged on the bed, sleepy, patient,
while I braid your hair.
Here, what's made, these braids, unmakes
itself in time, and must be made
again, within and against
time. So I braid
your hair each day.
My fingers gather, measure hair,
hook, pull and twist hair and hair.
Deft, quick, they plait,
weave, articulate lock and lock, to make
and make these braids, which point
the direction of my going, of all our continuous going.
And though what's made does not abide,
my making is steadfast, and, besides, there is a making
of which this making-in-time is just a part,
a making which abides
beyond the hands which rise in the combing,
the hands which fall in the braiding,
trailing hair in each stage of its unbraiding.
Love, how the hours accumulate. Uncountable.
The trees grow tall, some people walk away
and diminish forever.
The damp pewter days slip around without warning
and we cross over one year and one year.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
I was working extra hours, very hard. A woman who looked somewhat like me came to talk to me about something unrelated to work, and I was really annoyed that she would bother me when I was so busy. So I killed her and stuffed her body in a bag and hid it in a room like the Room of Requirement in Harry Potter. (For those of you who don't know what that is, it's sort of like a magic room that meets your needs, and in one iteration, it becomes a massive storage room for things that people want to hide.) I told Michael what I'd done, and he said that while he could not condone my actions, he had felt similar emotions to mine and he understood where I was coming from.He told me that we needed to get rid of the body so I wouldn't get sent to jail. But I couldn't remember where it was. As we searched for it, two of my brothers entered the room. I found a blue bowling bag that held the head of the person I'd killed, and as I was struggling to zip the bag shut again, one brother tried to help me (we both pretended that he hadn't see what was in the bag). The other brother said, "That smells bad. That smells REALLY bad." And he vomited.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
You are listening too much to your fears and not your heart. Your heart knows which way to go.I am holding you in my hand. Have I ever let you go? Have I ever let you plummet to destruction?You ask for signs and wonders and reassurances. I am all the sign you'll ever need. I am God, creator and provider. You keep thinking that if you just figure out the exact course to take, life will suddenly become easy. That is a falsehood. It is one of the biggest lies to ensnare humanity. It causes people to make terrible decisions. Don't fall for it.
Crucifix: In the Name of the Living God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit