The vibrations flowing through my body are quite strong. An earthquake shakes my thoughts. The sudden creative rush stops me from moving. I reach to pick up a pen. Stare out the window to watch a storm approach from the west. The mountain encased by fog. Neither of us, pen or mind, can function. We are not heard and the mountain stands still.
Sometimes life expects us to make confessionals. My list happens to be growing as I recollect events that I am sorry for. For instance, in the midst of my grief, shortly after learning my brother John had taken his life, I stole a plant. A flowering plant at a local grocery store. The reasoning being I had always walked the straight and narrow and while my anger was bubbling up, I lashed out in order to inflict hurt on the world I once loved. I struck back at the heart of existence.
Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
Nothing. Her hands held out, reaching empty spaces, vacuous trances silence held in sacred space missing.
A million trains travel through my head daily. I miss every damn train. I arrive at the depot, out of breath, with frantic nerves from tireless searching, and grief enmeshed between pores. Looking into the glass-enclosed diorama, I strain to see the impervious face of my heart.