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Small Things

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      Pay attention to a crumb fallen from the altar, stuck to the janitor's boot-sole at Our Lady of Guadalupe in East LA. It is the body of God.   Pay attention to this breath sinking to your belly, rising to your forehead, dissolving into starlight. A deer trail  circling back to itself in the greenbelt between public housing projects. The moon in daylight  not quite full  floating among russet leaves.  Nothing is finished. That doesn’t matter. Presence is to disappear. Three unharvested tomatoes glowing hollow as lanterns. A spider flinging its silken path homeward from an old garden buddha to the withered rose. The last evening light fondling small things like the hand of the dying, not with regret but inextinguishable gratitude.   Zen garden, Kyoto
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Not Enough

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 It's not enough to be the sky, you must become the loam. No need to alchemize an angel. Just be a mycorrhizal hypha plunging like a dolphin through waves of sod. It's not enough to be more, you must become what you are. All kingdoms  gathered in your body, finned, slithering, wingéd and hooved.  Find the far  quasar  grit-spark    closed in a clam shell, chaffed  by darkness into pearl. Churn a butter song from silence. Wed eleven genders in one calyx, anther and ovule, you and I. Ferment the nectar of the microbiome, undulate continuum of musk,  incense and putrefaction. Baptize golden idols of death  in your birth canal.  It's not enough to be loam. You must become the sky. Photo: Kristy Thompson
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Are You An Empath? (Video)

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HUT

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                                   The name of Jesus makes the upper and lower chambers of my heart one cell, one hut in the wilderness. Ever so softly he breathes “Mary,” and it is morning in the garden of my body. There are many mansions here, yet they all become a single chamber where No One lives. When I shut the door I become that No One and the darkness is filled with stars. I can touch you, I can feel your tears on the back of my hand. Believe me, friend, you are very near. Why is this hut in the flowering desert of prayer a holy place? It is inside both of us.
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