Compass

you give me needles, darling
methods between the stitching of days
sharp memories of certain pains
thin steel rods, conductors of this life

there is one needle
floating in a pool of my blood
in a small stone bowl
it always points to you
I cannot change it
I've tried

Rising

the only memory becomes
story like a verb vibrating
in one place long enough
it forms a world:
the lunar explored.

but memory is
language with wine poured on it
blooming outrageously like
the vampire returned
from his sticks
by the living's blood.


The role of dreams in the circle of what it means to be reborn. The sense that reality is chosen as understanding (that is, frame of reference) from the data set that is the starkest fundamental block of being. I used to write about resurrection. That was a post-xtian mystery religion point of view. Then I started looking to remember what was always there but forgotten, a gnostic point of view. Now I understand that understanding is a process of being utterly honest. Not there yet, but working on it.