Tuesday, February 27, 2007
ripened by the sun. The dirt
grows everything. Mangy
bug-eaten leaves of cabbage
nearly blue around a strong root.
The sunflowers, yellow pollen,
the dust of the sun, liquid
running crystal drops. Peaches
which were hard green fuzz balls
become possibly the most gorgeous
objects of the harvest -- crimson
and spotted gold, merging
in the most vital colors of life.
Oh fever and savor of fruit.
After days of constipation,
the old man, in the bed
with cancer, has shat his pants
but he feels better. As I offer
him one of his sun-ripened peaches,
the harvest begins in earnest.
Oh fever and savor of flesh.
Flesh and fruit each have a season.
Aug. 21, 77
Friday, February 2, 2007
When I die like an aborted rabbit
burn what remains in white-hot flame.
My soul, like a love-smitten phoenix,
will fly upward in the melancholy blue
and find a home calm and devoid of dew.
The Guest is the one you meet
and fall in love with
along the Way. The Guest
is you yourself who
you invite into your own house.
The law of Life is that
we're all guests passing through,
so be hospitable to your own Soul.