it's been a tough winter for most but now it's spring
i've been moving my plants outside & planting new ones from cutlings. goldfinches populate the mesquite tree for seed from the feeder. i had lost myself recently, but now i work to stay present in the present, not thinking of yesterday & not thinking of tomorrow. MMM read my taroh last night & my unconscious, she said, was screaming at me. most writing is from the unconscious mind so i'm not altogether surprised by what the cards were saying. in this town, when you tell your friend you have troubles, a candle is lit on a home altar. the simplicity of the act & the generosity is beautiful, daily prayer, the desert reminding us bloom is possible.
When the moon hangs right you are Belen left asunder. Corners erode, big trucks will bring them down, she knew this the first time she saw the back window. Trucks don’t bear a doable turning radius. And so to corral, to ride, to tame, you call wakeful delivery: up. You will find the wildness that talled over the City, carries your shoes over the City, the City will take you in, not tower so the way you think driving into it. We make songs growing older, clap two hands together for a whistle sounds the horses coming in from the far fields; I imagine it so. Did she have an incapacity to allow this badness in her home, more than half of her tied up in private school, little Catholic girl skirt, servitude all her life. Waken, the cars are circuituitous the statue, mercy on Guadalupe, she has been a woman known for grace, cathedrals lit up on the 7-11 wallside for her in this town, the men kneel in prayer; take away the things in my life I do not need. Light candles, do penance, buy yourself oxford shoes that fit protocol. How you make yourself rise & lose what, you dress this body, borne mother’s fine waist & love of the evening light. Fifteen minutes to take care of yourself not by alcohol: it watches for you to sound. It watches eyes. Eyes itself never admits. Grows limbs over the house yellow flowers sneeze the life out of me, not the limbs you have leveled over the bed, a briar thicket, keeps me put, hurts thorns. Not the limbs; yours.
