Poetry/Prose

Great Glass Walls

Image credit: Mine, Beijing 2010

Image credit: Mine, Beijing 2010

Dear Anonymous,

I tried to write a note to you today but when I was about to send it, I thought of all the synapses that would fire in your brain and cause you to respond in the way that you would, because you think the things that you naturally do.

And I wondered in that moment, how many people I have loved had wanted to write to me but couldn’t because they knew the same …

… that some strange volition within me would take the purity of their words and feed an ego that just couldn’t know better at that time.

How many?

I wanted to tell you so many details. Things that would get lost on the way to your deeper wisdom. I have tried this before. I know. They will.

So now I will send you nothing at all–something more pure than the ego can touch. Something so subtle it overwhelms the world. Something that will never be said but somehow be known until the moment before we die or almost do–what is real, what is true.

There is no me. And there is no you.

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Poetry/Prose

Just Be Fame

fame1And I think you know it’s rare.

For someone to see.

You.

Facing insecurities.

Out of control.

In control.

In between.

Waiting in lines.

Wondering.

Crying in secret.

Chewing cheap gum.

Fumbling with your iPad.

Like everyone else.

How could you not?

When I saw you, I saw a person.

Not a picture.

Not a title.

Not a name.

I looked at you.

Heard your voice.

Answered your questions.

Wondered what you were hiding.

Because you had to.

Heard what you were hiding.

Despite you.

What you assumed about me.

It wasn’t.

Projected–it could only be you.

And I loved it.

The mysterious gap.

That revealed everything.

You thought you hid.

I spoke with you.

Measured.

Sincere.

As if you were a merchant.

And I tended to you.

As if you were my fleeting customer.

And I think you know it’s rare.

For someone not to care too much.

But just enough for you to know.

I do.

For someone to trust nature.

More than temptation.

To put you higher.

Than human.

There is no fame in a moment.

Unless I am famous too.

And when I turn around.

I see all the layers.

That separate you.

From everyone else.

And I wonder why.

Anyone would want this.

Fame.

And I sense.

You’re the kind who never wanted it.

As much as it wanted you.

Like a mother wants her child.

To come in and wash his hands.

And sit at his place at the table.

As much as it challenges you still.

To believe something it tempts you not to.

That you have nothing to prove.

Don’t worry; I see, and your secret is safe with me.

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Poetry/Prose

Know Comfort

Egyptology.com: From the Opet Temple. Osiris on his lion couch with Amen-Re as Ba bird alighting upon him

Let us get comfortable

With all the parts of our hearts

All the rooms

With their worn couches

And chipped cups

And tattered lampshades

Gritty when clean

You can smell

Familiarity

Someone’s cooking something

In the apartment next door

As you eat takeout

And watch people

On the sidewalk

Outside your eyelids

As they get heavy

As you can only hear

Your silent, beating heart

And you realize

That the birds are asleep

Completely hidden in the night

Ecstatic

Drunk on their own nature

Just like you

About the image: Egyptology.com: From the Opet Temple. Osiris on his lion couch–a bird alights upon him.

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Oyster crackers in tomato soup

When you find a seashell in tact

The smell of the inside of a Saab

A nap on the first afternoon of a long weekend

When you just know you’re a 10 out of 10

The random toddler choosing YOUR company

A long chat about stuff you couldn’t find by yourself

Anything fun that’s out of the blue

A good red at sunset on a white quartz beach

That undefinable second after a good, long cry or laugh

Tom Hanks in the 80s