1. Receiving, knowing
it is more than I can repay
2. The giving of such
3. The twain
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Grace
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Little boy: patience, or, at least let yourself be. You don’t see the angels loving you, the humble intricacies of your snowflake, the mountain you pirouette from. I admonish you: love yourself, still, only if it be thine will, lest you deprive the least of your lovers of a tittle of your jot. Nurture yourself, breathe, grow, should it suit you. The bright Devil burns, still not yet God.
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Art is a gift, something intricate — oh, stark something.
Bitter Pith
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It hurts my feelings, this lump of heart and soul, eons in the making, gathering together my humanity into something presentable only to have you taking it with a grain of salt, being skeptical, doubting, and awaiting proof.
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I withdraw to my hearth confident all have fires within, this public thing notwithstanding.
Hermit
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Wind weaves through my wheat, sun–touched, tender nubs heavy with grain lifting up to the sky. They bask. Would your giant hand brush through them, feel their thoughtless, supple stipples bounce upon your flesh before they burn brittle? Just whim and I gasp as your nails unearth the moist crumbles of my cake. Fallow me easily as deep as an entire man.
Whole Grain
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My hoops, untouched and so taken, dizzy and swaying, rejoice as your arrow rushes through, home at last.
Threaded
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A sobering realization to hear “enough” from my own lips once so desirous to devour a guilty swallow of enchantment you so easily weave: intricate and vast — beyond what I can see — interconnected waves, ringing, ringing, washing over, flooding me. To have you see me turn my gaze from your majesty: I can't bear to witness it. Then, to live on remembering I could not contain your beauty, could not contain, for an instant in my memory, the mellifluous image you constantly alight upon the world: my sorrow my mirror reflects darkly. My belly is full of beauty: full, only with a meager portion of your infinity. Have I done anything?
Love’s Labors Lost
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I’m referreeing a woman’s soccer game. I’m blowing my whistle a lot. I wonder if I should be blowing my whistle so much.
Most times it’s unnecessary. The women know what’s what anyway. One time, I signal the direction of the throw-in when the ball goes out; I’ve pointed the wrong way; it doesn’t really matter because the women have the correct team do the throw-in anyway.
One time, I whistle someone for using hands. I’m so glad: finally, I am doing something constructive that only a ref can do. Then I realize I’ve called in on a child who is playing in the dirt in the field. The woman play on, righteously oblivious of my tooting.
Reffing Women
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I’m in class. We study a case of an employee who has made a ruckus of sorts at a coffee shop… The shop is called Luck O’Cup or something like that. It’s a quaint shop serving the upper-middle class. One of the employees instigated a fight or maybe he demanded better pay. The fight created a loss of revenue; even a bus boy was fired due to the financial loses. I have an unconscious understanding that this person is me, though this is not conscious to my dream self.
Anyway this is what we are studying in class.
Class is over and, for real, a case is called on this guy and I’m selected to be one of his defense lawyers. I’m bitter about this. I’m not a lawyer and I can’t make rhyme or reason about the case. Every defense I can think of seems a fabrication; on the other hand, the fellow seems innocent to me. That is, no laws were broken, he just was involved in an argument — an incident where he became angry and which happened to have some fallout.
The judge, a refined black man, discusses the case. As he does, he is panned by the prosecuting attorneys for being upper class and on the side of the shop. I’m dressed in a burnt brown suit; then, I notice the judge is wearing green. He mentions the store’s name… something clever like Luck O’Coffee… I realize everyone is wearing green, including me.
The prosecution begins to lay out there case. Like I said, I’m very uncomfortable because I can’t make heads or tails of any legal position. Everything seems made up. I think hard for some kind of argument. Then, I check back in my paper I did for class. I believe that the main thought train of the paper could fit into a substantive argument; it’s hard to say; it’s the closest thing I have to a genuine position and I’m going to have to defend a real man for his freedom.