Archive | Essays

On Bended Knee. . . Peace-d

It is on bended knee that I approach my blog with what nearly a century of living has taught.  With what I have learned of our holographic universe,  acknowledging talents given at birth or contracted for I must speak my experience.

It is a linear world we live in to help us learn.  It can be counted on being.  It is also a prime example that all time is simultaneous.  The past is still happening,  the future has already happened and we in the present race to catch up with it.  The following was one of the first posts I wrote 6 years ago when I first blogged. My life has stood me in good stead.  It has been all of a piece and I would be foolish to deny it.

September, 2011. . . . It is a trying thing we do.  We want to understand what we remember of a specific time when all we have are bits of memories and what historians say went on at the time.   But we cannot take as fact all that we read or hear.  Everything written cannot be taken as gospel.   Everything heard cannot be taken without question.  What we have in our memory bank we get in snatches and try to make as much sense out of them as we can.

 For when we try to do more than this, we are playing a guessing game.   It is also a guess when we are not certain whose memories we are jousting with.   Are they our memories of this life or perhaps other lives of ours as more of the world believes or perhaps even of distant or ancient ancestors written into our DNA?   Are we responsible for unfulfilled talents or love not returned?   Can we or should we put to rest our ancestors’ anguish?

 And what about all the historians’ views of history?  How much of it is conjecture?   How much of it is piecing what bits can be garnered to fill in the spaces when the times themselves have left no record?   There is much that can be retrieved through concerted research.  But retrieved also must be the long lost habit of conversation with aging persons.  There is much that oral history will reveal that written history has neglected to mention.  

It is a hard work we do to find a putting place for memories.   But it is one way to find out who holds the candle for each of us. 

Peace-d. . .

The numbers are few
who can share in this journey
that takes a lifetime
to get to the heart of oneself.

One learns to walk through
the warm woods of one’s empty house
to find the communion
with invisible friends
when a soul across the table is not.

The immediate pressure of voices
long gone have ears aching
but there is a conversation of saints
and the company of good minds
commingling;  kindred spirits housed in thought.

Confrontation of points hidden within centuries
of genetic history has one acutely conscious
of love freely given and healing accomplished.
As we are given the capacity to love,
Spirit within gives that capacity also to the Other.

And pieces of The All That Is will be peace-d.

(poem written March,  2016)

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The Vault Of God. . . you know, my friend, you know. . . .

 

 

 

‘How did you know to do it?’ he asked.
I loved and raised babies and painted roses
on their cheeks and planted evergreens in their hearts.

Now you should put the sabers
at the foot of the evergreens.
The dove sings high, gargles her song at times,
but you know my friend, you know.

                                                                                                             The PoemMaker

In every time and place there is a one who will dip pen
in the heart and write.

                                                                       The Philosopher-King

The rose will bloom in December, I promise.
And I do not make promises lightly.

                                                                         My Mentor, the Nazarene

 

(I knew that eventually I would have to define my god or what it is I have held as my truth.  Having been brought up in a traditional orthodox religious home,  from the beginning I was watched. And heard the apologies to the priest about what I was saying.  Somehow it is important I put into words that are understood what is my knowledge or what I came into the world remembering.    I overheard a new reader say he gave up on me  because he had to resort to the dictionary for every second word.  My favorite English Lit teacher says my language is often archaic.  But considering the ancient world I volunteered from,  to me it’s understandable.

I am not credentialed so my education has been for well over a half century a daily independent study program.  When my world slept,  I went to the books.  Thought given and integrated and practiced.  I cannot quote theories and postulates,  I write what I know and after much struggle,  am lightly editing my last journal entry of July 23, 2017 that tells how it is with me.)

We are given to speaking in a lofty language too so bear with us. What you are searching for is not without peril for you delve into territories best left to those whose ambitions list with the arch angels.  You form a doctrine also best left to the farmers of the soul whose intent is to feed the people.  You love your humans and do not leave them adrift.  But we educate.  Your dreams also are  lofty at times but we lift when we can and surprised are we at times.

What we can do is give you a premise.  A premise with teeth but not without bite.  You wish to give what people will find comforting and yet something to grow on.  And think.  Work is something people avoid when they can but we give it a go.

Ineffable.  That which is too lofty, too sacred and must not be spoken of.  Must not be spoken of.  Yet if we are to see growth and a planet not in peril,  we have to work.  Ineffable.  The rolling thunder of which you speak, the implicate and explicate is what the scientists call it.  We call it the core and outer limits of the dream as you say.  You wish to enhance or enclose with an embrace the awesome splendor of the love you find permeating. You live in your god since he is All That is.  The outside of you is the inside of his outside and this you knew from the beginning.  The awesome splendor of the embrace is what your god is for you.  Awesome.  It is a word that people use and can relate to.  Yet it does not answer the question why the killing of 6 million humans was not sufficient reason to stop one human.

You will not find a reason within human intelligence to explain that symptom of depravity exhibited by a human toward other members of his species.  How could your ten year old heart at that time be ravaged by its knowledge and not the god to whom you were given for safekeeping?  Though your parents held to the Grandfather God concept,  you did not even then. What you ask the human mind cannot grasp.  But maybe we begin to explain how goodness can operate without emotion and still be considered above evil.

It seems the word ineffable stems from being not spoken in terms of outside the sphere of sacred.  Sacred is common with you.  Beyond sacred is ineffable.  Not spoken of.  You find this difficult; hard to live with a concept beyond the realm of speaking.  You think and therefore have the right to speak providing you intend no harm to the house of another nor to break the rice bowl from which he eats.  So we adhere to these concepts.  But there is a realm of existence so far beyond where we are and you are that it cannot be spoken of because there are no concepts beyond the immediate conceptual. Simply Is.  All else Is.  Or are,  steps toward getting nearer to that place where awesomeness will begin to conceive a form holding yet further realms of thought not possibleRealms of thought not possible for the human brain.

It seems nonsense and yet,  yet,  ineffable is the word to use.  Too lofty, too sacred and not spoken of because there are no words in the human lexicon,  dictionary able to describe.  When people speak of the god they believe in who has a hand on their shoulder it is a leaf that they feel and lean on.  A leaf.  The tree itself is a mighty redwood of understanding with roots going down levels of life that consume Every Living Thing and whose height is above sight.  When man says there is no god he does not feel the weight of the leaf yet.  He still has many lives to go to get to that point.  Ineffable.

You see the word in conjunction with the mighty redwood.  Man is a lightweight against the leaf but when he feels it,  it is progress.  For there now is the presence of Conscience.  You see the sacredness of life and the child hurting.  Many have not reached there yet,  thinking still that all is a match of chemicals,  hormones mostly that propel humans.  Humans you say are divine and place them in Genesis where the beginning was.  They cannot assimilate that information and cannot relate.  Knowledge rises from within and is a Given.

Ineffable.  Beyond the scope of humanity because there is no form, no concept of the word becoming.  God is a thunderous roll of Becoming Yet To Be and that is why minds say that life is everlasting and everlasting.  The residual of that thunderous roll to becoming is left within Mankind and is the god within.  The leaf maybe they feel.  That they humanize that weight and say their grandfather god will open his arms to them may be all they can handle at the moment.  That there is a stronger someone than they is what they need.  Someone to justify them.  And what they do.  And even if what they do is not good it may be what their human father commanded,  wished,  or taught so they are obedient to their human father god.  You see the evolution and why it stagnates.   Education is required for growth of the human spirit.  We begin again.

The Vault of God

And the inside is the outside
of the inside of God and I am he, or it or she.

Just as my children were part of me, the
outside of me, while inside, yet separate.

I am they, that part of me that flows
through them, yet are they separate and

they are part of me, an expression of
who I am, yet separate.

With my memory bank, just as I am the
holder of my mother’s memories,  I am

the vault of her who had me as her
expression.  I am the vault of God who

expressed himself through me and I am
the holder of memories.

 

(I told a long time friend that for me God is a verb and Jesus is my Mentor  A verb cannot cuddle nor is a comfortable pillow.  But I was not then at the place of rolling thunder yet nor where all time is simultaneous that quantum physics espouses.  So there was a lot of growing to do and much living yet to thread through.  My mentor became my friend as I was held accountable and as I sought his divinity,  I found mankind’s, and my own.    In the Dead Sea Scrolls (The Nag Hammadi Library)  Jesus said ‘I shall give you what no eye has seen,  no ear has heard and no hand has touched and what has never occurred to the human mind.’   Even with no credentials and whatever our persuasion,  we all have a highest and best we hold onto.  It is a good beginning.)

 

 

 

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The Love Offering. . . the word is god. . . .

They were just children with a love offering.  It glinted in the ground and when picked up it glittered as a star in the sky.  Of course it would be given to the one loved most!  And with grimy hand and full heart it was.  With words accompanying the gift,  they spilled as starbeams through fingers. 

It was met with laughter at the piece of broken bottle swept in by the now polluted waters, with the love words washed with even more laughter.  And the child ran and hid and forever found words choked in throat too tight to speak.  And chatter found its way into conversation during lifetimes of too many words, none spoken ever with truth. 

Devices soon replaced the human voice in pillow talk and words were shouted in derision, in hostility,  in raucous laughter but seldom in measured voice which would take counsel with the sages.  Humans soon counted on one syllable words,  incomplete thoughts and reverted to gestures when language which had taken thousands of centuries to master came to a halt.  Even though in the beginning we were told that the  word is god. . . . we took away the child’s most important tool for growth and smashed it with our jealousy at his innocence as ours had been smashed.   And evolution stagnates.

THE WORD IS GOD

In the beginning was the word
destined to touch the mind of man.
But the prevailing Spirit in its wisdom saw fit
to encumber each with the power to discern.

Meanings floated into space,
shaping themselves to fit the receiving mind.
Reaching their destination,
their shape changed to fit the owner.

Such turbulence!  Such uneasiness!
Albeit because the word had taken life and risen
to meet the heart’s need.
The speaker’s heart had taken its intent
and placed upon the ethers the heart’s desire.
It gathered cadence as it rode
to meet the receiver’s prejudices.

The sender’s intent lay silent, lost.
The heavens only acknowledged
its primordial meaning.
Can it be said in truth
that the word be god?
It is.
For within its power to create
it moves with desperation to voice feelings,
to give breath to visions and to heal.

The word created creatures and dynasties,
wars and rebellions, held peace in abeyance
and brought us to life.

So speak softly when speaking.
Words carry the weight of the heart
with intent to topple empires
and worlds and men.
In the catalytic movement
of the word, the world’s heart beats,
years are gifted
and man’s future secured.

It is all we have.

 

painting by
Claudia Hallissey

 

 

 

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Trust; Maudie Again??

 

Maudie Again?  Impossible!  Maybe????

In April of 2016 I wrote of Maudie and Jack,  the doves who took up residence one year beneath the patio cover of our Michigan home.   They sat on eggs  and hatched two babies.  I did not take photos of that time but I did take notes.  Since then there have been three moves to where I am now in California,  and to my surprise beneath the patio cover here,  a dove sits on her nest and eggs, however many I don’t know.  My son John took the photo of the dove and lo,  she does look like Maudie.  I don’t know how long doves live nor how far they can fly.  It seems impossible that it could be Maudie,  but who is to know for sure?

She is about ten feet outside the kitchen window and I look at her and she sees me.  Her beak is turned toward me so I think she is looking at me.  Her eyes are steady and I don’t know if birds blink intentionally.  But she is beautiful.  It just seems more than a coincidence that another dove should find the home I live in to be of such a secure place that she wishes another family to be born where I am.  My grandson William could not believe that first Maudie allowed me to move her and her nest from one place to another without a squawk.  A loud racket at least.  But she didn’t.  And he is much older now so I wonder what he will think of this dove sitting on another nest beneath the patio cover a world away from the time of the first Maudie.

In the previous essay I wrote that I learned that creatures,  no matter the species,  have memory.  Birds are not forgetful.  Maudie remembered my care for her and her babies from previous times so she built her nest outside my kitchen window the first time.  Well,  I am learning,  there is either a telepathic chain of command or memory bank that involves all of us.  And I am confronted every day with opening my mind to the vast encumbrances that preclude our thoughts from encompassing a very primary fact.  That there is connection with all of life,  even with the most mundane.  And the bird species is more than simple,  they are as complex in miniature as we think we are giants in intellect.

I will keep you in the loop with my companions.  We are at the edge of understanding.

AT The Edge. . .

We are only at the
beginner’s edge of understanding.

So much yet to learn,
to ferret out in languages understood.
So much and yet so little time.

Let us then be serious
in offering our blessings
in gratitude
for what has been given.

But let us choose our illusions
carefully.  Relationships have
been formed and dissolved
under illusions.

And we too?

 

photo by
john stanley hallissey

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You Are The Cherished Purpose. . .

 

You wonder if you make a difference.  You’re those things that escape the notice of people.  But without the daily doings of choice, of comforts, of niceness,  the world could not go on.

The smallest act of mercy has large repercussions.  Remember that.  When the smallest act of kindness is received, it is passed on without thinking because the act gains a life of its own and struggles for expression.  It gathers momentum as it moves through the person’s hands, their life and those about them.

It is these acts of kindness, of niceness, of love that keeps the earth’s purpose in mind.   And the earth continues to vibrate its song and sings it for the ears that are destined to hear.  One person can delay it but no person can stop it up completely.  It will only be delayed but never destroyed.

The many acts of kindness and goodness dispensed by you took their proper route and touched many lives giving to each a measure of estimation they could not reach by themselves.  You are an example and a cherished purpose.  You are making an inestimable difference.

You Are The Difference. . .

Walking obscurely, you catch
a glimpse of yourself in a storefront,
not trendy nor polished,
a little unkempt,
not to be remembered.
Wondering why must you
always smell of baby powder.

So much to do
with so many needs.
Why do you hear them crying?

It’s always the children, you think,
for whom you would do much,
but some of them
are so big and so old. . .

You pass out treats
to the little ones
and listen with your heart
to the elderly. . . .

You wonder if your caring
can make any difference
in lives that are so needy.

You are the difference,
you who takes the time
to blot teary faces
and listen to abandoned lives. . .

Hazarding that.  . . .
some are not too big to sit on your lap
but all the right size

to sit on your heart. . . .

 

photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.

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All We Have Is The Moment. . .

 

It seems strange to be living with devices that usurp time that could be spent with persons,  either beloveds or would be friends.  These devices  take precedence over relationships that would enhance life to the utmost or heal encounters that would promote peace.  How we have let celluloid people on the wall take precedence over a live breathing person  beside one,  is a mystery to this head.  And happen it does.  It is not that I don’t indulge in technology of my choice but to watch devices being used in the midst of conversation is a stealth that will be regretted once the situation realized can never be recovered.  People leave and die and circumstances alter cases.  What is a real chance for furthering civil and emotional growth is bypassed in favor of situational procedures that have little relevance in our daily life.

Unless the moment depends on word on the life and death of a beloved,  should we not hang up the device while in the presence of  another like us who still breathes?  This moment is all we have.  Time is a commodity that cannot be spent twice.  Once spent it is gone and unless wisely spent,  regret is left in its wake.

I Take Your Hand. . .

Come,  I take your hand.
We go to places where
our hearts share dreams.

Sometime back, in histories
having no years,
we trod places where paths
had not been worn.

It was a good time,
seeing how we formed lives
with no lesson plans,
loved with no time
and lived fully aware.

We remember now
when the hands of the clocks
tell us we have only so much time;
only so much to check emails,
to see to bank statements
and to note how many Likes on devices
from those we don’t know.

And only so much time
before the next commercial break
and then we might have time

to love one another?

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A Presence. . .all you can do. .

I am calling to touch base with you.  It has been too long since we chatted I said.  And after a surprised response she started and went on at great length finding her own equilibrium.  I could do nothing for her except be an ear to listen.  She called me the next day with gratitude because she said she was ready to puddle.  And there was no one to mop her up.

Another young friend would be facing an enormous decision the following week.  I was in a quandary about what to do and then realized I could only be an assistant.  I could not decide nor input any information.  I would plead ignorance on which I was an expert.  Unless asked,  there was no insight I could offer.  With today’s abundance of information,  there is too much in fact.  The brain can only handle so much since everyone is an expert in everything,  all I could do was stand by and catch the fall out.

Another body, another human is what is needed.  Just Presence.  Just being there is what is needed for the individual to stand and make their own decisions.  Just someone to listen to the garbage spilling forth and not stop loving them.  To take them in their frustration and to let it dissipate so the residue  does not kill them.   Just to be able to have a someone there who does not fall down will enable them to stand and do what they must.

I don’t have time for your drama a husband said and left his wife to handle the emotional conflict of the children.  Well, mister,  that is what earth life, physical life is all about.  Here we learn either to handle our emotions or gift them onto unsuspecting shoulders and watch our grandchildren fight the same battles.  Is this our desire?  To see the icons of past history smashed  by the frustration of generations of ancestors rising demanding restitution?  How better to spend your time than by listening to a soul in search of an ear to hear their lament?  Be the quiet symbol of peace.  Be the one who stands and gives Presence to allow the right thing to be done.  To Be may be the all we can do is the all we can do.

A Good Friend. . .

You stayed the night
while I lumbered my body
through a partition
closing me from life.

While I fought
through a sea of memories
holding me hostage
to long and lonely years.

You saw me through eye of tears
reflecting the hardness
mine needed to smelt with coals
being fired in a heart of no use.

But you stayed, close as my skin,
and had you pulled away
I would have understood.
You walk me yet and I stand.

My eyes have shed their steel casings,
now ground as dust beneath my heel.
I look inward to softer places
and find the world not so hard.

You tell me you need to stay close
because you wish to claim
my strength  if only by association,
but I ask,

of what heavenly use is a soft shell crab?

photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.

 

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Rocking The Boat. . .

He was five years old and did not want to go back to kindergarten.  I don’t want to read to the class while the teacher  teaches the green color to the other kids.  I don’t want to read the baby books he said because he was already reading higher grades by himself.  The  teacher was using him as a teacher’s aide because he read fluently.    And I was commiserating with the principal about discontinuing the trial of the homogeneous grouping, even though  the first grade was doing 3rd grade work and loving it.  Their teacher in conversation extolled her enthusiasm as first she taught years ago and could hardly wait for the day to begin to race the children to class.  The excitement, she said!!

And the principal held his head in his hands and told of the call at midnight from the irate father who wanted to know why his kid was in the dumb class.  How will he learn he shouted,  if he doesn’t see what he might do?   But do we have the right to relegate the eager and bright to a slow pace to justify the process of the less able?  And can we expect growth from the less able when we withhold potential for achievement from them?   It will take a Solomon to disentangle the arguments which justify evolution for everyone.

The Universes depend on the progress of the able to set the standards for all.  Because what is done for one is done for all.  And our younger brothers in evolution deserve the chance to augment their chances for growth by aspiring to emulate the ones who set the pace.  What is the fair thing to do and can we depend on the good graces of the swift to hide their light beneath a bushel to allow a moment in the sun for the less able?  Can we keep the larger picture in view while we work toward greater purposes of growth of all Beings?

Can we inject the virus of learning to ensure evolution and see progress?  Or stagnate the process for all?  It is crucial for newness of thought at some point to find response in one’s peers or the impetus for its birth dies.  And the chance for growth is lost.  The only change that makes a difference is change in the value system carried by the time.  The Universe gauges the growth of its worlds by this best of all learning places.  Comfortable people do not like to have the boat rock.

Toward Greater Life. . .

The heart searches parameters
for openings unto worlds
not torn by those intent
on limiting knowledge. . .

always searching
for those to willingly embrace
the differences challenging
the hesitant heart. . .

We look toward the union
of heart and mind
with litigious veins
of knowledge, pushing like sludge
thickly through rock. . .

eager to consign edges
toward greater life. . .
knowing always the
least demanding would be
the most sought for.
Even the tardy would give
evolution a jump start.

Never insulting the slower envoy,
always grateful for the god participants,
the larger reality scoops forever
the narrow focus. . .

giving eternity’s starters new life and hope. . . .

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The Journey Begins. . .

What Have You Done?  (understanding)

They will ask, what have you done with your life and in truth I will answer.

I have alibied and done laundry for a world so soiled that even bleach couldn’t reach.  I have waited for the winter snows to cover the debris to give surcease to eyes that tire.  I will say to understand is harder to live with than not to understand.  For to understand one sees the child in the bigger body struggling to be understood.

Waiting, just waiting for arms to lift the weeping child in love to comfort, to support and to assuage what doubts overwhelm.  The Master said  suffer the little children and he mortgaged his life for eternity to give them the love they yearned.  Understanding takes away the right to vent, the right to rage and the anger to strike whenever and whatever is in the way of one’s path.

Understanding urges protection for the psyche clinging to the grandfather god who has one’s good as the only good necessary at this moment. His hand is on my shoulder she says, refusing to think why 6 million Jews went unprotected.  To not understand justifies one’s behavior to anger, to war and to smash in sight what one feels an obstacle to one’s right to live.  To not understand keeps one’s focus on one’s despair.

The day comes when creeping into one’s darkness will be a link to light that beckons.  It will be the beginning of a journey and it will happen because to continue with the wreckage of the previous way is unthinkable.  Some will call it salvation and it is.  Some will call it evolution and it is.  Some will call it reclaiming one’s divinity, one’s heritage and it is.

It is with utmost concern that we get on with the journey.  Universal well being, many worlds, hinge on our stewardship of this planet.  Our neighbors may not be quite so understanding  of the child who refuses to grow up.

King To Pauper. . .

Rendering itself useless now,
the elements of Nature
first borne by Man to work for him
have gone rabid.

But in wisdom still,
the moon continues to pull
the ocean by great force and
gently lays the rolling waves
on windswept sand, clearing man’s debris.

The wind, if amortized, would harness
its power to push the plow.
And sun, first born of woman
would gladly warm the earth’s chilled bones
and never cast a shadow.

The earth would form the nested nettle
where foot transgressed,
with pleasure support
the frame of man forever.

Air in bunches note
the going in and coming out of men
and upholds their stance, untiringly;
gladly yielding itself to noble ends.

Relegating himself
to the beggar’s position
of that which man himself created,
the Art is lost and in its stead
small triumphs rise.
Birth and death are Nature’s saviors

preventing man from raping her in anger.

 

Painting by
Claudia Hallissey

 

 

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If I Could See Me. . .

 

I was getting dinner for Sunday noon.  I was in the process of setting the table and finishing up.  I was listening to Carl Hass give his voluminous views on classical music radio when I heard him say Bach’s little suite.  And when I listened it was the same feeling I had when I first heard Pachelbel’s Canon.  If in a different time, I would have been driven to my knees.  I saw again the hall and the girl and the violins. It was the same feeling that almost drove me straight down or up.  It was the blending, the melding that comes with finding a time right for you.  ((the following I scribed as I wrote the entry describing the experience))

The time was indeed right for you.  But where were you and what were you doing?  (The gloves being pulled on the male hands.  White gloves.  I wrote about it in a poem.  The time was yeasty.  I used the same word when I looked at the portrait of Bach.  Was it the same as fermenting?)

It was a time of fermentation.  Much was going on and you were privy to it all.  Your ability to make connections and ferret out cause and effect is useful.  The times of the music were beautiful.  They spoke of romance and love.  Today’s world bears the fruit of its decline.

I wrote If I Could See Me .  It was a Given.  I wrote it as I heard it and saw it played in mind.  It was vivid at the time. Often when people tell me of their experiences that are vivid,  they immediately distract themselves.  It is unasked, it descends and often with a feeling of unease.  If held for a moment this experience can be healing, liberating and might yet save them.  What you hear and see cannot always be wrong.  Sometimes misinterpreted but mostly it is given for the preservation of life.  Hold it for a moment and do not be afraid.  It is given to you  with Grace and love.

If I Could See Me. . .

I am conscious of a Presence
to the east of conscience,
bedded in memory.
A pair of white gloves
are smoothed over large hands
and the cutaway coat is laced with white.

A head of black hair, I see,
streaked with grey, thick,
but the face is cloudy
and the eyes indeterminate.
Somewhere time appeared
in the place and I lived in it,
with full participation,
now foggy except with a knowing.

Was I the you I see to my left?
Was I the someone smoothing
on the gloves in preparation?
If I was you and am me now,
who was the Other?
Is it a protection I seek, daring not to think
you were you and are now
to the left of my appearance,
to the east of conscience
only to rise from memory?

I could, with sweat pouring
from every body opening,
probe the memory, bedded
and know for certain what trails I left
for me to one day find my way back.

Perhaps you could tell me.
Was the affair as gay, as bright
as the confirmed costume of the evening?
Or was there sadness, presumed
and the memory stays
of that bright night to hide
what my face would reveal and yours,

if I could see me?

 

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