Like a lifeline, each beautiful thing a starburst lightning bolt schism, the lifeline on the screens by the hospital bed and hospital shows.
Actually, I can explain: put your fingers in the spaces in my hands where I have no fingers,
then into the beautiful thing a starburst; we put ours in the spaces where it has no fingers.
Punctured and dying like a man with a gunshot wound in a hospital show.
Now see the redshift.
Now see the redshift shift.
Before it was coming towards us now it can't get away fast enough although depending on the mass and shift frequency it can get away pretty much fast enough.

Each beautiful thing I se I can explain with a line or two and then a visual,
starburst lighting bolt with crumpled up fingers like a star moving backwards.
On one hand: the movement of one woman through the kitchen.
You want to know what it tastes like and in order to explain you would have to eat my poem.
I would have to make you.
You would have to refuse, I would have to insist.
I would have to say I have to insist.
It would make a getaway. It would get away pretty much

On your blank plate, a napkin crumpled, map of the desert with fire on it where a mob, implements lit, is after me because I am no different and I am to blame, or so the legend goes in my country, a legend in which I've eaten it entirely and without a sense of digestion, how the juices like a thick snow or a sandstorm, take the form of, take it of.

A country belongs to what it can contain, a country is made of sand and soft fences left loose so that another can succeed cleanly how a dune can pass through another only a little deformed.
A noise where we advance our elbows on the table, examining the meal. The weight of the dish quartered, escaping down each leg and your reflection in the tines slit like a fence. A country breakfast flowering at the rim, yellow, wheat, white, the shapes you are not yet: out over my belly expanse, where belonging begins.

Thoughts, jerky and chaotic, wrench one round,
Until one calls an Emergency...the siren blares, parts traffic.
We slept in duffel coats and mitts.
You faced the wall, like one forgotten and not caring.
Buses whistled as they passed into eternity.
Darling, confess you stole your courage from your heroes, Joan of Arc...

Now, you are sorry, you should have stayed in bed,
Sunk into the sheers, a quagmire of unconscious realms,
Met your own Chowder Powder, sang a duet....Please RELEASE me.
They'll be no need for un umbrella,
Of course faithfulness is difficult
In this age of multiple annoyances,
Where sorrow can be seen falling backwards.

Its pale hands flying out.
Like ones who never understood.
Let us sink into the trivial,
Its wide wandering bottom, like warm mud,
Soothes the backside, tightens up the pores.
Soon you will be ready once again, for Lights @ Action !


     P.S...Then I went to Germany, then I went to New York, then I went to Sarajevo, then, later, after the civil war, I come here, to Toronto or Edmonton...I do not remember exactly the name of the city.
Or maybe I am confusing memories of the name of my own home town. Or just somewhere I heard. I am sorry, but I'm just trying to give you the facts.
For many years I was Yugoslavian...Now I'm not American; I'm Canadian!

Now am I English?...They had the product. They had the money. They supply gin, whisky, beer, vodka...They were beautiful. It would have torn your heart out to see the parties they had, they were so beautiful. The men in their suits and hats, the women with their hair and dresses...
And the PROTOCOL...That's where you'll end up!
All of you BUMS! You will wind up fried in the chair!

There was peppermint on my breath.

     http://www.cinemakomunisto.com/
                                
If they could speak? These walls?
 They would not. No words
 Can describe what they have seen-
 No language has the words to express 
What these walls have witness, heard... 
 
These walls are thick, and solid
Like the pages of human history
And their memory as deep
As the ocean.

 I can only walk along
The corridors of evil
Only look inside these cells
Of pain.

 I see you all,
 I hear
 Your cries,
 Your sighs, your whispering prayers.
 
 I can only cry for you,
 And pray
 For myself
 And try to go on living.
 
 

How the written word helps refresh body, mind, and soul...
Reading van change and improve how we feel and behave.
I am in the agony and ecstasy of writing as a spiritual practice.
There are three rules for writing as a spiritual practice: Don't write what you know.
You can't write what you don't know. You must write...
You are damned if you do, you are damned if you don't.
But authentic spiritual practice is about living outside the system, any system.
Running from practice to practice, genre to genre, even religion to religion, keeps us from ever having to take off our shoes and stand on holy ground.
 
       When Moses meets God at the burning bush, the first thing God commands is that Moses remove his sandals. It is the most important commandment in the entire Hebrew Bible.
Remove your shoes, standing barefoot in the wilderness of God, the wilderness where God is met.
If you stay with a spiritual practice long enough, it will knock your shoes off...Stay a bit longer and your socks disintegrate, and you are left barefoot on Holy ground.
And when you are- write that!..."Don't cease seeking until you find."
When you find you will be troubled. When you are troubled, you will marvel. And when you marvel, you will reign over all. He could be talking about writing as a spiritual practice...

       Keep writing no matter what comes up.
Eventually you will find something in that writing. Cohen remind us that there is a crack in everything, that's how the lights gets in. Mark's Christ isn't satisfied with cracks, he opts for shattering all that is left is light.
So you write until you are crucified, until all your expectations are shattered, until you are completely forsaken. And then you are marvel. You are marvelling this and that, for this and that are all there is...
You are that...Once you're free to write what you write, the writing can't be anything else.
You are writing to be free...No one can do it for you.