Everyone wants to be how they are notEveryone believes they are who they are notI took a break from my blog only to direct all my energy into journalingNotebooks fill upYou can't imagine how much attention I give the worm on the sidewalk of LAor the tree of coral inside my dreamBecause I don't know how to be in the worldI don't know how to write toward youI remember how devotional I felt the morningthe cottonwoods released their seeds to the windThe way the morning mysteries formed the backdrop of my sadnessDisjunction between inner and outer worldsmeet in an equivalence of languageExperience completes me, I think, and that is dangerousIt loses me there: in the depth of cosmic raysLong enough to clarify milky images of cotton and moon andseeds enshrined in threads of pure flightThe dream of transmuted longing, a tickled clitorisI'm a body of angels, all of meIn the space of what is possible when injured and in needSomething personal permitted by the friend who hearsWho is drawn by the gravity of the woundToward the center of the sky that sleeps between my ribcageWhat gift?On the arc of deviation:a parabola of attentionI learnI am always entering the domein search of a vision beyond the corridorA way to calculate the slope of your ascentWhen you walk up the stairsLeaking memoryAt the top is where it pools and I am amazedBecause when I look through it my gaze turns this disorderinto an architecture of comprehensionThe fig on the tree in Mexicois sweet and I alwaysget attached to a specific cupCreatures abandoned by timeA note that says,“All I remember is an ocean that was too cold for me”Near the shore a boy and his father pulla hard thing out of a large clump of seaweedA stoneA dream of the way your energy waneswhen nobody is paying attention