stillness

“A great master does not move his puppet if there is no reason to do so.”
Japanese Bunraku instruction manual

interlude

I have a thirsty fish in me
that can never find enough
of what it's thirsty for.

Show me the way to the ocean.
Break these half-measures,
these small containers.

Let my house be drowned in the wave
that rose last night out of the courtyard
hidden in the center of my chest.

The harvest I expected was washed away.
But no matter.

A fire has risen above my tombstone hat.
I don't want learning, or dignity,
or respectability.

I want this music and this dawn
and the warmth of your cheek against mine.

The grief-armies assemble,
but I'm not going with them.

This is how it always is
when I finish a poem.

A great silence overcomes me,
and I wonder why I ever thought
to use language.
Rumi

A

Wilson

This is Wilson. He moves very fast all the time and only 2 out of 100 photos of him aren't blurry. He was born about May 29th at Wender Bender's house. He is a nephew to ElizaB's most wonderful cats. I named him Wilson because he looks like a tiny soccer ball when he lies on his back, which he does a lot. He's the most gregarious sort of kitten, and everyone adores him, especially the dogs. Only Mojo, who I brought him home for, is wary. But I think it will pass when the wildness of kittenhood wears off a little. He's got a bad habit of clawing everything, including my body, everywhere. I've been sporting a chelsea grin scar on my face courtesy of Wilson. But his extraordinary charming personality surpasses all his flaws,

interlude

Drumsound rises on the air,
its throb, my heart.

A voice inside the beat says,
"I know you're tired,
but come. This is the way."
Rumi