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Abundance of

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Kabuli Palaw.  It was the name of the dish we ate last night. The Lamb was so tender. The rice was so perfectly aromatic. The carrots and raisins were reminiscent of food cooked in a big vat on the street in Chanji 22 years ago. The whole evening I couldn't help but reminisce about what might be similar between Kashgar and Afghanistan. But the similarities were very limited. Looking on a map on the way out I realized that Kashgar is closer to Islamibad than Kabul. Either way the Uygher are their own.  This all came after a day that was thought provoking and I just want to remember. I need to remember every small blessing and thought of abundance. I am blessed. It's all too often hard to rember or difficult to set the order straight in my mind, for how I got from point A to point B.  6 Months ago I told someone I loved that I no longer wanted to be married to them. The dicotomy of loving someone, but feeling, after 20 years, like you need to stop hiding, is not a simple thing to
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Moon, Wind, and Earth

I'd like to tell you I love you in a way as powerful as I feel. I feel a tidal wave of Love for you.  Though maybe not quite.  The tide is ciclical, with the movements of the moon. My Love for you does not move like the moon.  It is steady and bright, and doesn't cover itself with shadow for any amount of time. I feel love for you like the wind, sharp and biting,  made of a million tiny streams of air and pushing all at once  to move me toward you, with you.  I love you like the wind, The way it blows through me in great gusts, on sunny days  making my hair fly like your fingers twisted up in it,  not a bit impatient, but always persistent. There are no parts of me not moved by it.  It's like the force of the earth, each part deep below the surface  almost quiet, almost ignored.  But I surrendered to it each each time it rumbled within.   Its first quiet movements dislodged parts of my interior  a slow steady stream of magma that shifted plates of my heart that never felt s
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Pocket blood

Time hides in folded away pockets. Your breast pocket, holds that protector  for all the broken pens you should have had the notion not to put there.  Time hides away: it's what we make when there's something covering it.  A notion of should be's and should do's.  But are instead filled with willfull rebelion. We remember the moments that caught us off-guard.  The way the light hit a dancing person in off-white garb,  The opening of a door or being face to face with a perception of beauty. The honesty we might have masked if given a do-over, held us for time. Time lost for one another, but time spent with the dime spinning,  waiting to see where it would fall.   And finally, we fall into this time. We fall again to words.  Because words have held us for such a time.  Giving us again and again the chance to pick up a moment from before or a moment now. The rush is that time will allow for sharing space with words, and space without.  Time will allow our eyes to lock.  We
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Demon

 They lie under the surface,   seeds that are tiny and round,  with corners that jut out and anchor in place, while rubbing  and scraping tiny lines on each surface. Slide your foot across the floor and you'll feel their grinding. Push hard, and they'll cut into the corklike tissue of your foot,  not quite glass, not quite broken. And where they lodge, there they'll grow.  Flush as many of them out as will flow through the corridors of your thoughts.  Maybe you'll succeed in living a good clean life. You could perhaps pretend that they weren't there for a good long while.  But they'll be sending out their threadlike fibers,  grabbing and pulling for fertile pockets kneading tenderly at the parts of your being that pass unnoticed,  ever growing, living, breathless.    
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