I can scrawl the wall with everything I know. I can fill my books, chapter and verse, with pure and honest hope, but let me begin the precision of language and watch. My once open face becomes tight; my free associations peek regularly around each corner. Neatly painted lines are a trap with teeth laid bare. Serrations of careful craft sever my umbilical and God floats off untethered. Truth returns when I am shouting my prayers. Scrupulous observance never advances my sails. I must meet life with an open hand. The devil may not be in the details but be sure to check the fine print.
Open one eye and wink at the possibilities.
Stumbling Under the Tenth Step
When I’ve been outside of my mind
it is so hard to tell when I’ve come home again.
The landmarks take on such distortion in memory
that the facts seem bloated or anorexic
as I turn my face from side to side.
Old journals remind me of old journeys
and perhaps there are accurate landmarks mentioned
but how can I know for sure that these too
are not just the ravings of a mind gone mad.
Real or imagined I must take the daily count
and try to keep the score
in favor of the actual.
I don’t always know that I’ve fallen
until I inventory the dirt on my face,
but better that I face the dirt
than live the delusion of a mole.