xxix.

i spent this morning with hafiz.

. . .


that does perish.

the

earth would die

if the sun stopped kissing her.

hafiz is now such an exquisite world

that perishes

when God is not

near.

. . .


my eyes so soft.

dont

surrender

your lonliness so quickly.

let it cut more

deep.

let it ferment and season you

as few human

or even divine ingredients can.

something missing in my heart tonight

has made my eyes so soft,

my voice so

tender,

my need of God

absolutely

clear.

. . .

the God who only knows four words.

every

child

has known God,

not the God of names,

not the God of don'ts,

not the God who ever does

anything weird,

but the God who only knows four words

and keeps repeating them, saying:

"come dance with me."

come

dance

. . .


find a better job.

now

that

all your worry

has proved such an

unlucrative

business,

why

not

find a better

job

. . .

wow.

where does the real poetry

come from?

from the amorous sighs

in this moist dark when making love

with form

or

Spirit.

where does real poetry live?

in the eye that says, "wow wee!"

in the overpowering felt splendor

every sane mind knows

when it realizes- our life dance

is only for a few magic

seconds.

from the heart saying,

shouting,

"i am so damn

alive!"

. . .

the suburbs.

complaint

is only possible

when living in the suburbs

of God.

. . .

i imagine now for ages.

it

happened

again last

night:

Love

popped the cork on itself-

splattered my brains

across the

sky.

i imagine now for ages

something of hafiz

will appear

to fall like

stars.

. . .

until.

i think we are frightened every

moment of our lives

until we

know

Him.

. . .

a hole in a flute.

i am

a hole in a flute

that the Christ's breath moves through-

listen to this

music.

. . .