Waking At Night The Blue River Is

What We Feel Most Has No Name But Amber, Archers, Cinnamon, Horses And Birds.

The Woman Is Not Just A Pleasure, Nor Even A Problem. She Is A Meniscus That Allows The Absolute To Have A Shape, That Lets Him Skate However Briefly On The Mystery, Her Presence Luminous On The Ordinary And The Grand. Like The Odor At Night In Pittsburgh’s Empty Streets After Summer Rain On Maples And Sycamore.

Being Alive Is So Extraordinary I Don’t Know Why People Limit It To Riches, Pride, Security—all Of Those Things Life Is Built On. People Miss So Much Because They Want Money And Comfort And Pride, A House And A Job To Pay For The House. And They Have To Get A Car. You Can’t See Anything From A Car. It’s Moving Too Fast. People Take Vacations. That’s Their Reward—the Vacation. Why Not The Life?

Our Heart Wanders Lost In The Dark Woods. Our Dream Wrestles In The Castle Of Doubt. But There’s Music In Us. Hope Is Pushed Down But The Angel Flies Up Again Taking Us With Her.

We Are Resident Inside With The Machinery, A Glimmering Spread Throughout The Apparatus. We Exist With A Wind Whispering Inside And Our Moon Flexing. Amid The Ducts, Inside The Basilica Of Bones. The Flesh Is A Neighborhood, But Not The Life.