Friday, February 3, 2012
Raise the Dust
If we breathe a little slower
we’ll last a little longer.
The poetry of life might beat
so that our heart-seams heal.
If we walk a little slower,
taste the pace instead of outrun it,
if we close the doors of all the
stress… well, easier said than done.
I’m not here any more. I gave up my
self for Lent and listened to the
Avett Brothers a little more.
Classical music, too. Mompou and
Barber are underrated for healing.
If you look closely at the brushstrokes of
Van Gogh, Monet, the dots of Suerat,
you will momentarily inhale the infinite.
There are no judgments here. Flakes of
relevance are the new snow.
In Mexico there is a rural church
outside Puerto Vallarta where a
velvet Jesus hangs in black light.
The doors open to their velvet
cathedral where the glow mimics the
northern lights. It’s okay to feel
sacred here. Children kick soccer balls and
tires on dusted streets. Mothers hang
laundry on tight lines strung between
scrawny trees. A tiny café serves fresh
fish caught off the coast. It’s dark enough
here that stars are thick as mist. For
some of us the mist is a transitory
residence. If we walk slowly through
this mist, hands held as loose tethers to
this earth, our footprints raise the dust
of future memories, surround us in the
final blanket of our comfort.
Martin A. Bartels, c2012, working draft.
Part of my new collection, “Unlanguage”