The Blue Book


It’s a strange thing,
to meet god,
to experience the pattern
as something personal
and know
that what it most demands
is that you be yourself,
that you pick up
what you laid down
to get here
and love it all again,
sitting on the toilet
scribbling secrets
that will only come to mean
with another’s mind
in a hundred years or more,
not even then,
not like this moment just now
where they smelt of shit
and endless life
and all the space between
what is god and what is you:

where I lay me down,
just a bridge, not a wall;
a standing wave
still moving out to sea.


Same parts, same heart

Open for play