DiaBLOGue

Hello, God, small and obscure, distant twinkly point of light. 
Perhaps, you are the portal and I am the time. I long  
thought the other way ‘round. 

Her favorite is the whisper of slippers on plush carpet. 

Her favorite is the window of stained glass, jewel-bright, reminding her 
of a wildflower field and that cathedral in France.

Redeem these altars 
Whereon divine parity 
Was sacrificed. 

I walk into the baptistry 
In our modest, midwestern temple 
Eager to fold fluffy towels 
Into their honorable offerings. 

Before I clothe myself in the holy garments of my grandmother’s priest-
hood, my hands thin cocoa butter over the veins of my temple. 

I have to protect my skin.

The beach is my temple, 
The water the voice of God shooshing toward me, inviting, calm,
The stones the decorations that light the fire of the pillar,
The sand the handshake that draws me to the holy of holies. 

Had I one word to describe our Temple, 
The word used would undoubtedly be “white.” 
The corridors inside all glow with light, 
And purity within this space is ample. 

What I want is between softness and stone, 
between god and Adam— what I want, 
is something between fruits and meats. 
I want to move on the water and out of the water, 
I want to hang from the tree and rot in the earth. 

If a man has a dream and the dream is from God and the man writes a 
play based on the dream, the God, and other things he believes to be Godly 

If a man has an experience one might classify as transcendent and the 
man tries to put that wordless vision into words and practices