"Purple Mountain Majesty"

or "Dishes & Gratitude 2.0"

Fall 2012

I live by the purple mountains.

Engrossed by the majesty of 

Dead seasons and

Our lives,

I live amidst this wonder.

We love in front of an orange fire,

Having no shame for 

What the fire sees or knows.

I sit here, now, alone,

On this couch that hosts so much 

Business,

In this Space that holds so many

Stories.

Our lives are written on this couch, 

And in these mountains.

I know, so many of us, 

Have secrets we share only with the valley.

I used to pour my heartache into the valley. 

Now, I pour
Wonder, and 

Awe, and

Gratitude.

..........................................................

I wrote a poem, once, 

About heaps of dishes and bottomless gratitude,

And everyone thought it applied.

When I sit on my own,

The world comes to me in verse,

And I try to transmit

Things Everybody Knows.

I think I've never had an original thought,

And everybody knows that.

I try to name what we know, collectively, 

So we can put it in a bin and look at it.

And examine whether we think it's true.

This is my work.

This is my life.

..........................................................

This is my life.

I've never understood that.

I understand less now than ever before. 

The washing machine is going and

My heart is beating and

Twenty minutes ago a Swimming Pool was here and

We call today Tuesday.

Space and Time.

Ok.

Ok, fine. These are the types of things 

You have to accept 

If you're going to keep your human being suit on. 

So I pretend to accept. 

I pretend to get it, and to incorporate, these

Things that everybody knows.

It doesn't make a bit of sense to me, but that's fine. 

You can't understand everything. 

And people pretend things all the time.

So I'll pretend for awhile longer, that I understand 

How light and color work.

I'll pretend with you that we're stuck in these bodies.

It's no problem for me to 

Pretend that electrons exist, and that 

Time is a one way street, and that the 

Bushes won't turn into crocodiles.

I do love this game. 

I love to be here with you.

I love when we all pretend together,

When we put on our important voices and

io parlo italiano and

We try to make miracles happen.

Or even better when we garb ourselves in

Orange jump suits and

Halves of mints and

Try to make an appropriate face.

I love that.

I love living with other people who 

Float in and out of the game(s) with me,

Who have somehow, over the years, 

Become perfect compliments to each other.

He will never clean the bathroom and

I will never chop firewood and

This is what I call

Community. 

We make the daily transition from coffee to beer,

And live somewhere in between our 

Oh so complicated relationship to both.

Hell, babe, you bring the sparkle and I'll bring the love

And let's call it the Art Monastery Project! 

We'll fight about it and LAUGH about it and

Still we cry and still we feel pain and

Still we don't know when to stop. 

Maybe we live here with each other because 

We can't help it.

Turns out - 

We really don't know any better.

Maybe the arteries that lead to our hearts have become 

So entwined over the years that it is 

Physically painful 

To separate. 

Maybe we have to, 

Just to prove we can, and to have the 

Joy of reuniting again.

..........................................................

I know that when I leave this year,

Things will be different. 

Everything will change.

Everybody knows that. 

But they don't know 

How many cups of coffee 

With perfectly frothed milk 

We've had together over the years. 

No one knows why the word 

'Cantaloupe' 

Can send half of us bursting into giggles and 

Make me run away,

Or how many times I wanted to kiss you,

Or why I relax when I see a bird.

These are the real 

Things Nobody Knows;
These are the secrets we agree to keep.

And when we go, 

Go,

The rhythm of our hearts will change. 

I imagine it will adjust, to be not quite so in sync.

I imagine that's inevitable.

But I think there's something about these 

Secrets that are kept somewhere between the

Purple mountain majesty and 

Her soft lips, and all the labbri di Labro. 

Somewhere between these

Stories told 'round the orange fire and 

Hidden in the winks of poems - 

There is a wonder that will not die.

There is a spell that won't be broken. 

There is a dream that we live and we keep.

And everybody knows:

Endings aren't real.

(The end.)