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Instructions, poem by Neil Gaiman

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never

saw before.

Say "please" before you open the latch,

go through,

walk down the path.

A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted

front door,

as a knocker,

do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.

Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat

nothing.

However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,

feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty,

clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,

if you can,

ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the

wild wood.

The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's

realm;

there is another land at the bottom of it.

If you turn around here,

you can walk back, safely;

you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the

wood.

The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-

growth.

Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She

may ask for something;

give it to her. She

will point the way to the castle.

Inside it are three princesses.

Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.

In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve

months sit about a fire,

warming their feet, exchanging tales.

They may do favors for you, if you are polite.

You may pick strawberries in December's frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where

you are going.

The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-

man will take you.

(The answer to his question is this:

If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to

leave the boat.

Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.

Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that

witches are often betrayed by their appetites;

dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;

hearts can be well-hidden,

and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.

Know that diamonds and roses

are as uncomfortable when they tumble from

one's lips as toads and frogs:

colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.

Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped

to help you in their turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.

Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.

Do not look back.

Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).

Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).

Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is

why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your

journey started,

you will recognize it, although it will seem

much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate

you never saw before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

And rest.

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ppr2011

[POEM] 7th WUNC Piece

Ramadan is the lunar month when Muslim’s fast from sunrise to sunset No food or water Distancing yourself from the material world is meant to recharge you spiritually Many have given up more than food and water this year I can’t imagine how Mabruka Mbarki must have felt the first month without her 16 year old son after he was killed by police, his memory lives on in songs of those who stood by him in protest My mother used to tell me how much it bothered her when people would avoid mentioning my sister’s name after she passed away So I understood when Mrs. Mubarki thanked us profusely just for asking to hear her son’s story
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To end up alone in a tomb of a room without cigarettes or wine— just a lightbulb and a potbelly, greyhaired, and glad to have the room. … in the morning they’re out there making money: judges, carpenters, plumbers, doctors, newsboys, policemen, barbers, carwashers, dentists, florists, waitresses, cooks, cabdrivers … and you turn over to your left side to get the sun on your back and out of your eyes.

bukowski, poem for my 43rd birthday (via speakmnemosyne)

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liquidnight
“Did you ever, in that wonderland wilderness of adolescence ever, quite unexpectedly, see something, a dusk sky, a wild bird, a landscape, so exquisite terror touched you at the bone? And you are afraid, terribly afraid the smallest movement, a leaf, say, turning in the wind, will shatter all? That is, I think, the way love is, or should be: one lives in beautiful terror.”

Truman Capote, Too Brief a Treat (via human-voices)

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We were as men who through a fen    Of filthy darkness grope: We did not dare to breathe a prayer,    Or to give our anguish scope: Something was dead in each of us,    And what was dead was Hope. For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,    And will not swerve aside: It slays the weak, it slays the strong,    It has a deadly stride: With iron heel it slays the strong,    The monstrous parricide!
—Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol
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gross domestic project

With every choice made comes unknowable chance.

There’s a million risks worth taking.

But only once voice, from all the millions

that it takes to assert an individual’s rights,

will be heard. This is absurd!

`

This is how the tide turns.

This is how a nation earns its stripes;

its stars fall into its bread

which its citizens break over

coffee and change, jingling,

like the tingling feeling you get

when you feel you’re being watched.

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toes

I often feel as though I get my toes stepped on a lot. I'm terrible at explaining myself, because my instincts are never guided by immediate circumstances in relation to which I could pose my perspectives. Memory moves through me like ice. My heart beats like a skipping stone on water's surface. I vaporize as soon as I get the chance. Why? To dance at the periphery, unseen. To dream of every pair of eyes that never let mine in, to grin at God delightedly while immersed neck-deep in sin. I step barefoot from moment to moment, and I often feel as though I get my toes stepped on a lot. I'm terrible at explaining myself.

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older than sunset

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Try not to contemplate

how living in the moment tips you to a hopeless state

try not to respirate

try not to try – right, why?

not to pry but why can’t I lie beside you tonight?

I’d rather lose sight

than out of love lose you.

I muse. You’re muse to me.

You’re music, you’re this slick-topped sea

I walked with you on such a thing

so long ago, many melodies ago.

Compelled to be freer than dreamstate we prate on

of this of that while blackening skies

fly imagery by

that you and I ought translate.

I spake. I spat. I whittle words for you

colder than the rain

older than sunset

we’re our best yet, by faith or bet

terrestrial waves of regret

shed lives over.

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Dear God,

I hope you don't mind if I pray this way. By writing, I mean. The pen has always been comfortable to me, as you know. Thank you for my ability to write, and for the joy that writing once brought me. Will I ever feel that joy again, God?

By the way, God... Things might get a little repetitive in here, because I'm only going to call you "God" and "you." I don't like the implication of masculinity in "Father," and I don't like the formal sound of "Lord." But, I imagine, I could call you anything and you'd still be there.

Let me take a moment to admit that I still don't entirely believe you're there. Maybe I'm writing to you partly because I want to test you.

Now, in the Bible, people don't "test" you. You test them, and you kick ass if people think it's the other way around. So maybe I'm out of line to say I'm testing you. But at least I'm honest.

I'm testing myself, too, you know. More intently than I'm testing (or claim to be testing) you. I'm testing my prayer stamina. The last time I prayed regularly was when I was twelve, when I knew nothing about - well, knew very little about - you and your son and your followers. I knew only the bits and pieces that had been presented to me over the years. Now that I'm going to church and studying the Bible, I bet you I can keep up a much bigger and more meaningful stream of prayer.

God... I'm concerned about my reasons for coming to Christianity. The ease with which I'm settling into Providence has raised in my mind a concern that I'm doing it all just because I want to belong. I can't help but wonder if my eagerness to join Providence is like that of a preteen girl, who wants so badly to belong that she makes sacrifices she really shouldn't make. 

Maybe it's vain of me, God, but I do feel as though I'm sacrificing an essential aspect of my being by coming before you like this. As an atheist, I had this pride, this satisfaction in being one of the modern-minded people who understand life in terms of tangible realities only. Even better than the pride, though, was the sense of relief it gave me to not have to think about any of the questions that religion raises: 

Why are we here? Do we have a purpose? Are we alone in the universe? What are right and wrong? Is homosexuality a mortal sin? Would you really choose one people over another? Do you belong in government? Can I dance like a stripper, curse like a sailor and still be allowed into heaven if there is such a thing?

Maybe, God, maybe I've come to you because I ran out of interesting questions to ponder. After years of waning interest in books, stories, heated debates and philosophical conundrums... maybe I just wanted a new avenue for my curiosity to tread on.

Is that alright, God? Is that a good enough reason?

You know, I think it's time for me to be honest about my turning point from atheist to agnostic. It was on the mission trip, on the first or second day of work, as we were eating lunch outside the Cantrells' home. I had gone over to talk to Woody about my lack of faith.

"Would it be dishonest," I asked him, "to join the church without believing in a divine Christ?"

"The fact that you asked that question..." he replied, "I mean, I think that you know the answer. ...It would be like joining a marching band without an instrument."

And he went on to say how, of course, I don't have to be a member of the church to be present in the church community and to participate in church activities.

And though Woody emphasized that every single person at Providence - member or not - is a valuable part of the church... I felt so devastated, God. To be forever an outsider because I got hung up on the Jesus thing? I couldn't stand it. Screw it, I thought. Maybe I can catch onto Christianity if I give it a try. Maybe, I thought, it's only a matter of deciding. Maybe I can decide to believe in Jesus Christ. 

So what I need to know, God, is if that logic turns your will on its head. If I'm accepting Jesus to accomplish my earthly end of being a member of Providence... Don't I have it backwards? Shouldn't Providence be instead an earthly means to achieving your divine end - that is, doing your will because I wholeheartedly believe it's the right thing to do?

I'm torn, God. I want so badly to love you and fear you. Love is responsibility and fear is both weakness and strength. I need you, God. I need you to help me make my life worthwhile. But somehow, even as I write this, I feel as though I might be lying to myself. Lying, God, bcause it gives me peace. And hope. And something to share. Lying, in order to alter my perception of the truth.

...Is that twisted? Or is that faith...?

~[June 26, 2007]

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'if i were a book'. blues. 2nd song i ever writ

You always hid your face between the pages of your books

And I needed to believe you would receive my longing looks

Now I’m literally in a bind, and confined to dusty, musty library shelves

When it comes to the classics, I guess we really do write ourselves

  So check me out, see what I’m about, let me get you in the zone

You’ll discover under these covers that I’m quite a tantalizing tome

It’s time for you to find out all that lies between my lines

Here’s hoping you’ll spread me open and let me stimulate your mind

  I’m a limited edition to be handled with utmost care 

But for your sake I’ll gladly take a little late-night wear and tear

You ought to peruse me if it’s education you pursue

‘Cause I’ve never been so ready to have textual relations with you

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Whereas many Americans simply can’t get enough shopping and continue to accumulate piles of material possessions, I simply love to scrounge through the things I already have to do just the very opposite – get rid of stuff. It’s incredibly refreshing!
Many people live in overly large homes with...
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INCOMPLETE: could this be my generation (Oct. 8, 2009)

Could this be my generation,

the glow of the LCDs? 

Are we the spots on the wall

I see when I spin my disco ball?

We want to be the sun on the lake,

But the sun in the sky we cannot claim

The two are not the same.

Are we the rainbow underbelly

Of a DVD?

I think we’re the beep of a

Did our mothers dance for our fathers

Answer me

Artless creeps

When our parents sleep

Do they dream of standing still

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INCOMPLETE: Whirling of the wind (Aug. 9, 2010)

Let the games begin

With the whirling of the wind

Let the white flags unfurl

Let our fingers curl around the world

I don’t just wanna be your girl

I wanna be your eyes

I wanna cut through the hours and lies

With words and cries of sweet relief

I wanna breathe some wisdom in the general reflection of each other

I want to be invention, I want to be your earth brother

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