we return to
altars in the universe,
i tend to make a
clutter of the
temple in the mind,the
sanctuary is full of

unfinished paintings,
cloth diapers,dress
shoes i used to wear,
billie holiday records,
philadelphia
restaurant menus,
endless numbers,
mouse traps that
haunt us,

altars in the
universe can be simple
things now,and
not dusty spots to
place your worship,but
rest areas in the mind,
refocus areas along the
walls,
figure i'm blind all the
way,i drag
fingers along the
bumpy surface
looking for ancient
nail holes.

i don't remember falling
asleep during spiritual
lectures,back when
we tied knots in our
hair,
school was another story,

engaging forms of
conversation and
share a meal,

i wondered the other day,
just daydreaming,about
if for some reason we moved
away,would we try to
blend into a community,or
start a housechurch on our
own,would we have the
strength for such a thing?
where would it fit and
what would it look like?
i'm glad that thinking about it
seems to challenge how i treat
housechurch presently,
don't take it or friendships for
granted,

also wonder concretely on
on a teaching like
'pray first for your enemies,'

"Abba James said that he went to Abba Matoes' cell and when he left he said to him, 'I want to go to the Cells.' He said to me: 'Greet Abba John for me.' So going to Abba John's cell I said to him, 'Abba Matoes greets you.' The old man said to me, 'Abba Matoes is an Israelite indeed in whom there is no guile.' A year later I returned to Abba Matoes and gave him Abba John's greeting. The old man said: 'I am not worthy of what the old man said, but know this: whenever you hear an old man praising his neighbor more than himself, it is because he has reached a great stature: for this is perfection, to praise one's neighbor more than oneself."

"A brother said to Abba Matoes, 'Give me a word.' He said to him, 'Restrain the spirit of controversy in yourself in everything, and weep, have compunction, for the time is drawing near.'"

remembering that
on the drive to new jersey,
just outside philadelphia,
just past
hex signs on barns,
there is amazing
white building,billboard with
hand of God,

pointing the way,
desert library in a
shoebox,
i'm heading through the
mountains,into the
valleys,back up into the
clouds again,
cooler temperatures,

that old talk about the
field and the forest,
it's all there,
remember watching them
baling the hay in
field next to my
parent's house,
every where else is the
forest,

green is the color of
paradise,they
noted about icon,where
Christ was standing on a
green patch,
unassuming rectangle,
holy symbols,

nowadays i'm
painting flowery ethiopian
crosses,green and
overflowing,
isn't there goodness in
green?

previous life you could
purchase,set up
dashboard altars to the
Lord,remember
burning incense on tour,
insignificant haircuts
fashioned after
tradition,
put on your cap
nowadays,and
expect mercy until the
end.