an x i'll mark

the words that follow my own are a poem by Padraig... he read it at ikon last night.
i am back in insomnia mode. i didn't reach sleep til 7 this morning.
having read through the words i wrote during the night i then turned to these lines.
sacred words. echoing more than i can countenance.

broken memories shared. a poem. a prayer.
which one of these things is not like the other?

::
he said hope and longing
lie in the gaps...the spaces
between our wounded words.
when our confessions reach out
to touch each other,
are we speaking to the Other?
::


LB, x


::

THE BOOK OF EXILE
by Padraig Twomey



a reading from the book of exile
chapter one

there are no chapters


a reading from the book of exile
chapter two

he has been moved beyond belief


a reading from the book of exile
chapter three

and he is inching toward glory
with only his story on his back
he has patched up holes that opened
where his coverings have cracked
and some shoes were never meant for hiking so
he left them far behid
there are simple things he needs
on journeys such these
foodandloveanddrinkandwarmthandcomfort
and a bag that's small enough
to carry all the failures and the idols
that he's picked up on the way

there are some days
he only moves
an inch or two

this is the pace of glory here in exile


a reading from the book of exile
chapter four

there are some things too meaningful for talking
and even feeling leaves us full of grief
at all we touch and need
and can never speak of

we are living lives that we can't state the name of
we are loving things that
we can never bear
we attempt belief in things that we can not explain
and we rest uneasy in this
sometimesseemingcruelgame

and we rest with tension so
beautiful
its heartaching


a reading from the book of exile
chapter five

he has grown older here

the body speaks it own
language
and he has started listening


a reading from the book of exile
chapter six

there is no ending
everything is here

(so pitch a tent that you can live in
and find a friend to whom you'll give in
times of telling
times of testing
times of listening
times of resting)


there is no ending
everything is here.

::