something that cannot be seen

Hildy Maze

In this western body, the sheriff is me.

I wear this heart for a badge, and I fire off love like bullets. 

The color here is human skin and forest green, 

Held in the bosom of the trees, 

Held in the coolness of the brief night. 

I answer to no one but the beauty of the birds, 

And your opinion has no weight in the hope I bear. 

Stand back. 

I will not count your shadow or bury you. 

If you want a gallows, you'll have to build it yourself. 

It is up to you to find someone to hang 

And damn you if you do. I am the sheriff in this body, 

And I only hunt for those who need love.

-james lee jobe

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We usually take ourselves too seriously; this is one way the self fools us.

-Ajahn Sundara

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I am here to help the angels fill the world with something that cannot be seen. 

I arrive at night, to a room that is cold and dark. 

Now you can see my face in the firelight. You can hear 

The angels. Their voices speak from beautiful paintings. 

Van Gogh. Picasso. In the sky tonight, a sliver of silver 

Moon. The world is missing something; you know that. 

Don't you? When you wake up and the room is dark 

And cold, and you feel a sadness that you can't define. 

When you look out the window at the silent street 

And you don't know why you're looking. What do you think 

You'll see? What do you hope to see? It is empty, 

And you are empty, and there is still a lot of night left to be. 

The angels come here to help fill that void. And friend, 

I am here to help them. I am here to light the fire.

-james lee jobe

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Remember that life is like a mirror: Everything you perceive reflects your inner world. Cleaning your dirty mirror of distorting smudges means clearing self-deception and coming closer to the truth.

-Khangser Rinpoche, “Your Life Is a Mirror”

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Here, I’ll just slice my flesh open and make a river with my blood.

Idle boats in the dead of winter. A dog 

Eating a fish head on the icy bank. Catfish 

Swimming deep in my blood. "Here," I'll say, 

"Is where I'll dig my hole." Bloody hands 

On the shovel. Wet feet in the cold mud. 

I'll slice my flesh open a second time 

And make a forest, and a third time 

To make sure that I don't survive. Survival 

Would be so disappointing. And when I die 

I'll rot in that forest to feed the trees. 

When spring returns the dog will be long 

Gone and so will I, but the trees will grow 

New leaves and new fruit, there beside 

The bloody river. Maybe you were expecting 

A happy ending, but friend, I am not here 

Attempting to cheer anyone up.

-james lee jobe

Hildy Maze 

poetry link: Paris Syndrome, a poem by Victoria Kennefick

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jlj