by Moyra Donaldson
For all my talk of soul, it was you
always, sweet little beast, amoral
animal, who showed me the ways
of Love, its passions and crucifixions.
The artist, the anatomist, the poet
and the surgeon, they have seen
the glory in you; you beatified them
in the moments where they believed.
You are my way, my truth, my life;
I am what you have made of me
and still I do not know the limits of you,
or where you will take me next.
from Selected Poems. © Liberties Press, 2012.
The Occasional Chair 
This is interesting, if my rather concrete brain understands it correctly.
I’ve heard that college professors think of their body as something useful for carrying their head around. I find myself often apologizing to my body for the way I treat it as a second class citizen of the country that is myself…
Do you recall that Star Trek episode where Captain Kirk et al. discover what’s running the planet is a disembodied head connected to a computer? Get outside, man! It’s how I forestall that feeling! Shoveling horseshit has a way of reconnecting oneself to ones body.