may (sometime) 4

All I own I cleaned and placed in boxes, and may leave in boxes, crowding the walls around the central space. There lies my great wooden desk, small but solid, I take with me wherever I go. All the way back to 1998. There lies my intention to write my poetry, my prose, my words, my books. The tv got the last of invitations. I may not open the door. When I die someone oughta cut my desk down and bury me in it. Together may we be — repurposed.

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oath of allegiance ina bath of silence

maybe i read too much shakespeare in high school. maybe i drank too much coke. i kept to myself with a few close friends. i made a pilgrimage to faulkner. i kept writing and writing though it seemed pointless at times, as there was no internet to share. i read my work in bars and cafes, in chicago and tampa in the late nineties, behind a highball whisky. maybe i smoked alotta pot. i carried a leatherbound journal wherever i went. now i have a cell phone and press words in there. life is the same, although it changes. i may be getting older but i’m still young. maybe i watched too much tv. i will always love to ride trains, even subways. i take a bath of silence every morning. and an oath of allegiance to my creative process. i am very well, the way i live. but i went about things so poorly for so long, it still hurts. i blame myself for the blunders i made. i am also unwell. mostly for having hurt you. i hurt myself badly, too.

impoverishment

this morning i walked out on the porch and watched the sky turn a lighter blue. i hope these morning skies in america never become full with drones. i hope to hold this book that has been in my head and on my screen for so long, in my hands. i have momentum and a routine. i am seeing an organic whole. my challenge right now is how to properly end this. remember. the guiding principle in the universe, god or what you believe, is a clashing and mixture of forces; tragedies and wonders exist simultaneously. a book is a life, created by a life, reflective of a life, and may be loved or hated when read. the poorest anyone could be on the final page, is when they got no feelings at all.

publish

read.write.publish

this morning i woke up at dawn and followed the river for a while. the sun came up and the breath disappeared. dogs ran up and down the levee. i showered and dressed and took a spirited step out the door and drove down to a sacred place where i met with some friends to create a reading and writing group. though i have never brought folks together before formally for the purpose, my whole life i have preferred the society of artists and writers, rebels and dreamers. and mostly caring friends. so i am hoping this read.write.publish initiative will go off well for us, and come in with twenty eighteen.

now.here

here.now

Life makes its own meaning day after day. Joseph Campbell knew what people are searching for and it’s not the meaning of life. I want the embodied feeling of being alive. The vitality. This is a greater cause. Still I am driven to write the books I was chosen to write for the world.  Lately I feel I am closer to a wholeness of energy, a fullness not unlike tonight’s super full moon. I think it may be a payoff for all the obligations I’ve taken on. It’s an interesting experiment but I have to write the books. Nothing compares to how you feel when you do what you were born to do.