"Old Ones, matriarchal corn cultists, Wiccans, and alien children."

"It is as though the dark were resolving him out of his integrity, into an unrelated scattering of components."

some weak malaise, not enough to keep me under the duvet of an afternoon but glass in the throat and you strap yourself to the mast and sail on through the scylla and charybdis of your day thinking at least its not a fever the suffering that makes of you a statistical blip in a cdc powerpoint presentation.  tottering through my day, copies covers milk on the floor.

 

the key to survival is adaptability.  chapter next.  out in the thin rain a triumvirate of people who have come to a place in their life where they are recognized as adults responsible in varying degrees for people their minor people with no idea how impromptu it all is or has to be.  rain and the lights go out all over town we keep on talking my voice in the damp grey air we are connected and that is what is important.  my in with the rural underworld theyre off his suchness isnt even a wind going by anymore not a shadow on the ground theres dark weather and rain under my fingernails.  theres a long time after you now.  we listen to jimi and the pixies and in my dream someone called me caty like a long long time ago. 

 

mornings like aspic.  theres a wind on a hill somewhere nearby but im behind a window reciting the alphabet.  a lost weekend.  cars everywhere the diaspora my silver signals faint over the rim of the world.  a fruit shows its seed in an open hand.  chapter next.  definitely something (turning turning the widening gyre) there on the edge of a leaf on the wire of a pasture gate writing the name of gods with broken stems. 

 

"the process of coming unalone is terrible...i feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth."

birth , i suppose.  a natural transition winter snake skin tree ring the pause between in and exhalation his hand on a calico cat it could be like that if i let it.  if you stood still could you feel it?  the rush of the rest of the universe in your hair?  spirals come undone undulate into everything he took his glasses off  his eyes look in one direction.  we recognize ourselves in the people we remember.  the toilet and the whiffle bat seem less preposterous we wear our hair proud the body so ready to receive some switch in us latebloomers the august exhalation.  august is where i am at the rim less and less i can imagine someone watching and it becomes in a slither of linens for my own pleasure of my own accord.  my life apeture clicks clearer closer to black.  a birthday.  hello and welcome.       

 

"The sun, an hour above the horizon, is poised like a bloody egg upon a crest of thunderheads;  the light has turned copper:  in the eye portentous, in the nose sulphurous, smelling of lightning."

damn fine red half a glass boo heavy southern poemhead i said if i could id show them silent movies.  id show buster keaton.  for christmas id get an accordion player.  okay.  step one, stop yelling. 

 

1.  calico cat
2.  my morning jacket
3.  the hands of etta baker
4.  independent filmmaking
5.  paid for
6.  dogs
7.  tom waits
8.  this book, finally
9.  red
10.  poemheads
11.  steve earle