Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

20 February 2010

 but i repeat myself.

Thrift store cowboys
Five and dime junkies
Red dirt plow boys
Asphalt monkeys
Holly rollers
Signal callers
Truck stop angels
Backstreet brawlers
Van Zant groupies
Guitar slingers
Gospel singers
Freight train mommas
Pistol shooters
My first girlfriend
works at Hooters
Beans and biscuits
in my cupboard
Listen to Ray Wylie Hubbard
All gone down the road tonight

Drunken angels
Blacktop racers
Holly rollers
Whiskey chasers
Lone Star drinkers
Midnight ramblers
Dirty road divas
Highway gamblers
Moonshine mommas
Panty droppers
Dalai Lamas
Old pill poppers
High school heroes
Back road preachers
Pool hall hustlers
Tantric teachers
Teenage cuties
Hare Krishna
Feed me chicken
All gone down on the road tonight

Blue jean babies
Old heart breakers
Had a party
with some Quakers
Heartworn highways
Country singers
Radios full of
old right-wingers
  Session players
Duct tape dealers
Outlaw country
Hubcap stealers
Aint no money
in my wallet
Broke again is
what they call it
My grandmamma's
name was Spiller
Michael Jackson
peaked at thriller
All gone down the road tonight

Jukebox gypsies
Mustang Sally's
Don't go walkin'
down dark alleys
Needle pushers
hornrim glasses
Rhinestone jumpsuit
Backstage passes
Blue plate specials
LuAnne platters
Japanese is
all that matters
Broken arrows

Gulf coast kickers
Who's your daddy
bumper stickers

da da da da
da da da da
da da da da da da
Oooh yeah
Oh uh uh uh

I'm outta words people
That's all I got
Americana woman
Hip shake with me baby

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Blessed Be.

"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)