Ha ha when the people say you're still writing?What's that book about anyway? Yes I'm still writing yes I'm still writing what's it about? Well what's life about? Up to your own two eyes. Human hearts and the poetic voice oh unfair unjust world. Ha, the sun. We rose up out of the primordial goop-funk amoebic then with gills then feet then thumbs. Now voices. Sing, speak, speak the earth the roots and the moon. About this stuff. That's what it's all about. That's what all this is...
??
I walked in to my room two months ago with the vaccum cleaner in my hand and smelled the most real smell of him one of the many many hims in the long list of powerfull hyms oooops did i mean that, misspell of course of course (i have devil eyes!) i did. I have poetry leading up to this. I smelled him and laughed, there was a shadow on the wall this happens so often with the openness the other side of the creative wall that i laughed but also, angered, quick chased him off. started to rerun the vacuum then had to tell someone so of course i told kel. now this:
i have written so long, so long so long (nights at truslow first time back room paul asleep in sleeping bag down coated warmness of woodstove heat trapped inside tall pine trees at truslow spring-truth please those long, terrorizing days o would you come voice or death something, be raised all those terrible days at anngar farm. o and let's not forget oregon? the time first, knelt on my knees ordered a used computer over the internet came in a box banged up set it in the corner of the trailor on a small table barely a foot off the floor beach days so much sun tree afternoons so much rain and i would kneel there, write and of course pray) i have written and written and waited so soo long for this and now i am here, having written it out every step and abracadabra open sesame code it took to bring me this far.
erika printed out all i'd given her by the end of august 14 months of submish. hundred plus pages? nothing congruent. now congruent as a dream! funny how that says as a dream as if in the sleeping sense with only one eye opened and not knowingly de dos mundos there is ever anything relevant to see. as if sight is relevant without it too.
Finally, i am there, this is not a dream. i can smell pine strong as spirit it is real right here with me and on fb another stooopid sign, i say to the muses
ooo holiest of holy all things as one all dark and light all encompassed version of all things encircled and the encirclement of all that ever was and this voice and the outter that handles it, and ever on, and the still uncapsized moment prior to breath, o all love and creation and loss, set it all aside now as i poool from this flood as i pull under and go down to come up with all i have within, set is aside let me do thou work holy of all most especially of my name you have the quality just help me with quantity show up to the page
i am set up now, my ducks in a row. this is fun, the most exotic strange poetic-practical place i have ever been.
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