Upon the screen.

I want to speak with authority but maybe I'm wrong--though this is my third winter being here so I ought to, if it feels right, be able to believe my ability to judge the seasons of this place & speak the earth speak like I so often do.

This said, it is like springtime here, or how we learn spring by the tide of April back east.  I love it, the earth awakes, it rises my heart like a flock of doves sit beneath which maybe that's because it's true.  The buoyancy, the fat bird-singing songs infused in the ascending green.  I am not more than this:  the live song.

It is, and I hope that readers who read me one time before for the poetry, get this--a time of waking myths.  Activating our mythology is the charge of the day--and I mean this as base and re-rythmic as allowing your thoughts to settle in to your conscious choice of brand new words.  New stories.  I am writing, clearly, precisely, my own.  By being the words.  It has been so long.  I think, I see my Self, honor, bare witness seem to choke just a tidbit, and say Could it really?  Have been this long?  And more, Is it true I actually came out here--here California--on a hunt for them?  And yes, just there, the echo--yes that is true.  I did.

It HAS been that long.  And there the perplexity, Could it really be sure, true and simple as THIS?   And that is what's most devastating to say.  That when it's been since July of 2012 that you've had word activation you actually forget what it means.  You forgot what it is like--no, you forget that it's possible to cowrite song.  Aghast, even as I write this I stare at the screen--how is it possible to so unwittingly forget what it means to come back to my self?

I have no questions though…the years that ask, the years that answer…And so it is.  All answers.(Even though questions are how they seem, you forgot this though the double vision cross-eyed grace.)

Even sure as I see it finally, visited by my hands that place it up upon the screen.