I wish that was me...

Wow, these kids, or young adults, in Baltimore staged a hunger-strike recently in order to get mayor Sheila Dixon's attention and funding for a peer support group that the young people believe in and feel is necessary in order to turn around the futile, perpetuating state of violence and hopelessness in the inner city.

These kids are heroes, and I want to be like them. I want to have a heart big enough, strong enough and courageous enough to lay down. I wish I knew them, I wish I could be there with them, I wish I could call them my friends.

Read about it http://hiphopcongress.com/protesters-promise-hunger-strike-baltimore-press/

Mayor Dixon, to date, is typical in her bureaucratic rhetoric. Here are groups of local, dedicated citizens--and the youth at that!!--getting together and motivating and taking action! And the mayor's office says, It's a decision up to the school board. Right--aren't they supposed to be representative of the people? And are these kids likely to get their voice heard through those dog and pony show proceedings? If they were our city's school wouldn't be in the condition they are. Yet again this affirms my bitch that politics, on even the local level, supports only agenda and is not now, nor likely ever has been, ABOUT REPRESENTING US--I am incredulous over this, it is a simple common sense issue. Give these kids the time to have their voices heard and ideas grown... don't make it about waiting til election time so you all can shine your pretty gold belts.... What an insult. Amen to these young people with hope enough in them selves, with hope enough in Change, Amen to these young people and their tenacity to dream...

Poem for the Hunger Strikers, by Marge Piercy

The low road

What can they do
to you? Whatever they want. They can set you up, they can
bust you, they can break
your fingers, they can
burn your brain with electricity,
blur you with drugs till you
can’t walk, can’t remember, they can
take your child, wall up
your lover. They can do anything
you can’t stop them
from doing. How can you stop
them? Alone, you can’t fight,
you can refuse, you can
take what revenge you can
but they roll over you.

But two people fighting
back to back can cut through
a mob, a snake-dancing file
can break a cordon, an army
can meet an army.

Two people can keep each other
sane, can give support, conviction,
love, massage, hope, sex.
Three people are a delegation,
a committee, a wedge. With four
you can play bridge and start
an organization. With six
you can rent a whole house,
eat pie for dinner with no
seconds, and hold a fundraising party.
A dozen make a demonstration.
A hundred fill a hall.
A thousand have solidarity and your own newsletter;
ten thousand, power and your own paper;
a hundred thousand, your own media;
ten million, your own country.

It goes on one at a time,
it starts when you care
to act, it starts when you do
it again after they said no,
it starts when you say We
and know who you mean, and each
day you mean one more.

God in Truth is Lies

I have faith in God. But ugghhghg, even as I write that it seems so lame. I have faith in God—in every lasting miracle of life of which life itself is a breathing example of —look outside, just look beyond your nose, or else stop a while, feel the air at the bottom of your nose, the way the dryness passes among the hairs there in their little rows. Look out past wherever you are this moment, this gaping fillhole of experience that calls to you: look at the air between the you and the other, look at the candle in the holder on the counter the bronzed statue of the roman on his knees melted wax dried dripping down his back, the toy poodle on the beige throw rug at your feet the way his head cocked to one side looks confused like trying to figure out why you are looking down at him, the crumpled tissues next to your laptop on your desk, the pot of coffee across the room gone cold. I have faith in life, see—in the very miracle—wondrous, mysterious, of existence going on about me, and I do not shy away from calling that my own reasonable belief in god, which to me is all things.

The god of my understanding—tho I suppose it isn’t “a” god at all. It is funny to me the way people—myself included, I often do it—cast judgments based on our own perceptions or ideas or applications of a word. I do it all the time, that word, God, it still makes me cringe. With an eye roll I’ll look on, incredulous inside myself if someone I don’t know well brings that up that word and starts going on. Like the funny looks I get from people who don’t know me too well when I talk about going home and needing to pray! I don’t know about this god-head thing: I struggle with my own old trapping of a god-head, of some figment out there in the midst looking over at me, silent-talking and creepily laughing at all I say and claim and think and do. These old Catholic remnants of my childhood come up and all the mores of society that wordlessly perpetuate such norms. But if I am going to lay claim to this belief in a godhead that I struggle with than at least I will be strong enough to make it my own—because it is in fact, my own internalized belief, my own rigid system of self-judgment and denial. I’m too intellectual to believe fully in such a framework, but my intellectualism is so counter-alloof it perpetuates it: what I mean is the idea of a god-head is so complex, so deep down in me and well a part of me that I unknowingly function in the preexistent framework of it all the same, no matter what I do. So I find myself walking around with the judge in my head, always in some varying degree of verdict and blame placed on myself and my own drama of trying to think my way out of it.

It’s not as awful as it sounds. But it is the dictate of a stronger that normal conscience because admittedly I am a woman of extremes. My real belief, in the oneness of things, informs me that it is just me doing the judging and the blaming, hauling the call of guilt all around. Just me and my perfectionism, busy creating god in an image, judgmental, of the darker shadow sides of me!! When my fear is great I am too blind to be in my bliss, I get strung-up and stuck in my head and stop listening to my own myth and stop following my own heart. I stop trusting in the lightness and life of this current moment. And when I stop trusting, when I stop having faith in my own current, working conception of what God experientially has proven to be in my own life, then I pick up my old God, my old tortured systems of belief and being.

Ughghg, god bless this sacred neurosis! This funny human way I have of being.

Anyhow, my faith is with me today, along with my laughter. It feels good. It’s nice to look around with joy in this moment, to look around with faith enough simply to be still…..

Poem today (involving neurosis…)
for Josh

"Little Joke" or
"My Ways"
or "Digressions are how I get there"

I’m sorry,
I’m sorry for my drama. These funny witchy ways
About me. These ways of making consequence
against me
of
It always comes back to me &
Figuring things out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for my ways.
I truly Am
I feel like-- for a thousand years I’ve tried
to tell you this.

But? That’s just me again, Drama? The self-inflicted (get it?
Self—that’s
My Way
making
little joke

my eyebrow notch, bravery or
mockery
whatever me my way
reckoning—recognizing
myself (oooops there I go again
truth is not true
My Self—joke again))

drama of art is my Nature These energy swirls I get caught in—avoid? And then I think—about me—it can’t be true again? Guilt, fuck fuck guilt again?
Then there’s

Avoid the dance? Me? I’m sorry—

Never. It is new moon, I am
Wiling against myself again—
You are on the run.
(you are. check—)

I am home, moon
Moonface, dark gun. Or
dark, sweet fruit dripping down the sides like Rum
Or No thing Nothing, the blank stretch
of this misery, how it tastes so sweet
fun
to those in love
like me, how much we LOVE
the ride! The ride is what
the blank stretch the whole of life presence blank, unfestered or even recognized
unto its self...the ride is what? (Monogamy is pointless we all know that.
Has nothing to do w that.)
we come here for some kind of reckoning w
Our Power. Our lies being told. Not meant to be mean
just me eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee ahhhhhhhhhh

**
I am sorry. I am sorry for this
For this, for my ways, for lasagna. Tastes so good
On my farm, in my garden. Read Diprima about me
Take action, ride a bike, plant a garden
Watch tv or buy a god. Find god. It will still
All be the same and I will be sorry
Feasting a while, always to come back come back again
(circle [spiral circle] Circle) spiral
--The light is like gold --
and I will come back again always to this gold, golden grain
--there is knowledge in this,
alchemical let it inform You
(we are smarter than
our selves)—
in this pain, the most mild
& gentle elixir

I will be chief among these to go. I will always be. And
I am sorry—
I will always take you with me. Even to death
& beyond. A thousand seas have bent before me
a million clouded skies. This is our Code. I have it

broke before

your eyes

Sorry I AM for this

**

But not really

The Tao of Dirty: On Maryland's Heat

“My theory of technique, if I have one, is very far from original; nor is it complicated. I can express it in fifteen words, by quoting The Eternal Question And Immortal Answer of burlesque, viz. ‘Would you hit a woman with a child?—No, I’d hit her with a brick.’ Like the burlesque comedian, I am abnormally fond of that precision which creates movement.” –e.e. cummings, 1926

The Mare-lin mug came to Chestertown this morning, showed up without question, severely, certainly, without a moments chance or warning. We were sitting around outback under the Chinese Chestnut swatting some minor nats but other than that oblivious even to the slow creeping seasons—forgetful of the fact that by this time last year we were swamped and muggy by even the first of May—when bam, next thing you know it, literally over night it went to swamp here, full on soup like only I think we know on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

I. Love. The Heat. Here is a small known fact about me: I love it, I love the heat, the sweat back of your neck the moan when you arch your back cuz of the cement-bone sludge-muscle feeling the slow moving creek of air the stretch it takes to wipe the sweat from under your shirt always wet and the sweat on your brow and round your face always always dripping down. I hate it too, don’t get me wrong, the way the water does nothing but soak your mirror when you get out of your shower no sense in drying cuz if you aint got air your gonna stay wet—I hate the bloodboiling redface I get walking out to my car or outside to get the mail. But I love it too, I love it sooooo, see? I love the drama of it—the very Quintessential Life it draws out of me.

Maybe it comes from this summer sense I’ve always got about me, that barefoot beachhugging thing I was born with, that need to be by the sea. And spending so many summers there, downtown dirty Ocean City, where to be there in the mix of things to really be there is to be dirty. The dust and grit of the always everywhere sand. The bareness of things: Me next to the ocean on instincts and cycles alone the way only a fancy free eighteen year old can be, learning the tides that move and grow you that draw you open, raw and unafraid to every part of the you of who you are. I’ll never forget the place off the boardwalk where I first lived barefoot next to the dirty sand and the brown Atlantic sea. Pungent scent of boy on the air, re-circulated from the window fan, dense from the closed windows in the ninety degree heat to keep the stench of pot and drugs inside. The outback alleyway with the condoms the fratboys who lived above us at night threw over their shoulders, out the upstairs windows and away and me and how I’d go out there angry at them little bit of clothes on all redfaced and scream. The rubber kiddie pool on our front porch that led out the street, tepid water and the beer cans floating there and me. The flea-stuffed couch, spilled bong water and stains on the greasy carpet, sweaty skin stuck with dog hair, empties of bottles in the corners and stacked on the tables and no empty counter space to be found. The fan just made the heat hotter and at night, long after the pier shut down and the of-agers were out getting their bar on at the clubs through out town—we’d open that place up, let the funk-air all out like a balloon slow-leaking or maybe more like a tire suddenly gone Pop! So you could hear the great whoooosh of air and relief that comes. And up til then you think you’re in a state of neglect but really it’s just the tension you feel that ever perennial state of necessity us humans don’t like of stagnation, the Art of Building Up. And woah we would let it goooooooooo, on acid maybe or half-drunk on the forties we claimed for free when the clerk wasn’t looking cuz he was out back with my boy Kevin getting stoned while we were raiding the back fridge for beer our pockets full of weed…We would come home to 6th Street and open up that place and in that moment it was as much our dirty little pad as it was all the Oneness of the sea…And often, many nights we would free ourselves to that, too, to that energy, that explosion, run legs pumping in the 3am dark all the way down to the white flash of oceancaps that marked the end of the beach and jump in, and wash out, because to be so dirty is to be So clean….

I lost that somewhere—that rope to my past. Cling on to anything too tight it chokes you, my doom forever has been my sentimental melancholy. And of course, intrinsic to the passion of moments is a willingness to ride it with the awareness of always being able to let it go. I worry too much these days, get all concerned with am I doing the right thing. We call this maturity, to be adult! To worry! I do believe the primary principles are love and openness and tolerance, and perhaps this has given me a well-deserved measure of calm. But wow I fool myself too much, fall too easily into so much mulling-over that I’ll easily give over the legs I claim to stand on because I want to be that Well. So the heat, the summer, is good for me, reminds me we all got some funk, too, to give.

I think cummings would agree. He’d say Cut all this bullshit (if he were present day colloquial,) and be willing to be you. Learn for you. Knowledge, he thought, was good but what mattered was the wisdom that comes from experience, and this comes only from the individual human heart. So he probably wouldn’t shy away from saying at the end of the day, admittedly: yeah, if I’m going to admit to living, then I’ll admit to humanness and nothing more.

Awareness of our imperfection—perfect as it gets. I find freedom in that, of the purest kind. This secret lust I get out of the sudden coming heat. The way it makes me feel miserable and pent up, but helps me remember suddenly: So this is what it feels like To Be Alive.

Poem for the day by e.e. cummings
for Kevin (and Chaucer!!?)

Honour corruption villianly holiness
Riding in fragrance of sunlight (side by side
All in singing wonder of blossoming yes
Riding) to him who died that death should be dead

Humblest and proudest eagerly wandering
(equally all alive in miraculous day)
merrily moving through sweet forgiveness of spring
(over the under the gift of the earth of the sky

knight and ploughman pardoner wife and nun
merchant frere clerk somnour miller and reve
and Geoffrey and all) come up from the never of when
come into the now of forever come riding alive

down while crylessly drifting through vast most
nothing’s own nothing children go of dust

Gather the Women Begins at Home

Here is why I love Chestertown. I have a big function going on at my farm in support of youth trying to recover from alcohol and addiction. This is a state-wide gig—or anyway we’ve done our best to outreach this to young people throughout all the counties in Maryland. And here is the specifically Chestertown, specifically Kent County Eastern Shore thing about this: our food, the main bbq delights, was donated by a fellow outside town who happens to have a cattle farm—fresh beef sausages and hamburg; my boyfriend’s mom just dropped off two pints of fresh salsa, the ingredients of which come straight from her garden all summer long; the fresh veggies and salad to eat will come straight outta mine; another guy from town donated all the ice cuz he owns a Marina just off the Bay and they have ice machines; the bonfire bins are bins I made last week under the tutelage of a good girlfriend’s mom and her expert torching and teaching skills; and just about all the other food is coming by means of good ol fashion potluck. And it got me to thinking…

There is a movement I got involved with, unwittingly, in the fall of 2005. After a year and a half long adventure living on the road with Brandon, my fella, in his pick-up truck, and briefly for a time on the coast of Oregon where we house-sat a trailer with walls so thin that the wind at times blew the curtains around inside, we were traveling homeward and had taken pause in Boulder, Colorado. Mika was our hostess, she was an old college buddy of his and someone who I’d known from school, though never, until then, known well. A young woman who enchanted me with her dark beauty and easy quality of seductive vulnerability, of the type that made you want to reach out and both hold her and love her and especially let her hold you, too. She is this delicate creature, like a butterfly, but always you have a sense about her of a long holding inner-strength like that of a bendable, flexible reed. That ten days in Boulder cemented for me a new way of being: Mika’s friends, high on permaculture and philosophies of new-world communities, bent on traveling, fearlessly, and giving themselves open and over to opportunity and the free reign of potential; Mika’s job on the organic farm picking apples, her best girlfriend’s job on another where I got to ride for a visit to harvest lunch on the back of said girlfriend’s hand-fixed tough-ass Harley; Mika’s roommate’s internship on another organic farm where we volunteered for a day too and sweat and picked eggplants and peppers and tomatoes and dirtied our fingernails and t-shirts and our jeans rolled-up and later I got to make it all into a delicious feast, homemade sauce and all, that fed people and more people and the more that just kept showing up. And we all talked and exchanged numbers and ideas and big broad thoughts and experiences and later that week, on my way home from the Hot Springs where we spent a day cleansing and a cold night in the woods, I read about a conference in a mind/body/spirit mag happening the world over in a month from then: Gather the Woman(GTW). One of these conferences would be in DC, right around when I arrived home. And the conference would prove defining for me in terms of this new lifestyle I had easily fallen in step with by the time my traveled heels wound up in Colorado.

Gather the Woman is an important momentum of change in our ever-escalating society of fear and punishment, evasion and intolerance. “With the power of motherhood within her, a woman can influence the entire world,” began Amma, one of India’s primary spiritual leaders, at 2002’s Global Peace Initiative of Women Religious and Spiritual Leaders in Geneva. Amma went on to say, “The love of awakened motherhood is a love and compassion felt not only toward one’s own children but toward all people, animals and plants, rocks and rivers—a love extended to all beings. It is not restricted to women who have given birth; it is a principle (italics mine) inherent in both women and men. It is an attitude of the mind. It is love—and that love is the very breath of life.”[1] From this conference began the evolution of a movement of principles, outlined in Dr. Jean Shinoda Bolen’s book of the same name—Urgent Message From Mother: Gather the Woman, Save the World, and it was about this book and the resulting conferences around it’s ideas that I read in the mag that day in Boulder. And yes, there were men at the conference. And when the conference began with the Message from the Hopi Elders, which I stumbled upon months earlier with joy and recognition in a hostel in Mexico, I cried tears of acknowledgment. This movement was home to me—get it, this movement of principle started right here, in my own heart.

As some may recall it was not long after that fall, after the conference and Boulder, that Brandon and I began organizing around a newsletter we’d created called The Oregon Dialogue. It was these values, these principles of literal Universal Love we meant to call out about, to organize and empower. As GTW seeks to symbolize, he and I set about creating our own Circle of community and connection right here in Chestertown. Indeed, through the gifts of today’s technology, we were able to grow these values with friends across the continent—in Hawaii, Oregon, North Carolina and more.

I mention all this because it, GTW, or Attitude of Love, or Being the Change, it takes all forms and it shows up, at any time, at any place, the moment you wish it to be. Circles are natural as day—a whole image of infinite compliment like night into day or hot into cold. The principle of love, of unity of connection and coming together from the center of things, literally from the human heart of things, can happen the moment you say it will. Like me, opening my mouth and heart two months ago and saying—for young people recovering—ahh, let’s use our farm. Put the word out, tell um to bring music and we’ll get a fire going. Who knew that by today, all sorts of loving acts would come together to feed and entertain and host all these people coming to support giving young people a second chance. Community. Circles of hope, small as an Eastern Shore town is, large as the hearts of lots of good people from Boulder to here to beyond. Love knew.

Check out http://www.gatherthewomen.org/
Read the book.

And May it begin with You.

[1] Jean Shinoda Bolen, Urgent Message From Mother: gather the Woman, Save the World, p.15

*note: There is much discourse about the origin of the "Message from Hopi Elders." The link provided is indeed a valuable and inspirational sentiment, though it seems that it is not neccesarily the views of the Hopi Nation. For more in-depth information I suggest Frank Waters Book of the Hopi.

Poem for Today, for Mike, cuz my friends save my ass w out even knowing it...

“We don’t live for ourselves; we are interconnected. We live for the earth, for Texas, for the chicken we ate last night that gave us its life, for our mother, for the highway, and the ceiling and the trees. We have a responsibility to treat ourselves kindly; then we will treat the world in the same way.” Natalie Goldberg


Amen. And god bless, goddess bless, Namasté. These are sentiments I would, do, did, mutter to myself when I read this, or anything like it. Such words are my way of acknowledging the little present flutter of joy that moves in my heart naturally as means of saying yes, yes, I get that, too! I live for such feeling, such acknowledgment. It’s been stuck in my throat lately, though. That’s what happens when I, as an artist, feel that little flow or aha and stop my natural progression of opening to it. It takes so damn much of my energy to do so, to halt that flow and not allow it to come posturing out in the form of a poem or writing or in a simple lightness of being that I end up feeling numb. Then the shame—self-judgment—comes. And then I really rally against myself. What are you doing with your life, where are you going, what’s the point, why why why? And then I don’t, I haven’t, gotten a damn thing done.

Initially this started when I paused in my writing and blogging to have a friend help me with building a website. I gave myself an excuse: oh I’ll just quit writing til we’re done, til we get my blog fed in to my website. Of course this led to me spending far more time day by day in my head, trying to control and manage all my little life details up there. My energy, transfixed before I knew it, stuck on creating life how I want it. My heart doomed with the terrible sucking feeling in the morning because nothing at all is happening for me and yikes, the great paradox being that indeed nothing was happening because I was so drained by all my energy focused on nothing happening! And maybe this is what I hate the most, what I’ve learned the most in the 9 months since I quit teaching to focus on writing: it requires that I write. And for this artist, writing requires discipline. Which sometimes looks like drudgery: sweatpants and dirty hair and forcing myself to sit in this hardback chair drinking acidic coffee and stopping to have to get the damn laundry done. Which is the exact opposite of my vision of the ecstatic moonbeam worshipping sultry sleeky earth-goddess dark diva zipping and lala laughing and loving her way easily through life and love and art with a magic touch and a Done!! No, discipline is not an easy task for me, but one worth the hard long fight. And actually, I like the way the warm sun feels on my stretched-out arms, the yearn in my heart as I weight the clothes-line with the heavy wet towel or my work uniform knowing my work is upstairs waiting mid-sentence for me. The sound of the cows in the distance. The hum of my computer. My cat on her back spread out legs hanging off the chair she’s cozied up in, funny look on her face like I’m the strange one. All the empty coffee mugs and tears of paper on my desk. The yearn in my heart for this all. Discipline takes me back to these things, to my life. Back to my art, to the nature of things.

In recovery from alcoholism you learn about that funny little twist of mental obsession and how it dominates you and sucks you lonely and bedraggled through your day. You learn it is part of the disease of alcoholism. Chief among the disease is the ego and its Napoleaonic governing and how it confuses you with delusions of how much you actually think is in your control. The ego uses its loud chatter to accomplish this, the ways it has of talking at you, and you at it. You drink to relieve this mental strain, this burden of the mentally anxious always obnoxious wrestling match in your own brain. This time it will be different and so on…Thus drinking isn’t actually the problem as much as it is the solution. But I think that this tendency towards mental looping and strain isn’t limited at all to alcoholics. I am convinced that it is simply the human condition. Sick and stuck on our fears and our own ambitious beliefs in the common little wart we all share, our dastardly egos. My shaman fried says the ego can not exist in the present moment, it can only be activated by our worries about what the future will amount to or by our judgment of our past. So our judgments or speculating in any given moment amount to the sum total of joy we are experiencing Right Now. In other words, if you can be present, in the present, Conscious of the moment and your breathing nose or mouth, your beating heart, your blinking eyes, the way the tree leaves move the wind across the street or the field, how the light blinks off the grocery cart wheel or how that little child looks right now with chocolate smeared across her fat cheek…in this way you can love, you can be the moment connected not in mind but in Being with all else. You can live the ecstatic ordinary and this is all there is…

So that’s why I write. Got that Kelly? To capture this, this sacred moment, to experience in-union, to dance together as the words come rushing out, to feel the spark, that joy flutter, to share what lay in my heart and in doing so, to lay down what matters upon your own.

Poem for Today

My friend Mike’s birthday was last week, so was Leah’s. These are fantastic, original people who inspire me to live the same way writing does. They are farm people—Mike by birth, right here in Kennedyville not two miles from Anngar Farm, with the dust and manure, the cow droppings and moans outside on the wind making up his everydays. The dry corn husks fluttering across his playground, brought down every season by the fall. Leah came to this life, to this type of farm life, with her pensive esoteric Christian punk rock husband, who I unknowingly grew up with in the suburb complexes of counties stretched out between Baldamore and DC at the same punk rock shows in the same firehalls with sticky bathroom stalls and black gum stains on the floor and stale grease smells in the dark halls. Fugazi. Nope. Mustard Seed Magic….Her and her husband now in a strung together farm house in Queen Anne’s county held up by her baubles and scrumpy cats and their love. I still owe her a flowered crown for her birthday….We have potlucks together, celebrate birthdays and the passings of seasons and the moon. Leah and her husband and the rest of our hodgepodge band of pop-culture-gone-rural country crew. Mike doesn’t come to these gatherings because he lives in Manhattan now but steamed crabs, in Maryland, on Maryland’s Eastern Shore where he’s from outback that old farmhouse of his in Kennedyville, is how he’ll celebrate his birthday this week, how he celebrates it every year. Details. The classic details of our miniscule existences, how we humans are gifted with the power to transform every living day in to our own kind of tiny miracle.


Happy Belated Birthday friends.

Amen.

Long poem for
Mc Ades

What is this madness? I only seem
to Know. I only claim.
My only.

The beauty of this world.
The beating & the fueling
the fucking
of all things
keeps us Alive.

The beating wings of that animal flap
The thrashing of those others in the garden
The associations we draw forward
from that
to that

This is ALL pure, man.

The light
The light there, in your eyes
is in mine.
Transfixed gleam.
( )

The city tops, the city steps
Where you sleep
Where your gun falls down
Where you drop
to your knees
Where, on some leveled street labeled Paradise
your queen, your vicious vicious Queen
returns & you
you Masquerade
torrents of beauty dance
you spin & turn what beauty in this dance
what madness this Quest ahhhh all this confounded
Wondering. Wonder-Ing ahhhh hhh Wonder
Your Soul the Clown, friend
Your soul on which the fire breathes.

White heat red flame transfigures, white ash. Transfixed heat. Transcends.
The Beauty. The Simple marvel Beauty. Of this.

¨

On this farm, this form
which you gave Me.
You are always in my backyard?
Which means when we turn we are the same
within. You’re on my land, I am on yours, this
Great consequence of Life only means a thing if we
Garner Nothing To It. I Know.
The fire, the fires Burn Bright
Chinese Elm out back. Great Fire Barrel Sam procured.

The choking back, the choking on, the delicious smoke.

The dust I brought, you brought
Home. How you rejuvenate reinvent Cleanse.

How you Bath Yourself. To be made Clean.

The dust settles. Great cities of Paradise yearn in you again.
Long car ride, home.

I’ll share a cigarette with you,
anytime my friend.

*