I came across a song today, sitting alone in the forest…praying to the black moon of newness…saying let me cut off the crust of the old earth and find my fleshy way through the murk and mayhem of the mud to feel that ferny, fecund finality of the freshness of soul. To find the little essence of wind curling around every creation. To tuck my nobbly nose into the nodding head of every mute manifestation and listen to their vibrant voices. Their tingly sensations of being a being. The strange music of knowledge knowing itself into form. The bizarre form of bodies that claim themselves to be individuals. The desolate wide arms of autumn claiming every green thing for its color cascade. Its parade of soulful innocence. The ramparts of freedom that want to rip from every spine of wood that clogs the forest halls with silent sliding statements of slender bark and bone. Eat the miles tying you to the rain and dissolve your brain into the satisfying, crippling drain of being a moment. Of being a breath. Of being anything that does not, cannot ever fully comprehend its own self. It’s own unfathomable, limitless mystery. The divine unconscious of the swimming sensation of form. The sweltering heat of meat as it drips and drives your boney tendrils. Your bodily wealth of weary eye lights and tumbling highway surfing. All the lights and all the trees and all the colors of the breeze. This being a human thing is quite the adventure, I’d say. Thanks, universe.


Life begins anew, it begins naked and small and comes from love; it takes root in the desert and all that we have done and built, all our cities and factories, all our great art, all our thoughts and all our philosophies, all this will not pass away. It’s only we that have passed away. Our buildings and machines will fall to ruin, the systems and the names of the great will fall like leaves, but you, love, you flourish in the ruins sow the seeds of life in the wind.”

Be the beneficent breeze.

And yes, the moon is hanging on my shoulder. And yes, the dust is made of stars. And yes, with every fiber of my being I want to cast it away. Cast it all away and just float out to sea. No society, no aching angel voices, no tension in my shoulders. I want to dissolve into tears and flow into a river. I’m ready to go. I’m ready to float, to fly, to flop. To reach with everything I have to be pure. And for that desire to be OK. Not to be weird, or on the edges, or hippie, or demanding. I want to be with the land, living off the land, eating the fruits of the land and for that not be labeled as something…for that not to be STRANGE. THAT is normal. THAT is how we were born into this world. We are so distorted, manipulated, configured, calculated and contorted. I have no desire anymore for the blinding lights and the bursts of styrofoam sensation. I want the clarity of blue sky. And I want warmth and light enough that I can breathe outside. I dread. I dread the coming months. And yes, I’m a dreamer. But I am so holistically normal and true. This is me. It is not a statement.

“THE EDGE, there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
Hunter S. Thompson


“On my tombstone they will carve, “IT NEVER GOT FAST ENOUGH FOR ME.”
Hunter S. Thompson


There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”
Hunter S. Thompson


“As things stand now, I am going to be a writer. I’m not sure that I’m going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me to the dust and says ‘you are nothing’, I will be a writer.”
Hunter S. Thompson, Gonzo

It all begins when the soul would have its way with you.

You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.
– Friedrich Nietzsche

When the first baby laughed for the first time,the laugh broke into a thousand pieces and they went skipping about and that was the beginning of fairies.
– Sir James Mathiew Barrie ( 1860-1937) Peter Pan, Act1.

The great majority of men are bundles of beginnings.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson (1802-1882) Journals

Thoughts give birth to a creative force that is neither elemental nor sidereal. Thoughts create a new heaven, a new firmament, a new source of energy, from which new arts flow. When a man undertakes to create something, he establishes a new heaven.
– Philipus A Paracelsus

“Don’t ask what the world needs.
Rather ask – what makes you come alive?
Then go and do it!
Because what the world needs is people
who have come alive”
– Howard Thurman


well now my mind has evolved past the past, the residue of what’s last, the leftovers of the left, of the right, of the moral morality of being a being of the beens and the dones and the theres and the this’s. the possessions and proposed notions of a dying nation, of a steamboat radiation filling the lungs, the tongues, the beats of cerebral repeats. the ties, the tips, the toes and all the things you’ve thrown, overthrown, overwhelmed and emotionally dissolved.

so for a moment, for a motion, for a milli-breath…she is contained. she is retained. she is formed in a body of bones and blood. she is tossed by the sea and raged by the rivers. she is 5 times the times around the moon around the sun into the beating heart of a breath. into the fire breathing nest of a collapsing dragon. into the out-to. the outhouse of the inside. of the drained hide. of all her lights and all her listening and feeling the curvature of your brain level out, level up, turn the keys and rotate the motor. jiggle the handle and handle the weight of the world. the atlas shrugged. the tiny mug holding the remnants of your resolute concoction. tipping conviction and sublime saturday slices of silence.

little words

big worlds, enormous silences

breathing into every breathing room

into waiting rooms and rooms waiting to be waited on

to the waiters of the world wading in water too high to drown in, too deep to bathe in

but somehow cleansing. but somehow clear. 

and all the while the pollutants in their smoking jackets, holding buckets of breath

waiting to 



then seven days later she’s born again. then on the seventh day he severed the ties. then on the 14th day he gave us the word “fortnight.” and for that night, there was nothing but light. and for that sense, there was nothing but none. and for that nun, there was nothing but fun. and words, they rhyme in time. in space. in the rhythm of the space between the words and all their little shoelaces and ties. and someday ill make order of this range roving mind. and someday ill make cents of this nonsense. and someday i’ll pluck words off of trees and replace them with fruits no one has yet tasted. i’ll sing a color into existence that lives just between blue and red. i’ll find god’s many whispered eye holes and i’ll look into them, if only to find the light to shed the sense of the moral world and give it back. give it back. give it light. give it life. give the world its words back. we stole this language from the moon. it’s time to start speaking the earth’s tongue.