radiance, only radiance. words and love or something borrowed. something bulging at the seams. something that seems to be something worth its weight in wind. something worth winding up.

i flew south past Philadelphia…let all the drifting baubles of the city turn to speckled doorknobs from the oval-escent window. i watched the dappled of sunset spills across the top of the clouds. the sea of white lily pads waiting to transform. to carry. to bundle together and release rain. waiting for light to be cast on their backs. the light, i presume, from what i could see, must have shone through the back to the front of the clouds – so that my tiny lovers on the ground could see what i saw too – but backwards and sideways and instantaneously.

up here i’m flying higher than fear. fear has no place in this landscape.

“You never know when you will encounter magic. Some solitary moment in a park can suddenly burst open with a spray of pre-school children in high-vis vests, hand in hand; maybe the teacher will ask you for directions, and the children will look at you, curious and open, and you’ll see that they are perfect. In the half-morning half-gray glint, the cobwebs on bushes are gleaming with such radiant insistence, you can feel the playful unknown beckoning. Behind impassive stares in booths, behind the indifferent gum chew, behind the car horns, there is connection.” – Russell Brand, Revolution

morning light now, i am all curled in the fires of travel. i am all wandering through the winter of this bright warmth. this elegant radiance. this fiery purpose train. all the ways the wind still tries to woo me. and here i am, new orleans tumbled with bright city pride. Louisiana swelling with warm southern grace. here i am, little southern wanderer. wandering towards something worth discovering. and everything is, you know. everything is always worth discovering, if you open your eyes wide enough.

morning break dawn rhythm. tumble house, new paint. warm bones of this house, warm bones it has. fumbled history and aching stories seeped into the walls. little baby gurgles dribble up the stairs. so the world is new. so the heart is round. so the river that carries me is married to more than just the sun. it follows from the moon, sometimes, too. and today now, all i know is morning break dawn rhythm.

Did I tell you about the light?

fascinating fastening footsteps in my dreams. in my dreams i dreamed a whole set of words strung together in sense…but the waves wake you up and the windows wash down. we’ve moved, we’ve moved the television cried. the apple-bottom side of the couch coughed. the sequins of the sequence of steps from here to there kept creeping. kept winding the windows away from me. new shutters i’ve got. that shutter on impact, couple on the side, and curve at the light. new floorboards – cherry red and ash brown. new fireplaces without any fire. a bath without a stopper on the drain. a mud room not yet caked in mud. i’ve got 4 new burners on the stove, sinking their teeth into pots – waiting to be covered in overflow. i haven’t got enough lamps yet, but the windows – did i tell you about the windows? the light – did i tell you about the light? the way it washes down the windows? the way it washes this house new? did i tell you about the way the light washes my life?

They shouted nameless hunger from the streets. I saw the march pummeling barrel-boned feet onto pavement dashed with archaic names – Pennsylvania Avenue, caked in poetic-narrative. We shouted thunder and hurricane from our tiny voice boxes. We swam in circumstance, pomp, and pop culture. We swelled with pageantry, with the radiance of a crown not blatantly visible. We braced our ribcages for the spectacle. We paced through a parade, through titles and embossed penmanship. We wandered through the television, through the wash of blitz and brawn. We were no longer just a city, but a shout still ringing clear. We were no longer just a people, but a shout still ringing clear.

The beasts with fumbled roars, with aimless oars cackling through the Chesapeake. Peering, pining, purpling and vision-less. Curdled, crowning, coupled with charisma and cliche. Here we go, leaving the milk out. Here we are, drinking the sour cream.

Somewhere love is growing faster than the insipid hand of materialism. The relegation of repudiation to the ringlets of time. Ringing out rules and regulations faster than you can say “right” versus wrong. It’s all about the turns – right, left and u-turn. Gas pedal, gas lobby, hobby lobby, ding dong. The chime is ringing. The clock is nearing. Inauguration day is peering – like a room without doors. Here I sit in the middle and I know it’s all a dream. It’s all the finite minutiae of a feather falling quickly, quietly, questionless-ly.

In the center of the circle, can we press the button…the rewind, re-wire, fresh mind, mind-the-gap, the wage gap, the equality revolution, the resonance of radio-active inaction. The actionable consequences of a congress incoherent and no longer congruent to the concentrated coalescence of a collective? What happened to the collective? Where is the consciousness of a great cornerstone of culture? Where is culture? Where is the American identity? Who took it, bandaged it up and re-branded it? Who is selling the brand of American identity back to us?

sweet one white one, little one in my hands. little fluff, hair windblown. you had so much life, so little fear. so many wandering eyes. so many tiny paths to trod. so many swishing tails to wag. you warmed silently, sweetly. crooned vigorously. sang songs of your own language. you loved fiercely your brother in all things. you courageously hopped when palmer stood. you searched for easter eggs with all the flush of spring wet at your lips. you doused yourself in mud and caroled wildly into the weeds. you were always the one that got caked in soil. you were always the one that steamed ahead – plowing fresh for air and smells and sounds and swarms of grace and gutterworms.

sweet one i will not forget you. you are bold and blue and grey. you are white and you will always be white. bold-boned, warm tongued, freshly-laundered face. black eyes like buoys. like love. like grace. like something solid and serene.

as a puppy you were bright star fire. older now, you are a wash of the sea. you are a slow tide swallowing peace. you are bright. you are bright. you are white, you will always be white.

your body so full and prescient, i hold you now. clever-eared and caring, you let me press my cheek to the wilderness of your hair. to the gaping opal moons that live inside your eyes now.

i stretch my heart around your ribcage, i feel your humble beatings. i press my lungs against your chest, i watch your ragged breathing. i hear you sweet one. i see you too. i’ll be seeing you. where rain meets courage again. i’ll see you always running – sprinting up ahead…some wild fantasy chasing your nose, trilling your senses. again and again and again sprinting towards life, running with courage, i’ll see you.

and i’ll love you here and there and all the moments in between. until i run with you again.

The heart of the earth is soft. Delicate. Ageing and rising. The snow is a funnel. A column of sweet chill that douses our senses in silence. What silence looks like. The touch of silence against our skin. And we are just dancing. Crunching.

My baby speaks so much poetry. Tumbling out of his little lips. My heart speaks so many tides I wish I could quell in myself. So many splashes of anger I wish I could melt. And so many wild loves I only pray I can keep loving.

Something in this house is stirring in the midnight light. Something in the snow is fuel-pumped and wickedly-white. Hurricane blown and January sewn together. This canopy- this pearlescent cream. This carpeting, this finery of white precipitation precipitating the end of some whirling winter day. Wonder and wonder and where are my child’s eyes? Wonder and wheeze – the world is still waiting. I’ve got a world full of wishes and a brim full of hats. All the snow in the world could keep curling around me and all I’d see is rain transformed.