Halloween. And tumult and trauma and upheaval. Again. And the cycles, the seasons, the endless age of the earth age-ing backward. And laughter and holding my baby tight. But fear everywhere. Fear in the child, fear in me, fear of the future and the steps to be taken. Fear of the words and the truth in between. Where do we go, where do we go from here? Where do all of us go? The battered, the flinching, the scared of the darkness and the light? Where do all the children go that don’t have advocates? That don’t have people speaking for them, protecting them? What happens to all the children’s whose voices are only theirs against an adult’s? I am worried and weary and without a map, but I have my boy, and I have my bravery and I have the light on my side. And I have the light in my heart still flaming. Halloween and let the shadows come. Let the darkness come, let the haunting scare us. We have light enough to kindle. We have light enough to see our way through. Small and only enough to see one foot in front of the other, but we have enough. We have each other.

some amount of neon

three years at the same seat, the same pearled purple and green smashes across the glass as the cars wheel by, the midnight glow of horns and guitar strings, some harmonica no one has learned how to stop playing, some amount of neon that always glows — bliss game and a furrow of brows getting older, getting wiser, getting deeper in the depth; in the art of the world flowing by — you tell us you’ve written something new, you curl your brilliance through a voice pipe, out through the parade of bones dancing in the right order, through the finger army of musical esplanade — we clap, it is the only feeble jungle we know how to enter — we know not how to trace the elegant animal from the line of brilliance to the fuse of firelight and kindling, we see only the flame, we eat only light – all evening long we soak in each other’s fever dreams ; we fill up each other’s sutures with imagined melodies ; a wish for an unending splash of fleeting light – the sparkle puddle electrified in the misty autumn pavement rain – the glow of 1am filling the gutters with a gulp of dreamtime nightflesh : sputters and splatters of all the condesencing condensation of the consideration of conspiracy, coalescence and consciousness;; we here keep hearing, keep listening, keep creating long after the night has turned to morning, long after the clock tells us to tuck in for the night; we here keep hearing each other; keep making in the morning light

to many more years of making, and letting the night turn to morning, and morning turn in to new dawns, new dreams, new songs

endlessly

blue sky saturation to full – the greys come peeling in like mixed-race piano keys, like a fully embodied mirror of the hudson – muddy, murky, mellowing — and here we are, by 5pm the sky has turned mellow in October. by 9am the brisk of the cooling night has only slightly dissipated. and here we are, the time i have with my little one turning timelier and timelier. i’m not okay with the time, apparently. is it not the full flesh of a purpling peach – gathering time at the edges and pointing inwards? will i ever be old enough to love you? will i ever be young enough to know you? and here the pull of music pulls time away from me again, a little tap dance; a little curtain call; a little dream of how we used to be; a little dream that things will start making sense again, the way they always have, though time ticks through them at varying colors and degrees — the way they always have, though time ticks through them endlessly