And of course I think of a 1000 useful things to say as I drive away

Am I your strangest friend? You ask me / I ask you if I can use that for writing / I curl my way down the little town street, I cannot escape the poetry of a night sky

I remember at all, don’t you? Don’t you swim through the brine ; through the ratted tufts of your brain? I am sorry for my insufficiencies, for my weakness of heart, for my in firmament of mind, for my recklessness of behavior. I am sorry for believing all the tales they tell us to believe. I am sorry the truth is not a clear set of silver utensils to be shined. I am sorry I cannot even set the table.

we let the notes hit through our chests for the last time ; peel through our sinews for last time. the curtain cast its purple side-long gaze at the shadows in the wings, our false eyelashes bounced gluey-wisp replies. we danced to those legendary notes, the drumbeat hollowing in our ankles, the rhythm curling through time. i peeled through all the energy – the layers of light and vision cast about me as i spun about in circles. the stage seemed to morph around me as i moved through it – the cast glaring and leering and laughing and dancing in hopscotch halter moments – frozen bits alighting about me.

it’s something you get to keep / you never have to give it away; the gift you get on the stage; the one that burrows right inside of your ribcage; the one that becomes part of your marrow; the one that continues to breathe with you / you never have to give it away; it becomes part of your weaving, part of your body, it never dies

there are moments on stage that feel more real than real life – more present, more prescient, more alive. as if all the world were a strange synapse dream and here we have remembered that we are always just playing. and we are giving the moment meaning, and attention, and tension, and care, and we are practicing at being present for it, at having it mean a certain thing. the care for the ever unfolding moment – that sometimes reaches into reality farther than the drip-dried dream of our everyday, profane moments. the sacred is reached towards. the holy cathedral of the theatre – the sacred soul box of memories and words and lineage of ancestor tongues and human reflection of reflection of reflection of what it is to be real. and somehow, in this hallway of mirrors, this art at art at real life – reality is punctured like a hollow cloud – and you find yourself standing in something hyper-real, hyper-present, uniquely beautiful and glowing; stage lights dancing about faces of people you are endlessly putting your trust into, and are endlessly catching you.

i am grateful for the hum of guitar chords that still walk me through my life, tuck me inside moments and find me a home inside strange little rooms in strange little cities. i am grateful for the glaze of beautiful eyes that seethe, for the hurricane of emotions i am still somehow able to feel. i am grateful to begin to feel old; to still feel young. i am grateful for you, and i am grateful for you. let me alight, and continue to burn.


a staggering compilation

but do you feel stimulated and does the warm air wrap itself around your ankles and whip at your neckflesh and do men hold your face in their hands with tenderness and does the wild eye of the sky keep pouring hot rain onto the pavement? happiness is trite. the world is full of color and turquoise magic – horror terror and crimson hue/blood sad and wet faced worry – do not appeal yourself to the simplicities of what contemporary modern life says is the way to measure your life. you are a staggering compilation of dissonant cells and atomized neutrons and you are a fantastic imagining of clay still fresh and unglazed and you are a parcel of bones strung together and you are a finely laid arrangement of electricity. and do you hear the insect choir on a summer afternoon and does the highway extend out beneath your feet as you fly along and do you have a brain full of drummed thoughts tapping hot and measureless? you are, you are, you are doing just fine. you are doing straight black magic just breathing earth oxygen potion. you are doing just fine. you are everything you need to be at all infinite points on a compass. you are always on the path you are on and that path is always unfolding the only way it knows how to – domino, domino, domino, stange mystery of labor twirling outward – you are always a thousand ways that your cells are not dissolving. you are still held together with invisible electron glue. little gravity sorcery. you are still a phantasm/a creation creating. you are doing just fine. you are a miraculous breathbag heaving. still, still. do not worry about happiness, or silly rulers the world tells you you must measure yourself against. you are a magnificence of electro-magnetism. the world is not spinning you apart just yet. the laws of physics are still alive in you just yet. you are still breathing just yet. you are still filled with hydrogen possibility just yet. you are still a miracle just yet. you are a human being just yet and you are strange and aflame and you are brave for still breathing. for rising to meet the day. you are enough. you are doing just fine. if you are feeling a myriad of things, you are lucky. if you are feeling anything at all, you are lucky. if you know not one thing for certain, you are wise. you are doing just fine. you are doing cataclysmic, majestic things each day. like breathing. like existing. like being.

you are doing just fine. You are alive; you are making magic.


But the aching crags that pummeled under my feet – the harkened breath sumptuous in my chest – the curled chill of mountain air twirling my skin – the firmness of step, the grasp of leap, the stumble of jump, the voracity of adventure in your heels, the the quake of your muscles as you lean in to a new footing, as you lean in to a new trust – in yourself, in the rock, in the flow. And the physicalized ritual of confronting, greeting, being with bravery. Testing your own limits, literally challenging yourself, genuinely finding where bravery sits inside your bones and harvesting it. This is invaluable. This is a rockface. This is climbing it. This is coming in to your own strength again.


And I say thank you, thank you, thank you again. Thank you mountainscape, thank you stunning sunset that happens everyday – that I miss so many days. Thank you for the opportunity to see it again today. The cataclysm of the sunset happens everyday. It is us, who forget to take notice. It is us, who forget to find the magic, to witness it, to thank it, to receive the majesty all around. Cupped hands, cupped hands, we forget to cup our hands, and receive what is always directly in front of us/behind us/surrounding us. Air, air, and magical mystery.

all the years in the world – all the places where our minds meet, where our souls meet, where our stomachs clang against one another’s in hunger. in grace, in anger, in the river, in the river – i am always in the river swimming upstream.

i am a blanket of cold thank you’s praising the world for the strange bucket of lovely it has placed on my front stoop. the love, the wild love. the laughter, the echoing laughter. the friendship – such a thing i have forgotten, i have released myself from – to feel their laughter on the back of my neck again – grace, grace. gratitude and love. worship and magic – i will always worship the love in my life, the life in my love.