A bird outside my window
shrieks a wall-piercing note
at 6 a.m. every morning
it's a juvenile blue jay
born this past spring
we watched its parents courting
in the crabapple tree out back
saw it too few feathers
take its first flaps
hoping from our rooftop ( Read more... )

I am still far, far, deserts and mountain ranges from being anywhere near where I could call myself a writer ( Read more... )

I am silent ( Read more... )

Last night, I decided to read Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and The Waste Land while high.

I'm fairly certain it's the most brilliant decision I've ever made. Both of those dazzling, incomprehensible works made beautiful, stunning sense.

Possibly the most powerful experience with Art I've ever had.

Hooray for good ideas!

nothing more need be said;
our own universes in every glance

I'm slowly reading and parsing Jeannette Winterson's Art ObjectsIt reminds me, forcefully, clearly, but more important - emotionally, spiritually that my passion is Art ( Read more... )

if heaven doesn't have
sore feet from days of hiking
the sort of exhausted you can only get
from hours of fucking,
the smell of fresh rain
and decay
fallen trees
and dead mice

then it's ok.
someone else should go.
I like it better here anyway.

Inspired a lot from what Prana's founder did on his 50th b-day: http://vimeo.com/5509632Read more... )

I hereby resolve, that if I do not like a poem, I will read it again ( Read more... )

Shirt buttons ( Read more... )