A Blind Horizon

What I will not look away from and why I will not look away.

Playing Poor Wayfarin' Stranger with a skeletal mandolin player on Church Street in Burlington, Vermont in 1990, the Spring that year unusually cold.

Extremes which feel merited emotionally but in which in the end one loses nearly everything.

The sadness of hoping I am wrong and wanting to trust you again. 

Dogs who are grateful for any bone, any touch.

Playing Shelter from the Storm on the front porch, summer dusk, neighbors passing by and waving, me nodding, letting it all otherwise go because at this juncture, why not/what else/et cetera. 

The secret to bearing any pain is knowing down deep you deserve it, thanks Dad!

Checkers bored me, chess required too much attention, and anyway winning and losing was unnecessarily socially complex, ergo, Dungeons and Dragons.

Playing Duncan all those years ago in a little apartment across from the homeless shelter, over and over at the window, amazed at how much happiness was possible. 

Any companion to follow. 

This doglessness, this penance I must learn alone to refuse.

Pain infuriated my father because it it showed him what he was doing, is one way to see it.

Pussy is darkness, a blind horizon, the heat of it melts my foolish tongue, and yet only the spoken word is its equal. 

My cheap religion, my unearned education.

Do you remember what is beautiful and do you know that it is in you not as an object or a thing but as a way of knowing?

Is it easier to laugh or fuck and why.

The spirit in which we offer ourselves to others is what matters.

The weak tea of Sean's intellect, the relentless optimism of his dick, and the sweet sweet mirror ball of his spirituality. 

Son of parents who were smart enough to know better but not humble enough to change?

Hey, that reminds me.