Bronson Brook in Early April

There are no errors. Trying to find my way back to being the man who had friends. Listening to songs Dylan was writing when he was fifty-five, Petty too, understanding something about love so thank you my brothers, my killers. Screens ruined us, there is no other way to say it. Grackles flying in ragged flocks above the horse pasture, something in me loosening as if interested in being sutured, but they’re gone so fast like saying "what wound?" Making peace with letting go of the many stones I’ve gathered over the years. Splashing myself in Bronson Brook in early April because Thoreau reminds me the Ganges is everywhere. Discerning between the drive to Cape Cod and Cape Cod. What happened in Saint Louis is still happening and not just in Saint Louis. I like cookbooks, what else can I say, there’s a sense of order and the kitchen was the only safe room growing up, I don't know why, or I do and I'm tired of saying it, after all, Ma suffered too. Kenya et cetera. Blessings which we do not count but accept and thus extend to others, kind of like a smile. The lies I’ve told in order to reach this sedimentary truth. How I loved watching Born Free. Gilligan’s Island always beckoned, still does. Dropping Doritos in the sannyasi’s bowl, making him laugh, and in that moment knowing that he and I are one. Do you remember the hotdog lady on Church Street Peter? Feelings of joy that are hard to hold but which oddly don’t have to be in order to remain with us forever. My dislike of skating which I have been averse to discussing since 1987. Yet upon waking recognizing myself as always here. We give the cosmos head and swallow its luminous come, the taste of divine climax forever on our tongue. And then this happens and then that happens, it's okay, it's all okay. Apple pie with cheddar cheese, alone in the kitchen at eleven p.m.. Where and when is the last amen?