I Can't Keep My Hurt to Myself

All desire is suffering.

Two barns in Vermont, opposite sides of I forget what road in Morrisville, which I thought of as sisters.

How happy I was on the mountain, stirring puddles with a stick, not yet boxed in with photographs.

Vast landscapes hidden by mist.

She cries because I can’t keep my hurt to myself, freeze up after, endure every alienation, every punishment, then feel sorrow as the house goes quiet I can’t decide where to sleep and or remember how, again. 

Sell-outs.

Access to reality matters, we need to preserve this for as many people as possible.

We meet after bread, in a room with open windows through which moonlight pours, reminding me the experience is fictitious.

She teaches me to be a peacemaker, she suffers the confusion that mars the passage of all who must journey from fear to love.

Time is in part a container.

A hard battle.

Beets.

I long for the road, which is a form of the road longing for me, or is this why my feet abjure shoes.

Sentences written in rain, sentences written by the rain.

An exercise in which we must reduce our autobiography to no more than a sentence. 

Bearer of tidings, slayer of dragons, servant of queens.

Rethinking the early '70s in Worthington Massachusetts.

Shadows on snow can be helpful in clarifying the way in which snow is not white but blue.

Poor connections through which we struggle to express our desire.

I am Christian, I say, not a Christian.