Try this: love has no opposite whatsoever. In Worthington, in the seventies, the fields were full of the blue lights of faerie, which saved me in a nontrivial way, which salvation I am ever carrying forward.
I want to work the word “rehabilitation” into a poem and can’t so fuck it, I won’t. David Bowie’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide.
Letting go of fixation. We talk about flowers, all the ways they appear to us – in fields, in dreams, in art, in poems - and how grateful we are accordingly.
I’d rather be a comma than a semicolon. No more grails, no more gods: this is a law of the Aquarian Age.
Sailing up the Taunton River into Mount Hope Bay, we were all drunk, my uncle riding my father hard about the past, I was scared but also grateful to see he could be taken down. The face of the clock resembles the face of the moon.
Form is desire and desire, form. Going back to Brentano, then wondering why going back appears to matter when it no longer does, this has been clear since Cambridge 2017.
I will apologize to no one for loving Barry Manilow’s I Write the Songs, I was a kid when I heard it, what do kids know except that love is love and has not opposite. Star-gazing was not ruined by astronomy, but the stories we tell did change – and are changing – and this matters.
Waiting for the bus. Barns that are gone now save in memory.
We agree to drive to Chester and walk the forest trails we used to walk with Jake, those years before there were kids, those years when so much had yet to happen. Diner coffee, may I never forget to be thankful.
Jeremiah asks if I will make a Viking breakfast like in the old days and I do and everybody is happy, we sit around the table for an hour or so after eating, laughing and telling stories. My umbrella, my cock, my eyes growing dim like the night.