Mercy unto all lobsters but only after I eat one more.
Transparent borders. Writing by hand.
My admiration for calligraphy and also groups using hand bells for Christmas carols, both of which imply levels of attention and cooperation I only dream of.
In my heart there is a little boy who tells on everybody. Driving through Pittsfield, wondering when I will learn the secret to peace. Nothing is every truly borrowed, nothing ever truly returned.
This is the marriage now, this is where I have come at last to rest, this is where my travels end.
“Batter up,” says the man for whom pancakes are more sacred than communion wafers.
We are here to hydrate, is not a bad way to think about your function (says the Divine Telephathic Cephalopod of Eternal Love). Pictures of Alan Ginsberg at pro-cannabis rallies in the sixties, what a beautiful man, what a saint.
We move the old table into the hay loft, use it for work, certain stages of sewing projects (mostly cutting and trimming fabric) and puzzle-making. This, too, is the way home, you know?
“Celebrate good times, come on!”
Trying to explain what I meant when I tried to explain what it meant to realize that nothing mattered but knowing – or dying trying to know – the mind of Emily Dickinson.
There were no empty rooms, there was never not moonlight, and oh my god the sacred intensity of this nearly-Satanic anger. Picture the Titanic in freezing dark going down.
We who eschew discipleship at a late stage find ourselves desperate for the master.
How still one becomes when love has gone away.
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