june 29, 2026:last night I swapped the galaxy for a lot of lost cat litter. look at what I could’ve had. All to myself: a really roomy spell of black deep whitelights(stars) signaliing to me a whittle of pearlsong, a crawling slug of eon-salt. all that i could've done with eon salt! sprinkled that paitent particle all across my fellow sisters, my fellow brothers here on this earth! yet here i am 1, 2, 3, and 4 of the a.m. with my lot of lost cat litter(spiritual despair). the choice is mine, i recall. i did get born after all. and here is a man, walking. here is a lady, big with the element of noticeably wasted time, volumptous margarita cup spilling over, capri's pants suggesting poverty, that there wasn't enough fabric to cover up the legs, yet there she sat, expensive phone playing her movies, shows, endless lights across the eyes, which are really quite dark, all of her hairs dyed, her toenails painted, a bag, a brag, of leather wealth sitting before her on the table. forgive me for staring--- and here is a world. i drive, i see a man with a 'fro: he stands waiting by the bus stop but his mind as i see it is light-years in the ahead, in the head of "go!" Stairing straight into everything, buckteeth poking out, his figure just standing, as a man is supposedely supposed to, because that is what man does, stands, stares, walks. Here is a family. How'd they manage to get so many blessings? how did they get there? Do i fathom the majestic many million perfect time-crossovers that had to happen for that there family to have become, to have begun, even, in the glance of the universe! I can almost smell the chance articulation swarming round the scene! How improbable! How interestingly unfathomabel to me, to you! and here is a billionare who claims the reasoning that since his kids didn't ask to be born, it is he who owes them all, and they that owe nothing, seeing as they didn't ask for the waddling slop in the first place. what a riddle! And here's a girl, wants to be married, but can't seem to grasp it. Here's another: thinks to herself in her most crisscrossed hour, that she's missed the pill the whole world got, that everybody's gotten slipped a clue to evade the hiss she hurtles through. Here's a process: of hope. Of love even, and the strict dropping off of faith. Here's a yearner, a learner, both in the same room! which one will make it out? I'll have you know fool and wise will gather ashamble alike, the kindredest kingley measure will be scripted out then, let's not stoke it. Here's an old mom, sitting tea-bag, tan-house, windows shut, empty lap, you can just barely hear the air conditioner blowing, her biggest excitment of the day comes 3 o'clock, the opening and eating of ritz crackers, cheese, apples, sitting on the deck staring at trees and not really seeing these here 'trees'. Geez, breeze, wheeeeze, eee.. after that she does what she can to honor the higher forces, you know, despite the hollow house and no-show of love, of light, of hope of what should be. moments ago, in lightyears, in wrestles of days and months, in 2o years, in her whole darkdamned life, she realized, 'no one is (coming)'. she stopped feeling out the waters. nothing was coming her way, she even noted, once, as she told her only sister of her grief, her friendlessness, the proud laugh of the cloud as it looked down, saw her flailing... and the sister nodded, jumped up to lick the longbored spoon of peanut butter, anything to kick sorrow in the crotch, augh ! And here is a hand, here is a branch froze over with ice, here is a stop sign, a sidewalk dyed purple from mulberry mush. here is an arch of the eye as one unexpectedly cries, thinking, 'well, no, no, that really weren't supposed to happen that way'. The tether of what they thought 'would be', falling out,it just isn’t what we thought it’d be:The chest ricocheting backwards vortexually until 5,000 orange red green textures splinters and madnesses putter out and the sky goes blank june 2026: did you settle the fact with yourself-that you are no more tight than the sky is— that you cannot manipulate, that the grass won’t cry with you when boo-hoo: halloween, jack-in-the-box, first-kisses, last kisses, fancy drinke~z, cleaning up and setting out, a new city, a litter of kitties, a pretty fit—y, a pretty friend, a litter of pretty friends, a problem solved, a throat cut or sown back up, won’t do the trick? That if you lay or get up, pretend to be good, fail, wake up and scramble your eggs, prioritize your earthly searchings, dunk yourself in a pot of copper pennies, cut the check, cut back on the iced tea, whiten your teeth, weasel into a re-marriage of all your old habits, the ones which upon waking feel like a sour potato skin laid over the eyes— and you yell ‘its 2026!!!!!!!!!!!!’ And you might flock down the stairs within the wages of ineffable time, all alone, forlorn with the awakening of your alone-ness, in 2026, looking around the nice house, or may-be you’re homeless (only difference between a homeless person and someone with a home is that the one happens to live in a house in a little patch of earth, a clap of walls, shingles, doorknobs, pipes, and the other doesn’t.) , or maybe your living in your car, but either way, grabbing the bowl of lemons on the counter, tossing them out on the lawn in madness, the Ecclesiastical smack of nothingness gasping your gaze, laying stake it’s laze in your territory, and you, still attempting with your pinky finger to pat the lemons back on the tree from which they came, little lost tacks of scotch tape and yellow blasting against fatalism.
june 22, 2026: I had set out after sitting at my desk with a cool white mug of water, digging refinedly for my dignity. I set out to the Nature Center, leaning against a tree for a while to read Wendell Berry, to stare at the leaves in light, to be moved and not the one moving, burning up and out of my situation, wisening on the chaws of the horse jaw set before me, their skin flipping to ward off fool flies, all of it eventual, all of it relevant and circulating to where it began. I am ready, world, for any every anything really (yet what will Be?) So long I waited until the sky turned most memorable solemn black and gramped with stormcloud, warning. Yet I just stood and stared, being with the raindrops as they fell, hearing Wendell Berry’s words echo: ‘Even falling raises in praise of Light’… . . ‘Even falling raises in praise of Light’... Even .. falling raises in praise. of LIGHT. And the water falls gray onto the hot earth . I too have fallen. I am (fell) I am a sore swan, swooned too long over inlastables, the lustre of their effervescence chaining me with pressure, i am sore. I fall too and in the falling see, running fast, horses: white, black, brown, monument bodies in flight, flicking up against the storm, the eagle of my single-ness flying above, my individual-ness dying above; None of it random, all of it teaching me more than a bowl of gladness. My plate, it is full. I have let go of all the world says must fill it: time, wages, logic, gasoline and job applications. I am more than a liter of light, more than an undamned decibel of divinity: I cannot be measured with this infinite swarm of atoms, of Adams, of adamant adequate alarms, it’s all so alarming, ain’t it, stranger? Ever shall I sing to my Lord, though moments ago I lean back on a tree saying, ‘why was I born?’ The horses try and escape the rain, they stand there wet, and getting wetter. The compact selfhood of a horse in a wet field: what an exemplary membrane of my condition. After being all poetic, I do have to run, finding shelter for a while under a barn with a tin roof, which has 3 holes in the top and water coming through. You know, being impatient and all, I make a run for it. Within 2 seconds of measured time I am soaked entirely, sprinting, leaping through fields and brokendown fences, over turtle shells and gross goosepoop, and slosh, and raindrops like rectangular tanks of picture frame, I dive right in, this whole place is a mastery with a mean brow, daring me to come closer
May 12, 2026: do you ever settle deep in darknesS? ever bat your eyelids at disaster, waving at wisdom and walking-on-by? Ever perk up at the sound of hope, only to find that it's not a visible thing? Each day we find a new chicken dead in our yard. a new halo of white feathers in which a mound of clack and google-eye got blotted from this life. Each dAY i DON'T EVEN HAVE TO WONDER IF I SHALL WALK THE PATH OF LIGHTNESS OR DARK, FOR I'VE MADE UP MY MIND IN MY SLEEP. LIFE ITSELF IS NOT A BEAM, IT IS NOT AN ADVOCATE OR A SALESPERSON. IT DOES NOT HAVE TO EXPLAIN ITSELF, WHY THE CARROTS DAWN YELLOW OVER UMBER DIRTS, WHY THE SMELL OF THE AIR CAN SOMETIMES SWAP OUR JOY WITH PAIN. YET WE DEMAND AN EXPLENATION. WHY, WHY ARE THE ROCKS THERE? WHY DO PEOPLE LOOK AT ME AS IF I WERE A FLAT PLANE IN WHICH NOTHING EVER ROSE OR FELL? WHY DO FLOWERS NOT MAKE ME HAPPY? WHY CAN'T I EAT ALL THE HONEYBUNS I WANT, FLAP MY ARMS, PERSUADE PEOPLE OF THE BIRD-LEARNED POETIC FREQUENCY IN THE AIR? WHY CAN'T WE SET UP BALLETS AND OPERAS UNDER THE STRANGE WHITE LIGHTS AND CEILING PIPES OF wALMART? WHY AM I RAVENOUS FOR THINGS I CAN NEITHER TASTE NOR SEE? WILL THE FUTURE BALL UP AND TANGLE DOWN LIKE A LEAF, LIKE A LOST SOCK IN THE HAMPER? wHY HAVE WE COME TO DETERMINE THINGS ABOUT INDIVIDUALS IN REGARDS TO THE COLOR OF THEIR HAIR FOLECULES, THE WAY THEY SAY THEIR SYLLABLES AND BIDE THEIR TIME WITH THE AIR AND WEAR THEIR SASH OR HIDE THEIR SINS OR GRIN THEIR BEREAVMENTS LIKE A STRING FULL OF LUCKY CHARMS? WHOEVER SAID LIFE WAS LIKE A CANDY NECKLACE, THAT WE COULD NIBBLE DOWN AROUND THE NECK UNTIL IT WAS NOTHING? DON'T BELEIVE THAT LIFE HERE IS JUST A LOOP: RINGED AROUND THE VERY PLACE YOU BREATHE, AND THAT NO AMOUNT OF NIBBLING COULD CUT THE CIRCUIT OR SOLVE THE DISCOMFORT OF THE CONTACT SQUEEZING AROUND YOUR THROAT. sEE IT AS A HALO, AS A MYSTERY, A NUCLEUS, A BOW OF RAIN, A FORCE THAT IS GOING SOMEPLACE, THAT IS GOING TO EXTEND OUT INTO EVERYTHING
May 12, 2026: Let me now take the time to observe my being a person, an estate of darkness, a rupture of light! it is my time, in the eons, let me speak! Now i've got a soul, slipped into a dream last night in which i slept awful, with the window open, the country dogs barking, grumbling, tripping big paws over eachothers jowels and the towels of their flesh brumbling about like bubbles in beer. So i am low on sleep. iv'e got a stye in my right eye, which is unsual (feels like a waterlogged umbrella). I am wearing my dads old shirt which has a sunfaded print of a bigbellied hitch hiker on the front. on the back is written several noncongruent words which i wrote in sharpie last summer during a mental thrash in which i rocked on the lawn like a rolly polly, cried foolish and ruddy as the light rain sprinkled outside and the cinammon raisin toast grew old in the toaster-- i swear i could hear every drop, signify every soaking--the night i thrashed like a wet swordfish on the lawn in a thundertumble, shaking my fist at god, reading job. so that time is exemplified simply on the back of my shirt. This is why you never can tell a persons spirit-pantry just by walking behind them on the sidewalk, probably slipping into total despair. But today i am not. my face smells like coffee, im in my brown pants and $3 saddle shoes, sort of roasting like a railroad track in the sun. I'm wearing a red headband my little brother got me, which is sweatied and wind-baffled from yesterday when i rocketshot through the alleys of chattanooga, where the homeless slept, sailing on my bike, evading the grip of satan, ha! Take that ya fishflap, ya bag of mournful hushpuppies twice soaked in hellish vinegars of the sky in which angels danced rapidly their songs of light and poured yo gas station syrup down the nape of your gritty neck! yes this is who i am! light! 
June 28, 2026 yesterday i was spilled out on the floor like a toppled box of wormwoe and
fish-chum, all the greasy-eye monchers pulling up to feast upon me under the depths. I was sinking, so I convinced my sweet bird mother to drive me down lanes of abandoned building to ‘scout’ for a museum for me. A long day stemming onward. We picked the brother up from youth group, drove on, almost instantly knew we weren’t finding nothing. Stopping at red lights and once again carrying on, one specific stop where I turned to my right and saw out the window, tinted, an old bench, painted 50-star and all spacklin’ American flags with the words, “WE THE PEOPLE”, which was comical, you know, the complete grubbersesh beneath the bench, balled up rags, baked bean cans, package trash, and coffee cups of dilapidated productivity. Takeout boxes slashed with rain and old rice— I’ll take you out, world! and oh hey you’ve already taken me out, konked flat on the ground as I am, like hitting forehead face-straight to the phone pole- im bashed. And this is a ‘people’? Who is this, ‘we’, this ‘people’? The bench was empty, by the looks of it, a big splay of graves in the yard behind it—look at the dead, the living, the small seeds to come, to blow again in the wind, in the span of short living, terrific (really) tireflats, discounts of bacon, of Blue, of me, of you, ridiculous blanks of the mind in which we forget fast, every person we’ve ever loved or that’s ever loved us. I want to say Wake up, I want to smack myself hard and say everything. In times where all I can see is blank canisters of groaning I want to warn myself of forgetting: If I could replay on the lens of my life, my lovings, how nice it is to drain spaghetti from the colander while it’s raining, to wake up and hear my funny dad drumming like a maniac 8am, the very beauty of the sadness of when a person doesn’t love you as closely as you love them, yet you still love FEIRCE, knowing death, uncertainty, and doomhits can smash a soul whenever! To remind myself in that fissure of gasp, of reaching and falling, that somewhere, Now, is a big voluminous GrandCanyon, the color of tomato sauce crusted allover baby hands afterdinner. Here is a wicked monster of a piano like a big oreoicecreamcake, and a person who knows so well how to emulate it’s motional notes and keys that it derives from you the vision of solemn winter trees slowly blowing and cracking through little specks of snow. Here is a sad wise man drinking orange juice from the jug, done with his canoe carving, his lecturing, sitting still. Here is a song of all you’ve known, in the sight of the road passing snapseconds beyond you out the window. This is enough, in that it is not enough, therefore giving you, dear dirtysaint, the time of day to prepare for the big Unpreparement in which we realize All of This, allovi’t, was already payed for in the first place.
May 8, 2026: Have I given way to darkness? Have I done what is right for me to do? Out of the pool of specks, I was chosen! And now I sit here, I could have a ‘lot going for me’, but nothing will go, truly, will it? We all stay in the redundancy of a rolly polly rigamarole right? And who’s to say I’ll ever get out? Or you? Who’s to say we ‘get’ anywhere, the many voices calling out to be seen, ‘here’s my light!’ and another, ‘here’s my joy!’ ‘my worth, over here!’ ‘my strength!’ But the trees are all the same since the beggining of time, the stars are all beyond us as we drive double line roads, still trained to the ground by gravity, still eatin’ bacon and havin’ to digest it. Nothing about us has a supernatural launch which can open up the door to every house and get us access and acceptance every which way. Think of the people you know. A handful. Think of the weeks you have in which you could get to know more. Now 3 weeks have gone and you still know the same amount of people, if not less. What do the clouds think about that? Well, nothing. You have to know the earth mound doesn’t give a damn about your starriest reaching or your deepest descent into the Maraschino cherry jar of pleasures. The choice is in the spirit. Peel a banana, and all that’s underneath is a banana. Look up to the sky and see a ‘star’ .. a white speck which you do not conceive of. Eat a sandwhich, smoke a cigarette, and make a friend. We are known for doing simple human things. But in the mix don’t miss the foreign articulation of a baby bean, the sunlight on the mulch, your childhood fear of PortaPotties and eager devouring of vitamins for the rare flattery of sugars, the mysterious lovey eyes people make at eachother, so as to say, ‘We could be a four leaf clover treasure trove grove: full-growing knowingness.’ The depressed cousin pacing out by the car. The antsy nana with her high blood pressure, out for a day of Costco hotdogs and biding the time. It is a world tongue-tied, a few loose stragglers still listening to Aslan’s growl.
March 30, 2026: How I have toiled in studios of dust and old crumpled plastic paint. How I didn’t allow a stretch, an opening up of the lungs, no not once. Always in tension I held myself, body trained like an automatic door-to open in the day unceasing and shut like a book of strict upholding at night. Hand to the paintbrush, mind-waves to the words in books.. save money, pinch, run, eat lettuce and tuna, make yourself into a pillar of strength, don’t look back and sift to salt. Draw pictures, entail what is unspoken about in the decorum of society. Have corrupted rages where you pound your body full of emptiness, swollen pieces of a good thing lost. Legs, hands, head, clip em’ to the clipboard, sit up straight and be intelligent. Freedom? Even the sun isn’t free with all his stocks of power. Button up your shirt, have a handsome shine about you and a belt looped exactly to the notch of resourcefulness, conservability, minimalistic organization. Have no more than the allotted portion in terms of television, clothes, books, food, kissing, cats, dancing, indulgent projects and popcorn. Brush your hair, but not too much. In church- 5 minutes to greet thy neighbor of heavenly light and love. While the sermon goes on, always wonder about thy pastor and his parsonage, but never really know what he does most of the time, how he burns his toast and holds his head in the grass-dear me! Eat 5 gallons of ice cream, sing and sway on the lawn with one hand on your heart and the other covering both of your eyes———blind love will atleast get the ship across the shore— till you see that the shore is made up of tax documents and a forum of statistical choreographers dusting about the topic and asking you about your monthly payments of car insurance.
April 23, 2026: ... our sorrows said hello to each other, our sorry’s said ‘oh well!’ Not much can be fixed when you have two broken puzzles, both with missing pieces. Everyone knows you can’t fit those together to make up for what is lost. Then, considering this whole beefy-rose globe we walk upon is itself a burning half-baked puzzle, how do we all waddle along in our labors of love? Right now as the sun rises, I have taken in a breath, drank some herbal tea to cleanse my overdosical shames, oh I have looked out not once yet today, but already staring at my hands, which are corrupted old wood, I have been moved. Without even lifting my head I have felt a cosmic hand reach into the dark of my lone unquenched soul and hold me in a way that silences all disorder. Do you know the form which skips to sound and time? Do you know what motive churns through your feet to drive them to move where they do? Do you know what mass sea you were pulled out of to be born? (Does your face teem with dead flamingos and the birth of golden clementines as you walk down the road?) Amongst all the moments of doubt, little skunk sprays of hideous hatred for myself, for another, A miracle silently walks up to my soul with the single tear of all Perfectedness, soaking me silly with adoration for all the whimpering tributaries of Love which lead to the Big sea, which will somehow hold the one sound complete of all the love ever. All that will be done after that is fainting into flowersong all day long (communion)
June, 2026: I want to write about last night: The inopportune awakening of all my drags, demons, doubts, and damnations. What can you do? There’s a couple hundred staples pinning your mind down, that’s nice isn’t it? How very crucially humbling. You think to yourself: ‘I’m alright! I am worthy! I’ve stayed away from politics plenty! Clipped my toenails, read the works of transcendentalists, gotten enough sun and helped out a few bums. I’m ready for action!’ Yet you’re lying on your bed in the dark in the middle of the night. Who will come to save you? You’ve tried to cope, by bikerides and delighted exciting outfits and spins on words and eating huge red apples and coffee and hardening all your soft wishes serious. But who of you will get up in the middle of the night and trope like a robed saint, getting on your bike in an exciting outfit, playing on words, eating apples from the basket and shooting up coffee in the pitch-black doom to save yourself? Now, I won’t deny that would work to cheer one up, and work very well, since I myself have tried it. But if one happens to be placed too painfully in devastation, there’s no way in hell you would even have the power to get up. So, you can think about how good things used to be all you want. You can think of the purity and miracle of your face as a child as you marveled at mint leaves and milk puddles. But we are not slaves to emptiness. At any point, you could jump off the train. Say, i’m not a chicken liver! See all I was made to be? I have a friend, so kind, so logical as to set me right as a ruler. I have a friend in North Carolina, so full of the power of ivy branches and wind as to send a croak of God through your spine. I have a mother who reads me Psalms while I am laying on my side crying. I have a God who sends breath into the trees to shake them up with the whispers of invisible love. I have a foot. As a matter of fact, i’ve got two! I’ve got a face! I have a moon up there, bold and lonely as the stone rolled from the tomb on Sunday! I have a brother who picked a whole bowl of green-apples early from the tree, who slept-walked into my room and stood stunningly silently! I have a sky and a guy I dream about. I’ve got no plan, and a heart that’ll keep running anyways. I’ve got a God, ha, that’s really all I’ve got. That’s all there is, when I look out on the road, the sun speaking of time and pigshit and loneliness.
June 17, 2026
What’s the most beautiful thing you ever saw? I’ve seen my mom cleaning old Airbnb’s after work on a Tuesday, so she can afford to take us to the beach! I’ve seen the bulbous mulberry’s like Fourth-of-July-bloomsprouts and BOom, let em explode in your mouth! Liberty! I’ve seen my friend dressed in weird green vests, feeling finally included in this human race despite all these stings of misfitting and misgiving! I’ve seen two people in love, getting married to start it all before the trees bow and the sky turns black! I’ve seen my very own dad every evening as he shoots his bow and arrow, to contradict evil and aimlessness with a direct blast to the bullseye! I’ve almost been run over on my bi-cycle! And I kept going, you know!.. pedaling like a hippie hurricane, eager to join the honeycomb of adrenaline and buzz iN to all that is! Once I lay on my floor looking up with cursed eyes, watching the trees move back and forth in summer, out the window, (me)
floating, so alone I could pinch my heart till it was purple and wouldn’t even flinch, ah! I’m in a pinch! I am a pinch and I wont let go! I’m tight! I need to let go! And then I go out to my yard it is Wednesday it is dark black it is INDIGO I am alive I am Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego
I am in the fire, with the God of all Knowledge. I don’t want to live. You don’t want to live??? The fire burns harder. I remember when I was young, walking in a meadow with my siblings. I remember how
I was,
gentle.
I was a little lamb and I held a tucked milkweed pod in my hand. I had a beautiful family then. It was deep.
The sky was white. I knew I would be here for a long
time.
I bet my heart quaked. I wasn’t ready for what would come. I was a gentle lamb then in the meadow.
And it was winter and I shall not want and
I shall not
want. And what if I want to die? And what if my head is too heavy?
Once
I threw milkweed
into the air.
One time I was milkweed and I blew through the air and it was over. It was a miracle, you know.
HOPE
September 9, 2025: the world is going to end. it takes no effort to say it. curiosity is stuffed in the mocrowave of desire. I saw a big lady like a beanbag stuffed with stirofoam pearls, she tripped in the hallway at the hotel, the hotel which smelled of garlic, and had a golden elevator with metal walls scruffed so circularly as to look like curly angel hair. oh sweet lord of red fire, come down like a rock. 
———>
June 17, 2025: The hair on her head was something of the color of rust and baked beans and she had these explosive dark-rings caverning her eyeballs. She came up to the counter and started expressin’ all sorter’ questions about chopped up coffee chocolates and cones and cakes and creams and all. She was on some wicked drug, pluming up her mind like an atomic depression she was too dead to even notice. Her 3 boys stood behind her in line. One young lad and the others grown. One I noticed wildly, since he had his hair all shock shattered into an erratic cloud about him, and he had that sort of royal nose like a Biblican figure and was a sorter’ Solomon looking Son with his long hair. He wore a Superman Hoody, so he must have been mighty, or so he self-assumed. Now, they all ordered their ice-creams oddly with a dark presence enshrouding their family, and they took their leave so I went back to scooping the icecreams, till’ awhiles later I see em’ all outside the windows walking by again headin’ for the staircase. And so I sure saw the older brother kick his mother in the back with a wicked jolt and laugh, and I was shrank for a moment in disbelief and she stumbles and the boy looks up and sees that I saw his whole wicked deed and he most shrinks away for a moment in shame, till’ his mother arises in time and whaps him good with her purse and stumbles on. How did it go for them? Where are they going? I imagined the small warped home and rough throat barks with catastrophic sorrow, and a humbugged attempt at cheery Walmart decorations for hopeless holiday, and the spiritual loss and Lunchables all wrapped and torn together and the trying to look presentable, and the resentable and the violent thoughts and stale days where the sky goes gray and you wonder, ‘Is the wood floor real? Am I a lonely child in a bunkbed? Do I need to change? Where IS everybody?” And you return to your old ways once more. And I imagined the rooms in the mother’s heart where grievous scars took lay of her light, and she was left with dark grooves in her eyes and a son to kick her down the stairs as she took him and his brothers to go get an icecream, in the middle of a day on Monday in the world where she wondered, ‘How long till’ this hurting is over?’”
Sep.22, 2025: God was a man. He got to experience the things He created. Did He notice the rings within the bitten carrot, like the inside of a tree? Did He notice the red and white patternment on his fingerprint? Did He notice bizarre stars when He stood up too fast, or was that too simple for Him, considering He substanced and substacked the nebulas of dust and magic milkyway in the first place? Did He notice the intensity of another’s eyes and how the sheep eye looked like saturn itself? Did He notice the faint taste of dirt on potato skin, and the drudgery of an inflamed tastebud? Did He notice a rainbow in the liquid as it married sunlight in ethereal unification? Did He feel the spirit of a thousand twigs mixed with blood, when He sat too long and His foot fell asleep? Did He bite his own fingernails, that He himself created? If He gazed at a sprightly tomato plant in sunlight, did He wonder at its infinity? Did He experience the emptiness we feel when the wind touches our face, and we look at the ground feeling infinitely small? Did He rub his eyes with tiredness, which He had created in endless energy? Did He see through the flesh eyelid covering his lens? Did He feel the aliveness and deadends of sea-coral and sheep hair, walnuts and lungs, love and color, ripples and voices, hands and roots, what did He think?
June 28, 2025: My sister asked, How am I struggling lately? To which I responded with bitter laughter enumerations of suffering “mentally, spiritually, physically, emotionally, intellectually, artistically, socially, universally, bombastically, complexually, wonderally, depressionally, exuberantly, quietly, loudly.” Will I ever not be struggling? No. But I can laugh with holy laughter because, as every molecule of my body evaporates into the spirit and I become one in Eternity, all those stings, writhes, and sufferings will fade. No matter the beeswax stuck in my brain, no matter the coils of disease and mental disparity that tuck into my cells, I will have faith. No matter the quarrels I have with my own mental personality, no matter the loss of love and liveness, no matter the lethargy of every ligament in my bodily lithography, I will have faith. No matter the moles and holes and dust and rolls that accompany me, I will have faith. No matter any scrumple of in-sane hurt, I will have faith. (Have I begged for trouble?)
March (3? :We took a bag of old fermented dates out to the yard, it was a day, in March, but no one knew of our grief, or our joy for that matter. The dates had little bugs living in them. We went out to the yard to chuck the rotten things to the roosters. Instead, I threw them at my friends, the brown cockroach shiners slamming through the air like mad and laughter and screams: ‘Dodge the dates! Dodge the dates!’ And we did, and we never had it better.
Dec. 1, 2025: Folks were tired and socially extravagantisized to the point of stiflement, so our bellies were full in the hot house and our minds were lukewarm so everyone just sort of leaned back on the couch like stuffed iguanas with exaggerated throats, their words thawing out like a drawl, and some others just slept. I just took myself out to the rainbow hammock, wearing my green sock and my alligator slippers I bought in Colorado(the innards of which rub off and ruddy my feet) and felt sorter’ sad and drifted into that big man sky. O where art thou, Lord? I am going to be a painter.
Nov. 19, 2025:…And I truly saw the wonder of it all and felt like my skull was goin to explode with gold— so I sat on a bench a far ways off and then really chuckled to myself like a granny with her new watermelon when I tuned in to the sounds around me and realized that I had sought out silence, yet there were birds ballistically shouting, 3 different rounds of leaf blowers hitting my ear canals from all different directions, and a mad bagpipist, piping out hot and high chords of animosity— ah bless my heart for all that tangle!! Then as I was sitting on the bench I opened my face like a cantaloupe hacked in half, like a ravens plumage spread wide like a gaudy spiderweb, I opened my face up to the sky and turned my head at a slight angle, of little consequence, which probably colossally altered the aerodynamics of my scope and skull’s searching, yet I didn’t realize, and kept thinking with an open face, so open that I practically peeved up and over the rim of existence! Really, I was just so pensive today. My mind felt rough"
