Let me tell you a story. I shall tell this story as best as I can, because although I lived it I am old, and I am not very good at remembering things anymore.
I’ve been waiting in the morning
that used to be night
since this cage was set.
Peace is in my arms, cradled there like an infant - mine - as I lie upon the grass.
16.5 miles on a bike.
I almost fall
when I touch the ground
before the familiar “dog in yard” gateway.
In My Backyard (with Ghosts)
Sometimes the grass rustles like you think it would. There’s a turn in the wind and the blades follow. They quiver, they faint, they rise again. It’s like this for days, and you watch. You want to predict the way they will sway and you do. Your attention has given you the gift of almost always right. Almost.
Iran and US,
“We were out, Bo and I, when the Prick confronted us. The Prick stood six foot three, and ceaselessly bored those around him with justified pessimism.
October 21st, 1889
It is the night of the acquisition of my father’s estate, Harfeld Manor, which resides in an isolated northern district of Scotland. The home is in utter disrepair, having been relentlessly torn apart by the elements for years on end after my father’s death. I lied in wait, focused on my own collegiate pursuits, neglecting the welfare of the estate much to the dismay of the structure. Now after trying to undo this mistreatment of the estate, day and night the workers hammer away, pounding my eardrums as if they were hammering my skull. I cannot find peace.
On his eyes,
she does not know
calls it the mist beneath her chest
No seeing the mist that lays around her.