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A sign of fire and brimstone? A two-headed calf
born in the barn last night? A sharp female agony?
An age and a faith moving into transition,
the dinner cold and new-baked bread a failure,
deep woods shiver and water drops hang pendant,
double yolked eggs and the house creaks a little -
Something is about to happen. Leaves are still.
Two shores away, a man hammering in the sky.
Perhaps he will fall.

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It is so self-conscious, so apparently moral, simply to step aside from the gaps where the creeks and winds pour down, saying, I never merited this grace, quite rightly, and then to sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage.

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I write this blog because no one reads blogs. Blogs are the most formal and empty expression of freedom of speech. Anyone can write a blog.

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A fool does not delight in understanding, but only in revealing his own mind.

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I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't

you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write

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my body cleans and repairs itself,
and all my work goes well

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Some say existence like a Pirouot
And Pirouette, forever in one place,
Stands still and dances, but it runs away;
It seriously, sadly, runs away
To fill the abyss's void with emptiness.
It flows beside us in this water brook,
But it flows over us. It flows between us
To separate us for a panic moment.
It flows between us, over us, and with us.
And it is time, strength, tone, light, life, and love -
And even substance lapsing unsubstantial,
The universal cataract of death
That spends to nothingness - and unresisted,
Save by some strange resistance in itself,
Not just a swerving, but a throwing back,
As if regret were in it and were sacred.

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What? I mean I’m already too old even to have arrived at that stage, and now I got to do something new. I mean something unheard of. I blew my time. I didn’t earn it. I spent it, I blew it. So now I got to, why are you asking me? I ain’t got no time. What are you talking about? Read that question again.

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What I am going to tell you has something to do with how sometimes it's necessary to go a long distance out of the way in order to come back a short distance correctly; or, maybe I only think that it has something to do with that.

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For thus matters stand between the three of us: Deeply I love only life--and verily, most of all when I hate life. But that I am well disposed toward wisdom, and often too well, that is because she reminds me so much of life. She has her eyes, her laugh, and even her little golden fishing rod: is it my fault the two look so similar?

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What then to do?
Slide my little songs out from under you.

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And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

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I can't see you but I know you're here. I feel it. You've been hanging around since I got here. I wish I could see your face, just look into your eyes and tell you how good it is to be here, just to touch something, see that's cold, I feel good. Here. To smoke. Have coffee. And if you do it together it's fantastic. Or ... to draw. You know, you take a pencil and you make a dark line ... then you make a light line ... and together it's a good line? Or when your hands are cold ... you rub them together. See that's good, that feels good. There's so many good things. But you're not here. I'm here. I wish you were here. I wish you could talk to me. Cuz ... I'm a friend. Compañero.