You spin so slowly it defies all cosmic traffic laws— a stubborn, beautiful marble refusing to rush. The rest of the universe is sweating on a treadmill, zipping through years like breezy calendars.
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You wanted to express oil from the sea glass washed ashore at Sete, and pluck unripen oranges from the trespassed orchard outside Beziers, and spank the children building castles along Cote d’Or.
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Infinity is finite to the gods. They skip among stars like children at recess, play frisbee with comets while we crawl the difficult inches toward our own demise.
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Denver to San Francisco in a 1978 gray Toyota SR5, handed down from my sister, Michael Jackson probably at his peak, me ready for a divorce. A credit card. Maybe fifty dollars. No plans but west.
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She hid her thoughts in the broom and swept all day – or that’s how it seemed to the only child I was then. It took a while to stop resenting the chores that joined me to her drudgery
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She’s upset because she killed her seedlings by planting them upside down, which sounds like a stoner thing to do when you’re outside tearing earth
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Instant as Movement and momentum - Seeking alms from villagers, Shirking the world for the Sake of the Real - to Surrender care for Tomorrow, to Make humble-true Plain flesh.