Mitchel County, Georgia in July

The restless evenings would slide in - nothing past morning moves fast. Burning and languid; stagnant like the upper river backwaters choked of oxygen by algae - but oh! what wonderful designs the sun makes when you stare back at the sky from under the water. And so it was - still, choking, mad in its devotion to itself and everything burning and hopelessly beautiful. Heat waves rose off the road like minaretts: symbols of the Earth's heavenly piety, anything caught in them made a burnt offering to the God that let that landscape escape the river of His grandest and oldest dream.

And then the night! The sky's blue curtain burned down by the falling sun that set the mourning stratospheric clouds on fire:

Glowing red,

the embers left from the day;

the daily funeral pyre;

the self immolation that cleanses and purifies

everything for the next born morning;

the day's last words that whisper,

"Lo! All will be new again."

Alot of people want to go out sleeping,
or young:

"who wants to grow old?"
or surrounded by family,
holding their dead husband's jacket

to their nose so their last breath is of

him.

I want to grow old,

and i don't want to go sleeping.

All I ever wanted was to

buck the kicket

saving the President and First Dog

from a burning battleship

at the age of one hundred and ten.

Wouldn't that take everything?

Emilian Poetry

Text Message, On The Occasion of the Death of Michael Jackson - June 25, 2009

I went to the kitchen to get desert.

I find out MJ had cardiac arrest and died.

I didn't get any desert.

Later, I find out he didnt die.

I still didn't get desert.

Then, I find out he did die,

and they finally had desert for me.

My life is average.

Lists - August 22, 2009

1 - Ev. good 3 needed

2 - Egypt

3 - Happy

4 - Manhood

5 - sullen

Happiness = Mimicking Britain until there is no difference.

The Wisdom Trust

I see pictures, and stories, and rumors of things; people, places, rivers on their way to nirvana through cities. The ocean. shrines and funerals, and death, and death, and anger, and love – love. Life, human; man; child; child as my child, as only a child knows to be. A child is all one knows to be as it is all I know to be when I see these things. And, when I do, I feel the taking of my elbow between an old thumb and sea-withered forefinger, and, jarred, I look to my side to see a man, face hidden by the beard of years, open his mouth and swallow my ear and roll a low wind into me that bursts, frightens, immolates, and disorients. It runs past my cochlea and brain to the front of my eyes and into my stomach and I hear in a vibrating language “do you understand?” I look through my own welled eyes at the body, back, breast and thigh of the world, and taking its feet to my forehead reply “no, but the knowledge that questions only lead to questions does not keep me from asking.”

Scene From An Afternoon Inside - May 3, 2009

Twilight Electric Samba. Notes like swollen rivers flow through my window from the street band to the end stop of my ear and vibrate my bone. I do the two step from my kitchen partnered with a bowl of peaches and, as he sings, “Maria, I love you too much,” I pick up my own guitar to their tune; the frenetic beat of a man’s hands on drum skins – beating out the moves of Maria’s feet as her hips dictate attack and release. The soundstream overflows its banks and snakes into my living room, but our dance is cut short by rain – the new flood that crushes the streetsounds and replaces them with the skittish screams of young ladies caught in white sundresses jumping puddles. Our love-too-much is sunshine and sometimes rain. The two monsoons tug in an immiscible ebb that pushes and pulls and finally defeats, leaving me with only the thought of peaches – dulcet, blushed, and timorous on the branch, impossibly hiding from the eye of the picker.