I’ve recently signed a contract with Musa Publishing. Maybe Behind the Wheel will see the light of day after all. Now begins a bloody game of ping-pong with the editors. They might even let me use the cover art I’ve already chosen. This should be fun. To steal a line from Gotham’s winged avenger, “tell your friends about me.”
I’ve lamented the rush for years.
I’ve never enjoyed an adequate pace.
Everybody sprinting toward the finish line
still obsessed with arriving first.
Death will come soon enough.
They run, run, run and forget the facts of life.
You take the good, you take the bad…
Don’t reserve your travels for only straight lines.
Feel the curve of the road.
Feel the curve in all things.
Even the seemingly straight road, isn’t.
Einstein knew about the curve.
Newtonknew about ellipses.
Sit when you want to sit.
Move when you’re inspired.
Never plug a hole,
if it’s not what you desired.
Steer clear of hand cuffs and obligations.
Stay only if you want to stay,
and make tracks fast
when the only option is flee.
Learn to feel the slightest breeze
on the hottest summer day.
Sensitize and connect to the sun.
Beckon heat on the coldest,
ball-shriveling January nights.
Turn new ground and dig art.
Don’t buy the lies they sell in bulk.
And more so than ever,
impending doom must die
be hacked down
and dragged away
the sun wants no obstruction
between these seeds
which only desire to take root
the soil looks rich
and just might provide conditions
conducive to growth
and perennial fruit
What do you do with a dead kiss?
I know when it died, and I haven’t since been able to resurrect it.
Haven’t been able to conjure any of its companions either.
She’s convinced we can bring the dead back to life. I’m not so sure.
I haven’t given up, but I’m not so hopeful anymore.
Maybe some time apart.
Maybe a little taste of loss.
Maybe I’ll miss her
but I’m not so sure.
I have knowledge of the Twin Serpent Song.
I have knowledge of the Twin Serpent Dance.
It comes in many forms.
It’s always different.
It’s always the same.
The song is Life.
The dance is Rebirth.
The dance likes neither to be forced nor neglected.
The song at times is muted but when brilliant easily heard.
Having heard the song, not hearing can be scary.
With fear comes panic.
Looking all around, you find it nowhere.
You give up the search.
But after surrendering, almost instantaneously, It comes back to you.
You hear the Song, so you dance.
You laugh at yourself, wondering what all the fuss was about.
The snakes can be conjured, but it’s better to let them decide when it’s time to dance.
Win by losing. Surrender.
People wouldn’t understand the Dance.
People wouldn’t understand the Song.
Not the snake of Eden.
The snakes of Creation.
Since long ago, for many years,
I’ve loved drinking alone and listening to Tommy growl
or sing falsetto or kick a can or caress a piano.
Whatever the sentiment,
I’m never alone when Tommy’s around.
I’m never stir crazy or stuck when Tommy’s pounding through the speakers.
Actually we’ve sailed for Singapore together and hung out as ghosts on Hennepin.
It’s funny and great how you can know someone so well without ever having met.
It’s funny how you could pass your hero on the street and you’d be just another face.
Or would he see in you something familiar? An understanding?
Would he recognize a friend?
Would he remember all the nights we got drunk and traded stories?
Or the times we’ve road tripped to Burma Shave or tangoed till they were sore?
Blue smoke curls to the moon,
I smoke, I think.
I ask, why me?
What have I done to deserve this?
Strange reality, so far from what really is.
Can I see this thing through to the end?
A dog barks into the night.
What’s he saying? What’s on his mind? Is he even a he?
I wonder if the Dog Whisperer could determine the sex of a dog by its bark?
Could a master like the Dog Whisperer understand the sentiment behind that bark?
No barks or howls answer back. Maybe he’s just as lonely as I am.
Maybe he’s also dreaming (in black and white?) of a country life, a ranch life, or a life by the sea.
Blue smoke curls to the moon.
I smoke, I think.
I send smoke to the moon
while my friend howls at it.
I try to make sense of the senseless.
All I can do is as little as possible as I let all that needs to be done be done.
Step aside and let it pass. Day by day and up over those Southern and Western Sierra Madres.
Never looking back except to shake my head and laugh at the insanity of it all as I raise a glass to toast the good life in a place that isn’t this one, in a reality that isn’t this one.
I believe better days lie ahead.