Sing sang sung song or air essence.
Mistakes. That’s OK.
Sung – overwhelmed. That’s OK.
Sang – wind and heart. That’s OK.
Song – perfection? Enlightenment?
Where are all the clunks?
The percussive messes.
The symphonic blunders that let blood mend in plain sight?
In community? A cacophony of catastrophe?
Crash-swell-fumble cymbal.
Clash – shhhh… and rat-a-tat.
//
The tree – growing and staying. There is some work for me to do in there. It poked me like a twig underfoot unseen in the spiky grass.
To grow and stay.
To grow and let go.
Letting go or flight?
Over-analyzing or curiosity?
Growth and pain.
The skin forming slowly and glacially around our initials carved in the trunk.
Bee stings and bite marks.
Dog piss stains revealed in summer heat and drought.
Tanned old leathery men who seek heat in Spanish-speaking places but snap at home at their wives for the unprecedented waves of heat in their own home.
Status quo Pete’s and Charlies.
Are being extremely religious and extremely anti-religion the same thing?
What do we have if we have no centre?
A polarized donut who flames lash at frozen sprinkles and icicles slice back at flames?
Michelle Obama is launching her second book called, “The Light We Carry” – a toolkit, she says, to help ground and centre us in the madness.
Stuckness.
Falling away.
Falling away.
Falling away.
A blister forms on my inner thumb which is new – must be sweat, posture and pen position.
where rivers are born 