September 29, 2009
America dreams in train whistles, in high school gymnasiums, in deep lakes, and in road side graveyards. America dreams in county fairs and in bus stops; in backyards and bodegas. America dreams in groundhogs and buffalo; in cornstalks and apple orchards.
And it breathes out and rolls over, like Kerouac said, across the great prairies to the mountains that border them and then it stretches out to the ocean beyond. America dreams of people on a shore line, some stepping into the water, some retreating back; the tide of humanity that is shaped by her pull- forever changing, surging out and back.
June 29, 2009
June 21, 2009
June 13, 2009
There is something in these things that we see every day that holds magic. To name it would be useless. It's been here all this time and hasn't needed a name yet.
June 5, 2009
On the cross is the tree of life and atop the tree is an angel. On the left side of the cross it says "truth" and on the right, "life".
The stone was found unfinished by the tree in which he hung himself.
May 23, 2009
May 22, 2009
Because the things we think, but don't know for sure are the things that are often the most beautiful and, ultimately, the things that are the most true.
May 14, 2009
March 24, 2009
March 8, 2009
March 3, 2009
...If love is an awkward, scriptless scene
And if poetry is a bond between
Two hearts, it is a bond too frail:
That night words failed, I too, was lost--
To whiskey, memory, a photograph.
East of that city, the green fields
Are winding away beneath your gaze,
And here, west of that city, there is
No water deep enough to let me forget...
-excerpted from the poem Departure by Joe Bolton
March 2, 2009
February 27, 2009
February 22, 2009
February 19, 2009
February 17, 2009
February 12, 2009
And it poured out like springtime-
like breathing in a storm cloud.
In the lost pages of childhood
and here in the twilight of who I used to be
images hold my hand and heart still.
It is a mirror held up and dropped again;
it is the road spooling out behind;
it is a river writen on the palm of my hand;
it has broken my heart
February 10, 2009
We were led to believe in the process of memory, in the significance of past tense formation of character, in the finalization of landscape.
I have locked a secret word in my heart, and lost, the key will not be used. I have found the mythical names of remembering and from them constructed others. Born and becoming: I have whispered the word into man, taken my dream of nighttime drives, moved out and into, and fallen back on the promises of youth.
In the past few years I've heard several people lament the loss of the night sky for most of the world's population, and I'm right there with them, lamenting too. What will perpetual twilight at night do to our dreams; to our selves?
But there is stillness to be found in a city even yet, with perpetual twilight looming. There are moments of forgetting one's self even in the sodium glow of streetlights; of being still and small in the universe.