Your intellect will not figure out anything for you here. Your surrender will. The poems – the Bukowski “don’t try” moments – benefit from the releasing and giving up. The bean counting and the keeping score suffer. What am I? Right now, I’m a coffee drinker. And I’m a morning nobody. Who could I be …
Journals full of things I didn’t do. Lists of maybes. The triumph of not being hasty. Libraries of the ideas of others that kind of feel like mine. On the street, they’re doing Christmas again. Demonstrating faith to each other by displaying strings of lights. The sun is not yet up, and I am tearing …
The dead say eliminate . . . get things out. Don’t contain things. The dead desire the stages of beauty only the living have. The dead are here to destroy your life. They’ll come through tumors and alcohol and groupthink. They want you out so they can come back in and party. The dead say …
A small boy picked up a baseball, round as the earth. ‘Have a ball,’ someone might have said. A small boy jumped toward the hoop of a basketball rim. Toes coming back to touch the edge of a large ball. Have a ball. He always did. Have it all.
And a mystic said, ‘Brains are no place for serious thinking.’ Adherents sat in a crowded cinema – chained to their seats. Some hollered at the screen, as if they were in the movie. Some saw the heaviest and most unbreakable of iron links. Of those, most were convinced a jailer in the movie held …
