To abide, faithfully, the recording angel on my shoulder, to dream, trebled, with eyes and ears open, glass pressed against the thin, plasmic veil separating one world from the next, a straddler and eavesdropper, since Childhood, on behalf of a … Continue reading
Writing, some kind of lisp, and stutter, to chance God’s breath, as your own, to cherish.
It took place in an amnesiac haze and fury, numberless nights of lightningspeak and opiate rabble, rocketfuel and anti-freeze, bright slashing ribbons of noise amounting to worry stones indenting the infantpink tender of palms, forecasting God as a vaudeville dunce … Continue reading
Alighted, to course sweetly toward benign silence– To mend, flowers kiss. (Watercolor by Henry Miller)
Not burning, not siege, not flood, not cold front, not atomic scourge, can destroy the Word, a lasting first, and inviolable measure, voiced to raise itself eternally anew.
How a writer, cave-timing dark and solitude, annoints an ember by crafting the small hours into a flagrant torch.
Everything we attempt and seal creatively, every last and first word completed, reigns as beautiful failure, a mortal short-hand and forger’s touching testament to the Source, rounding what dreams may come and fade and come again.
I understand that I am not only with my father and grandfather and Marie as family, but also as a writer. I am sketching them. The mechanical hand in my mind that never stops is charting and sketching and … Continue reading
Through the grace of repetition, the writing life grounded in the slow, wistful measures of wellspring’s fortune.
