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01
Corn curry chutney in a blood red bowl the patina a glaze of dew
A crock pot of riverbed pebbles Cast iron pads of butter Brined
Hands | Knuckles Kneading A sliding shadow pulls apart the light Bark like a coat
Hammer on an anvil A tooth protrudes Stone dust in a quarry A marbled steak
Veins of a leaf Through a bicep In the wisdom of ginger
The braided roots of a banyan Tied into an archer’s bow Arrow piercing the heart of a stag Feeds a village
02
What’s surprised me most is how closed I’ve been—how much force I use daily—that I’m sad + disjointed but slowly waking up—still yawning.
A few things to remark on:
The path I’ve taken across the country is so wonderfully lush.
Chicago after booming thunder claps and downpours was so peaceful and shining—especially the train/subway.
Every place has had (except one) a really nice late-spring signature scent. My favorite so far was post-downpour, misty, humid Oswego forest petrichor. (Woods before Syracuse.)
I-90 drivers are polite and relaxed.
Cleveland’s harbor/docks, where there are hundreds of personal boats, is a vibe I can’t quite pin down.
Madison, Wisconsin, is quite possibly the most charming (to my taste) town in the country.
Worchester at sunset felt like a glimpse into why Jerry Garcia liked it so much.
I’m unwinding—calming—observing more fully.
Moose is a true character, and it seems like he’s becoming “himself.”
The stretch of road off I-90 (exit something “30,” I believe) past Rapid City to Deadwood is serene/surreal.
The first 20ish miles on I-90 going west out of Madison, Wisconsin, is the Shire.
Crossing over the Mississippi somewhere in southern Minnesota was profound—I’d never seen it before, and I loved it. It was wide, had many islands and coves, and felt ancient + present equally.
Throughout South Dakota, I had a sense of feeling of the land across millennia—like I could sense the glaciers and super volcano and floods.
With each mile, I’ve felt my guilt lessening.
03
Coughing Farting Loud talking Bumping into me while looking down at your phone
All range/vary in annoyingness But the worst act anyone can do in public is crying.
It’s like breaking the 4th wall.
You’re supposed to just be a stranger Something that slows me down, is in my way.
We’re all sad enough out here.
Go have a cry at your fucking home For Christ’s sake.
Great... now I have to feel. Piece of shit.
“Hey—pardon me. Are you alright? No, please don’t apologize. It’s OK. Is there anything I can do to help? No, I don’t have any tissues.”
04
Slate grey 2500
Side street, stopped for pedestrians
2 men, full beards, visually what you’d expect. Hoodies from the construction company they work for, or some material supplier. Early 30s. Scruffy, not unkempt.
The driver pops the plastic cover of his paper coffee cup. Triple foam latte. Seven-thirty a.m. sun shines through the passenger window into the cab. He hands the cup to his brother. (They look too much alike—might even be twins.) He takes a sip.
The foam clings to his moustache. The pedestrians clear the walkway. Driver watches like he was born first—unsure if he’s more proud of his brother or how good the coffee he shares is.
05
I hate my neighbor’s tree.
No—not because his yard abuts mine and there’s a branch or shade dispute.
It’s the tree’s leaves. No—not because they ultimately end up in my yard and I have to rake/mow them.
His tree is a maple and it’s sick or dying. Late August, the leaves are already changing color and falling.
When summer feels timeless, this sight—those leaves—are the school bell buzzing throughout the streets.
But on my daughter’s first day of school—5th grade—pictures in the front yard, funny sign, new clothes/style/hair, I see the orange light of the leaves framing her happy smile.
06
I’ve never been in an area with 1,000 windmills.
I’d say the expanse is a mile long and a mile out away from each side of a two-lane highway—I-90, to be exact. Minnesota.
It’s very sci-fi seeing them close and also in the distance.
It’s like they’re telling me to exercise. Like a giant New Age lawn ornament. Like a slender gymnast on the pommel horse when their legs and crotch are rocking.
Their arms are strangely behind their bodies.
07
It’s my birthday today, and I like looking back on the year.
I’m thankful for the time we spent together. Even tho it was brief, it makes me smile.
Thanks for being genuine.
I hope you’re thriving and enjoying the new apartment.
08
And out of nowhere there it was.
A feeling the color gold. Her eyes cutting through the heavy haze hanging between our gaze.
She stood across from me with outstretched arms. Happily awkward and unprepared, her Farrah Fawcett hair jamming up the gears in my mind, I....
Fast forward to the forest. Morning. Sun coating the treetops like a paintbrush across a bed of nails. I couldn’t place myself—no trail or path to the open plot I was at. Standing proudly—of what, I don’t know—but the smell held me captive... willing, but captive nonetheless. And through the thicket it moved me, turning me about-face, lifting my chin, pulling me / guiding me.
Scrambling through the brambles, I was confused—no, drunk—intoxicated. The sun rose in the sky. I lost my shadow and the questions I carried. Thick, wet grass underfoot. Warm, brown water between each toe. The pines and flowers swirling. I was in a fevered dream or a song from Fantasia or neither. I was in her grasp now.
Rewind to the digital age, where space and consequence seem irrelevant. She reaches out to touch, verifying her form like a blue check. We sit—talk—sip—eyes lock. Fast forward.
I’m no longer in control. The cushioned paws of a fox pad along the pine-needled forest floor. I grab a handful for reassurance and look up to the branches from where they came.
And out of nowhere there it was.
A feeling the color gold. My eyes bolted onto the shimmering thing in the treetop. Dripping. Gravity and the unbearable lightness collide, their battleground what once was my reality / mind. I reach and clench my fingers around the branches, digging muddied toes into the rugged bark of the tree trunk. Too bright to see—the relentless sense of nature guides me up. The heat flushed my face. Higher. Succulent. Globs dangling around like amber icicles.
I tilt my head back, open my mouth wide with outstretched tongue. A drop lighter than a butterfly’s wing, smaller than a pinprick, splashes onto my taste buds.
Unmistakable. Incomparable. Like nothing else.
WILD HONEY.
09
Flowers in a vase or raised garden bed lush Underneath the fountain of warmth & light Clones from another dimension in waiting Knotting vines running wild & intertwined Mating mantises tucked beneath a leaf—she Eats him alive—he gladly gives her the future
10
I woke up in the high desert Tongue streaked with copper veins Pinion pine needles sewn on to my lashes With a 5 o ‘clock shadow sharper than a prickly pear.
A tan man from Charlotte bore into me with his blue eyes And his Apache poncho As he drew my espresso shots and steamed my oat milk And absentmindedly talked to regulars about drums
How much more could I not be from here How much more could I know the land knows me The same delta betwixt a murder of mating crows clutching claws and the shadow of praying stone hands above Cathedral rock