10 dec notes

December 11, 2012


I wrote a short story about me
It ended up being about you


My dog is a fine animal. She is better at it than I am. Her ears are silky and brown.


I’m a great pagan. I’ve never stopped worshipping.
It’s easy to love what is sacred and what is common.
Awe was a family heirloom, but wonder, a birthright.

Emmanuel is the name of our fir tree. Every winter we sacrifice a large, pungent tree so we may live even in death. He’s lit up with strings like thorns like a shawl of light. He is adorned like so many churches but uses electricity rather than wax. Probably safer. Probably wasteful.
We lay thick felt the color of blood around his ankles, where his feet would be severed.
He is the great grandfather and the little brother. Our Christmas tree, to pray to in the shadow of the sunless sky. I love him. I’m a fucking great pagan.

They were actually graham crackers. 2 and a half cartons, one cinnamon. Royal icing was substituted with frosting from a cardboard can. 3 cans, all white. As we spun our walls and mortar into little homes, I didn’t know yet who my home was for, despite our jokes about the street mice. The blank parchment paper felt empty and good. When the building began, our attempts at play became attempts at architecture then attempts at engineering, as we beaver-chewed the rectangle cookies into the correct sizes and shapes. When each of our gingerbread houses fell, we attempted surgery to sing caved-in foundations from the dead.
Now I wonder if, during our intent quiet, we sung anything else back from the dead. Jeff’s Baptist church. My fortress. Anna’s tavern. The power of a strong will and clear vision falls upon us with the ardor of the uncivilized. We can ask, but we don’t command.
I had gummy worm patrols set, with proper uniform. Ammo stores. Extra food towers and barricades. A flag. What’s a house without a flag? We were just having fun and playing crafts but now I wonder who exactly it was that so desired A LITTLE MORE LIFE that he had to make in maquette what existed elsewhere? (Elsewhen?)

It seems that when creating, if we let our ears outweigh our egos, we can finally make sense. And whose hands are our own? What force bewitches our thoughts and ambitions? It must be a very strange person who never knows who they’ve been.
We’ve giants in our blood. Humans exist to know the gods. Everything exists to know the gods. Through fervor and piety and deceit and bliss and war and sin and conscience and wit, the framework of what is sacred and what is common lend us our single difference from the other mammals.
We are not predator or prey. We’re human. Because we pray. Let us pray. Heavenly father, sweet brother Emmanuel, thank you for your sacrifice. It seems there’s room for the Christ story in Christmas after all. If the four tree stand screws that hold him upright in his death follow the imagery and so does his crown, then where’s Judas?
I think all imagery is Christlike. Because the story of sacrifice and redemption is the one we were given as first humans. And it still sings in our heads, every single day. Those archetypes you read about? The same seven stories? The gods who are God’s?
Say my name then. If you know my name, tell it to me.
If I’ve been around for millennia, why am I still here? The glory burns bright inside my eyes. The stories live in my lungs. Sometimes I feel like I suffocate because they aren’t getting out. Every person I’ve ever loved sits atop my lashes and all the strife inside my nostrils. The sorrow inside my lower lip collides with the greed in my teeth.
I’ll bite again one day. I dreamt I could run with my hands down upon the ground, like Anderson’s mermaid with her fin-becomes-two-legs. I was just an imposter, not a true four-legger. But once the rhythm set in, the rolling gait, I knew why my dogs love to run. If not for my stinging ego and mind, I would have no place in history now. Sometimes it seems a trick or mischief on some other behalf to be here. Other times it seems the best I could ever long for. And always, it is lucky. We all are. Little Mycenaean Stargazer, you will always be my friend.



December 2, 2012


Then, love. Then, fun. Then, success. Then, love. Then, healing. Then, adventure. Then, victory. Then, comfort. Then, comfort. Then, comfort. Now, love. No, glory. And, truth. After, glory. After, love, after, sacrifice. At last, glory.


December 2, 2012

A wholesome creature sat chained to a gate. “This city is devoid of feeling,” it marveled. As the profane beat around it, none saw the creature’s whole body, only a side glimpse of what looked to be a dumb beast. The blind spots hardened as stone, then into years, then become Time itself. The wild virgin animal elevated its proud head and refused to make eye contact any longer.

28 Sept

September 29, 2012

You will not ever be forgotten by me.
– TA


September 26, 2012

I nearly lost my mind

When she pinned me

With the wolf inside her



26 Sept

September 26, 2012


The clouds are back

I long for things I don’t even remember

Sept 17 |

September 17, 2012

I never loved you but I always wanted to.

We could be greater than we are, together. But not here. Here we seek true love. Passionate,  Eros-swept, hands-off destiny. There we could love later. Or on the side. Together we could command legions and history in order to keep each other safe. To keep our people safe. Maybe even guard them against something we truly believed in. Maybe we could keep our families safe for a few campaigns longer. But here, here is for love paramount. There, in that life, our dynamism would not be wasted.

In a life belonging to other people we could have been rulers to be hung. Rulers to be feared in a time only imagined by now, which possibly never even existed beyond the stories we’ve inherited. Except there are those big stones and pictures that have so far survived our cultures’ thousand bastard sons and daughters. Though they sought disruption and destruction, which only fools call Revolution, we still know what nests inside the great stones that our children did not pulverize. On the periphery of our memory there are hands of flesh touching the same stone I touch here, on pilgrimage. There was disease and blood and piss and spit, sweat and hair, and necessity. Pain and anger and wildness. Wind and muscles. Beyond what I am able to remember there’s a notion of time. Our people hurried. All people hurry. The same husks of hearts, the same eternal bewilderment at the impermanence of birth tempered by the same light inside one’s temples: a nuzzle, an embrace of a god whose only delight is in you and your place in the world. Bones break, kingdoms splinter, knees creak and temperatures drop. Vision bursts, fades, swells, and the west wind always finds you on your knees, whether you ran and hid or you waited patiently.

Fortune favors the bold. I used to be brave. Now I have 2012 love. The empty place where it should live is tangled with wires. I flee to the ocean just to find more wires running upon its floors. I can’t close my eyes because I am alive and not dreaming. I can’t stop hearing stories, so I listen to them and love the ones that were born fighting for life. I’ve become a wielder of words and soft around the edges, a scribe who feels things and sees things and does very little.

See, the great part about you is that I know whether we cross then or now, I never loved you, though I am always so fond of you. I would have loved not loving you and claimed a greater stretch of sovereignty. I would have loved you as far as I could for as long as I lived and held you as high as any arrow-driven love of mine, perhaps higher. What is true love next to your kingdom and your country? But here, now, I can’t love not loving you. Here, you’re an uncomfortable friend whose arm I once took and whose loyalty I once claimed.

Through dust, wind and all the stars and land which moved us more than we ever move each other, I never loved you but I always wanted to.

17 Sept

September 17, 2012

The best joke will disintegrate if I stop pretending I don’t love you. I can’t bear to disrupt your laughter.


July 28, 2012

NOT FOR DECORATION | tonight i released birds from our relationship. i liked seeing their flight restored. they are birds.

27 June

June 27, 2012

CAMPING, FARMING, EXPLORING | The terrible trifecta since life is not nailed to a cross. What if I forget to return? I’m no bird. I’ve lived in waterfalls. I live in Bed-Stuy.