“I don’t know what you see when you look at this photo, but I see a broken generator, a truck without snow tires, a pile of lumber’s been sitting in the driveway for over a year, 4 cords of seasoned firewood tarps blown off in a bad way, gardening tools frozen in place, & two wood sheds didn’t get built. I finally just give up, or say “No can do alone”. Not at least, in a timely fashion. That’s one decidedly gentile way of putting terms to the equation. No interest in gaining a “super powers” badge of honor, though I may feign pretenses to the opposite at times, just to survive without brain damage. What is wrong with this world? Or, flipping that, what is right? I got a huge dose of what’s right, just lately. Some things fell thru, some things rearranged, some things outright put me into a kind of catatonic stupor, while a few things went way, way beyond my wildest expectations. That percentage that wowed me, really wowed me good. When I’m alone at night, and don’t have to worry about not measuring up, I let down the weights I carry. I let down even more, on days when random gangs a.k.a. earth’s titans grace the square footage of my home, with screw guns & soups & poetry. You may know them, as unremarkable, or unassuming; or from far away, or burdened, or otherwise pinned to an obscure corner of what might loosely be called the universe. They don’t put their cards on the table, or care to be known. I’ve come to see, that my tribe, for the most part, rides low. Doesn’t believe in generosity at face value, or in any type of porn. Doesn’t expect to be understood. But I won’t alter anything, I write, or perform. And my heart is both a sieve, and a storm. It’s a shame to be shuttered, and by that I refer to the cold, and November’s role, in numbing us down. To teach, as much as to scorn. What remains harsh about my timeline, is humanity. What remains harsh about humanity, is its divisions. We are not that far apart, but for the messaging telling us, we are enemies. This was not intended to be a political post. But I’ll tell you, since I can feel it, that I’ve switched off what was once full of heart. On the long ride home. I’m a song making beacon, filling the gutters. I’m the rasp, of a file, on the gun metal of a shovel. I’ve riveted my life to a smattering of transcendental moments, no one cares about. Which is the story we don’t really tell, of life, the story of not conforming, the story of innocence. To what you think but can’t fit, into, really. I wish I could love everyone, who’s been pounded, and just can’t see beyond the illness of the pacification system.”
