Friday, April 18, 2014


"This then is life. 
Here is what has come to the surface after so many throes and convulsions. 
How Curious! How real! 
Underfoot the divine soil, overhead the sun." 
- Walt Whitman 

The Sayings Of Twilight Jesus

Twilight loved a tree in his garden so much that he would kiss and embrace it. When he was alone he was drunk with a diamond like awareness. He was the artist who left cryptic messages spray painted on the walls of abandoned buildings and on highway abutments.

"No words shall be saved in the house of men. "
"What the devil would this devil be."
"Faith tore out my heart."
"The evening crows begin to break us."
"Know the rivers that run with no water."

For forty days and forty nights he wandered the street of dreams. Miracles were everywhere. Windows were opened and every bird in the sky was on fire. 

He cried out, "Weave me like a wave of music in the sun and gold."

Artist: Jacko Vassilev

Thursday, April 17, 2014


You can be told the same thing
every minute of every morning
but one night you will hear them
in the voice you love most
and suddenly
you will remember how to listen.

— I have trouble taking advice the first time - Meghan Lynn 


The Sayings of Twilight Jesus

Twilight Jesus watched as several tons of a clear jellylike substance washed a shore along a three mile stretch of lonely beach in Oklahoma where he was walking at the time.

"I saw it start to pile up there. I got a broomstick and dug out a crib made of baby bones. It made me shiver under my skin and doubt my faith. I felt ruined by my thoughts. I dreamt a body of my own, tree branches for bones and a heart like the idea of god."

Image: Leonard Knight’s Salvation Mountain

Wednesday, April 16, 2014


“Getting lost was not a matter of geography so much as identity, a passionate desire, even an urgent need, to become no one and anyone, to shake off the shackles that remind you who you are, who others think you are.”

— Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost. Penguin Books, 2005

My Name Is Stranger

I'm not like the rest
But sometimes I pretend
I make up poems-that arent ever heard
The light is gone
But I have the sun

The day is done
But I see the blood moon

I think I'm numb
But I miss how I used to wonder

Some are resentful- But I'm just lost
A man without a country-my feelings words can't touch
If you're so wise- then why are you resentful

My heart is crooked-But I have some peace
Help me breathe & see through 
You are not afraid. But I'm stuck in a different story.

Image: Urban Druid performing spirit sorcery in park, around year 1900.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014


I would like to believe this is a story I’m telling. I need to believe it. I must  believe  it.  Those  who  can  believe  that  such  stories  are  only stories have a better chance.

If it’s a story I’m telling, then I have control  over the ending. Then there will be an ending, to the story, and real life will come after it. I can pick up where I left off. 

It isn’t a story I’m telling

— Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale. Anchor Books, 1998


Twilight is waiting for his pizza to be delivered listening to the songs he listened to as a teenager.  The mozzarella is steaming in the box as the pizza delivery man pulls into the motel parking lot.  The universe is behind a big blue curtain where time can change anything. Twilight's blessed with a fairy tale ending.

"I know I'm magic because I hold the world like a sick bird and talk to the moon. I find myself standing in a field holding the moon at the end of a string. I say, 'Moon, teach me a lesson.' A terrible wind comes through and lifts me into the sky. I think about all the doom and gloom. But then there's a knock at the door and I can smell  the pizza. "

Image: Black Dog Motel, Salton Sea, CA ., John Maclean

Monday, April 14, 2014


But this dark is deep:
now I warm you with my blood, listen
to this flesh.
It is far truer than poems.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the End” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)

Forest of Bliss

Sunday morning rain
Dexter Gordon's
Body and Soul
To act
Not represent
The whole goofy universe
To go samurai
No tricks
Sweet gnawing grace
Of a healed heart
Nowhere to hide

Nothing the matter with
Opening the door to
A little wildness
Become praise

Image: Jazz Legend, Dexter Gordon

Sunday, April 13, 2014


Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold.
Death’s great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?
By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.
And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined dirty houses—
something not known to anyone at all
But wild in our breast for centuries.

—Anna Akhmatova, “Everything is Plundered, Betrayed, Sold" (translated by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward)

Season To Be Imagined

Place of vision
April eyes and windy days

Place howling
with impending magic

Place of sinner's
Slaughtered dream

Hawks circle
In Zen no-nothingness

We limp toward summer
With a mouth full of tongues

Place where everything 
Has been absolved

Inside a world ablaze

Image: Francesc CatalĂ -Roca

Saturday, April 12, 2014



Among rocks, I am the loose one,
among arrows, I am the heart,
among daughters, I am the recluse,
among sons, the one who dies young.

Among answers, I am the question,
between lovers, I am the sword,
among scars, I am the fresh wound,
among confetti, the black flag.

Among shoes, I am the one with the pebble,
among days, the one that never comes,
among the bones you find on the beach
the one that sings was mine.
- Lisel Mueller

With Each New Word

Note to self: remember                                   
What Emerson said
Of Thoreau—
That he loved the low
In nature:
And fleas, 
Mites and men.
Not stars.

Songs of the junkyard,
Songs of what we are.