She's been mouldering, quietly churning over old thoughts.

And then the release. Anger! There you are! I have found you and I'm holding tight for now. You are so new to me, but the agony has been released to you. Fury, of storms brewing deep down in dark places I'm not sure I had.

Retch, retch, retching in a cold sweat waking from pictures and sounds I buried under the storm. Fury is moving and stirring and pushing the storm up and out.

Storms pass quickly. I cannot hold anger. The mouldering lost its valor and is now a sallow pink. Fury rolled into quiet tears and slower tearing and folding, not so much thunder. Only murmurings.

Night after night I curl up and read poems aloud to myself. Often times I write them down and put them in envelopea, but there is no one to address them to.

I am home on Humboldt. I think if only I can find the words for what is aching, it would release. Some articulation would puncture the wound and let it drain. I've no damn words. I've had none for weeks.

Slow, slow, slow. Please heart be slow.

If I had words, I'd use them but this is most likely of no use.

There has never been such a bitter sweet breaking of my spirit. Each dip back into this timeless place leaves me unbelievably filled and hopelessly yearning for more.

Such a sweet picture of you, really is all it could be.

How do these stories fit together, how did I become so entangled and whole among them?
A toast, to the best of us. Over cheap chardonnay and fried okra, candles, stars, and smoke. It's wholeness and goodness and reality that warms better than rum ever could.

Where's the brilliant turn? The Wes Anderson conclusion that pans across this strange family, showing each of us together and whole?

Words don't come for this, it's all spirit and there are no words. Maybe one day there will be.

Tonight, I have no pretty words or poetry.
I have only to say that a young man spoke to me over coffee. And a smile has never been truer, what a beautiful beautiful soul. I think rarely have two connected so well as we. I'm not sure there will be another like him. His words anger me just as much as they give me hope.
"Why weren't we friends before, why did I wait so long to get to know you?" "I'm very sure that we met at the right time, and we'll meet at the right time again."

He may never know that I have not blushed so deeply as when he told me I was worthwhile. That I've never valued words so much as from him.

When is the right time? When do our paths cross again?

YHWH,
I'm angry. No, I'm weeping. Do you love as my father loves? He looks at me with dimmed eyes and chants is disappointment toward me. I am not perfect, I am not clean, I am not good. I know all this, and so does he. I know I know I know I know I know, oh Yeshua I know. And his dimmed gaze refuses to meet my eyes. Always looking around and over me, never asks for my heart.

Do you love as my father loves?

Or do you care as my lovers have? Begging and grasping for more leg room inside my skin with me. Dripping my blood with their own and pulling me into a less than holy kiss. Promising forevers and onlys and leaving me with weeks unfinished and other women loved. Do you love me only as long as I can love you? Do you care as my lovers have?

YHWH, hear this and answer me. My father does not love me. My lovers have only used me. How will you love me?
I have recovered from so many blows, again and again I have reached out grabbed an arm and stood.
Do you love as my father loves?

Book of short stories.

Did Steinbeck write me into some story of his? It's very like him, to endeavor into too many characters. He's got a hand in ten different ink jars, writing character after character into this twisted tale. No one is the hero, we're all villains stepping over the carnage each other have wreaked. Who comes out smelling like less than shit, none. Only the story itself as it scrawls off into different bedrooms of other lovers.

We're left to find solace in some artistic purpose, hope we're making a brilliant page turner. If I can believe this will be a story like so many I have read, curled up with and fallen into home with, maybe it will make it all easier and sweeter.

You can't write me as the antagonist and protagonist, as the narrator and the foil. Am I the author's surrogate or Checkhov's gun planted to fire ten years down the road? It's really too much to ask for a character given life by your hand to span so many stories.

I'm holding ellipses and run on sentences together with semi colons here; I'm running out of adverbs to make this shit look pretty. The clock's been ticking in the belly of the crocodile for years, you can cut it out and let me see the his grin already. Is this a metamorphosis? A tragedy, fire side poet's failure, a fucking satire? Pick your God damned literary genre, plot, and get a better editor.

You're confused. You must be. You forgot the conjunction, the and, the but, the however. You put a period there and I know you must have meant a comma.
I know that tomorrow I'll drink coffee and eat waffles and believe that hope exists in your eyes, while Wolfe and I take a train far away from here toward the Hudson. But tonight I have no appetite and Baudelaire dragged me into his parisian stupor.

All I'm saying is, I could be a good writer, too.

remember, the story.

Maybe this is all about figuring out our story, or even remembering that we are a part of one.
Each day I write, I remember something. There is a vague impression of something missing and I'm starting to remember
that it was supposed to be filled.

Each day I write, it gets harder to remember but the longing grows even more. Maybe that's why our children are always asking questions. They know so clearly there is something to be found out. They are not naive, so much as aware of the reality that escapes us.

What a shame that newborns cannot speak. So close to birth, they must remember His hands folding theirs into fingers. Covered in warmth and safety, curled up around His Spirit, being sung to sleep. And then thrust into a bright hot world, away from the warm covering of the Spirit. As soon as the chord is cut, the remembering starts. But it must be so near for them, but they have no voice to tell us what they can still see.

Seems like creation turned against us. Each day the craving to figure out what story we've been written into, is one day farther away from the beginning and from a clear recollection of the author.

But there's redemption. There's answers for questions asked, but then there are many many more questions. And all I know is that I'm one of Faustus' own right now. Grasping for every book and every conversation, wanting to know all things so that I can piece together this story. And remember that it is I've forgotten.

Sometimes, I am a jealous and awful soul.

I'm so jealous of those who spend time with those I love, of the work that consumes their time, of anything that keeps us
from sitting in the grass and talking, and not talking. And breathing and laughing.

If I could have it my way, I'd pick them, each of them that claims a part of my breath and we'd all live three apartments deep in the grand sea of brooklyn, where roofs see the skyline and none of the noise.

And back yards grow wild and hairy with wide bladed grass and crickets.
And I'd never had to be alone again, and I'd never have to sleep alone again, and we'd sit on the fire escape and lot hot sticky summer slow our souls and sweat would drip from out bodies.

I am Faustus, longing for more and more intimacy. For human hands in mine, for voices all around me, for the simple quiet presence of a one called friend.

Avarice spreading through my grasp and holding onto every conversation, unwilling to let one single word slip by unclaimed.

Friend, come sit with me and just be with me.