What is best for a poet?  How do you keep your soil
tilled, your paint wet, your ear perked?  Eyes clear?
This morning is another such awake one, this morn
ing I did not have to get up at 7 a.m. to throw up
and I am not still in my light blue and yellow starry
pajamas, this is not yesterday but I’m up awake and
not sure how to hang onto this moment all through
out the day.  I have to go paint and then who knows
what else but I’m drinking coffee and listening to
classical guitar from a mix Marshall made me, list
ening to random birdsong.  These sounds together
are perfect.  I want the house of my soul to house
M. Ward guitar and birdsong coming in the windows,
sifting in like sunlight, neighbors’ voices, or anything
else.  Katie Gray’s gotten me thinking about wed
dings somehow, and I woke up this morning think
ing about tall stone archways and long heavy lace
dresses, or wide green-yellow grass fields and
long paths of candles in white paper bags.  This M.
Ward reminds me of these thoughts, and in the light
of morning I eschew wedding thoughts and think
instead of these cathedrals I’ve dreamed of all my
life long, the vaulted ones, the sandstone ones, the
marble ones, the ones with censers, monks, with
choirs of bent old people who’ve become people
other than who they once were.  I want to become
other than myself, I want to become powerful, I want
to be able to move something heavy with just the
twitch of my finger, something inner, something
that matters deeply.  I want to wear the gift of some
thing like an embroidered mantle, or something.

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