a few moments’ pan flute drifting up three stories and a cool breeze blowing in the open windows in every room has me overeager to hit the old dusty trail. the unquietuss within me has reached operatic proportions.

ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to ask you…what’s good?

learning not to chomp at the bit in terms of thinking more than two moves ahead.

in both practice and theory this was always hard for me.

this is all, of course, so to speak.

staggering around outside in convalescence having not felt daylight on my skin in six days wearing ferragamo pumps so crisp and fresh the back of my heels bled on first wear (sort of hot)

thinking about levity, and the beauty of delusion, and sadistic music, and the capacity for depravity, and springtime, and the great joy in me

everything is allowed! nothing is permitted!

this is my diary.

house of many ways.

Big one-horse town!
Still love me my
Little Jokes and games.
Silly me, thinking we
are born with just
one name.
Down on my knees
smilingly
cry out
“Thank god
it’s light out later now!
Thank god
times have changed!”

Bass is iron grey
and felt through concrete
imagine it surging
from as deep
as waves in
the black sea
five stories high
cresting violently.
This is like
birds soaring up
from a thousand peaks.

it is for me both exercising and exorcising

so to speak—
I keep the blinds sealed tight
and pick and choose what light
to let inside.