November 1, 2020

Lord you God, loving, breathing, Dreaming me in eternal and today’s dreams. Whence I saw myself off to travel, ran barefoot a medium of sojourn soul, on a walkway bridged over a void, winds so terribly strong, I’d been knocked down, got back up again and made it.

I’m at home, this dream is my reality. A loving storm comes to me here, cannot see streetlights 20 feet out, nature is in her uproar. I watch, birds fly and hit building walls, I’m painting or writing or something, fighting for this. I put down the last piece, get my feet and I’m off going again. Walking the bridge over the void, I fall. I’m caught in love’s lift.

I’m free falling up, I awake. My father askes from the frame of my bedroom door, could I take paintings to storage today, I just need the truck, yeah; I say. I’m writing, tap the phone and time’s set to 12:12. I thank God for being alive this morning, a late morning.

I’d been up till sunrise, 5 AM, painting and collaging. I found college school notebooks, I’d drawn all through the pages, no margin not for beautification. And around the notes, notes to my soul. I sang smiling, made three canvas pieces, three burlap sack paintings I acquired from Cartel. I contacted Cartel Coffee about hanging them in shops; I talked to skaters at Cowtown, same heart of art, said let’s get some color in here, emailed the owner. Contacted two literary agents, both having represented Patti Smith to my research, I put through ‘October 21st’s chapter from Headlights to them. I’m in new worlds now:




Peacocks, America, glisten and glamour, love soul and sensual, keyist unlocking interior rooms. Some things to set a scene;


I love you God, I thank you for life, another day living, breathing, beautifully being alive for singing your praise, being in your light, losing idols, slang, slow drugs so that you God are true God in all life, I love you, you are to me soul a rose bushel of flowers I sleep in like a parma white coat for winter winds. I sleep in, I am comforted. The light in my eyes; power of my confidence, internal world making external ones go internal, eternity to my hour, sweetness to my kiss, love to my Beloved. Be my loved, you are God.


These words I find bound to a journal, strung with the lights, the likes of my thoughts I’d passed to the passing day. Found the world round me get spinning real quick, I walked down Ash Ave, in quite the flurry mentally calm and watching little coffee grounds and autumn leaves swirling in eternity, this moment, this hour.


I pass the portal through, into the new world. Peacocks. Greens, Whites, Reds, lues, Yellows, Reds, Whites, Blacks; paint tubes in my art bag, words I feel like writing, I don’t gotta, I just do. I take a nap at sunrise.



Night is when I slept, not withstanding echoes of my life instantly I awoke in my old old bedroom. I wondered how I had, had I died? Really survived? Now wrapped in purple sheets, my head rest to a pillowcase Gabi and me printed a red moon and landscape to. I’d written Headlights. Lived on I did and beautiful to all bespoke confidence for a breath uniting all in one. We’re all the same in our sorrows, birds lift the wind into their wings, drift thoughts on abundance well or bath-spring water I bathe in, God’s sovereign, I’ve got gills for holy water. We can be love, we are dreamers, livers in today, toadying about our lives, feeling up the state of our own mental landscape – our country.


I wrote an elegy to an air mattress, metaphorical and actual: i lost the paper, sloping up into today’s clouds, winds a-rising.


Found a lost prayer: I feel intuit to the perception of God’s will. Be my body so singularly part to whole of soul i sing in part to Angelic oeuvre. Tell her I’m the art nouveau, Parisian prefect perfect prescient thinking it, mystery music must be what plays inside and out of me. My inner world is already happy, go daisy – lucky-like Chinese 2 dolla bills from my vietnamese neighbor’s buddha, tomorrow’s an old sun and home, my brother’s presence. Driving do up the school up literature is here my tutelage grasshopper popping prefecture pills of adoration. Nations in an uproar. Ive seen my kind of mind slayn’ on the street side, name of the street bearer’s sign, a constellation in all our eyes, i name love.


An essay on solitude, wrote some evening on my bedroom floor, spinning sweet musical sounds by Dominic Fike and Vegyn and myself. Found in a phone note: Solitude is not solitude, with people is not with people. Online social studies conducted in the train passing in my mind tells me social online has severed person to person and self to self relations. I miss the touch of a hand, the kiss of a lip, the voice of my friend. Increasingly worlds have segregated, see our worlds collide, connect and we are always still one people, sharing one breath, one God in all life and all love; we are people of this universe. Studies further in my mind reveal there are multiple universes for which we occupy space and time while universes visit from outside space, outside our time. They set the future, posture themselves and their near in love, in devotion, in groove, flowing forever a water, an ocean of breath in our people. Love is the answer, the question; why i feel up thighs, voice warm in an ear, essay on solitude when i’m alone, wishing i’m feeling another.



I find feeling myself finding myself in quite the personal conversation on simple being, i’m no complex, don’t make this personal, i’m a modest voice to life. I’m simple sweet as sugar water. Watering a garden turned Eden green, giving praise to one true God of love for life, this breath, our people’s song to elegiac joys to the tomorrow’s of yesterday. 


Pen to metal table, a clink. Music is drifty, lax and far back smooth and dissolving as a lozenge. I look up to a woman in white, through the Cartel painted window, she’s looking in my eyes with hazel longing. She’s dreaming, i’m awake, dreaming in her eyes.


She looks off then to a bird in a pink tree, ruffling leaves in autumn. Falling orange colors, crunches and unquestionable giggles by children and college students talk atp and some dope-ass theory on their pre-paid, pre-med future. 


I wish i was at futura coffee rather, white walls, i’m playing my music, talking to the curly haired folk about music, beats as heartbeats. I’m at Cartel, Lucas puts his pre-released album The Truth in my headphones, I’m smoothly swaying, tapping my foot to my heartbeat in the song, feeling this tonight on. I’m at Cartel feeing my heartbeat quicken as i exhale coffee steam into the cool open air, i sip, i get up and i walk. 


Jimi Hendrix is “waterfall oh waterfall don’t ever change your tune” in my ear attuned to a universal love language, law of attraction and baby I’m golden, i’m feeling the leaves of green, laurel grove i walk by in downtown tempe, trodding under orange streetlamps, overcast, humid, lovely cloudy weather with purples east and yellows west where sun slips away the day. I sip my coffee as i walk, use the bathroom at Whole Foods, spend a while looking in my own eyes in the mirror, buy some protein bars for me and the few at Cartel needing some good food. 


Taylor’s at my table, she’s an artist. Mans smoking a cherry scented stoge on the wood bench outside. Everybody’s grateful for life, we’re breathing, just living beautiful because we’re alive and why not.

Todays went so fast. Always do. I watch sunset lights cast and fade against a blue house, housing my fortunate feeling for a few new friends to create with; a goodbyehomie to Lucas and a hug homie with taylor. I’m left at a table outside. Mans puffing the last buzz pops of his cherry stoge. An assembly of doves and grackles together take up the fallen leaf branches of the tall parma tree in the blue house property. 


Dylan joins me. Pink clouds look to be full leaves in the trees. We take to the bench, my song Hieroglyph plays in my headphones, play the track to Dylan and I and a woman in black bangs. Dylan says the music is good, classical, modern, mathy. I put back in my headphones when the song switches to Let’s Go Crazy by Prince. The sky turns purple rain, chatter of the birds, electric waffs of last century’s time spirit hits me smooth in the wind from south to north.


I’m tapping my foot, bumpin my head, Dylan crosses his leg over his left knee, I’m to his left, I see an east attic window reflect golds of sunset.