Misunderstood and disillusioned, I go on describing this place and the way it feels to live and die.
The “natural world” and whatever else it’s called I drive in and out of town seeing no edge, breathing sky
and it’s hard to describe without seeming absurd. I know there’s no other world: Mountains and websites
Dark smoke fills the air some from the fire in my house some from me driving around
I could see the lights of town through the trees on the ridge on my way home in the dark.
I meant all my songs not as a picture of the woods but just to remind myself that I briefly live.
The gleaming stone the moon in the sky at noon there is no other world and there has never been.
I still walk living sleeping life in the real world of clouds clawing for meaning.
Still when I see branches in the wind the tumultuous place where I live calls out revealing.
"Can you see the river in the branches and know that it means you will die and that pieces are churning?"
"Can you find a wildness in your body and walk through the store after work holding it high?"
I've held aloft some delusions. From now on I will be perfectly clear: There's no part of the world more meaningful and raw impermanence echoes in the sky.
There is either no end or constant simultaneous end and beginning.
A pile of trash the fog on the hill standing in the parking lot squinting.