A Boyish Life, No Other Gods

I wish to live a boyish life,

To feel beauty in my eyes

And rather than pirates tales,

I’ll focus on this fate of mine

And in my toil, trust the stars,

Owing to

No other gods

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Back In the Land of Serendip

The 15th of August: today is my Sarah's birthday, 28 to my 32 – she sleeps beside me, my head rests comfortably on my own pillow, Beats around my ears, I'm listening to Nickel Creek, a band I fell in love with at 15; suffice to say, it's a nice morning – not just for music and birthdays, but for the road.

The road is the one I've been on all these years. The road is where I am – up here, going on my second year in the mountains. The road is this blog going on its eighth year, and it's my instagram too. The road is the journey – the push and pull of this thing I call my 'sense of destiny'; for the road is no more than my story, who I am.

And the road is widening.

With Charlottesville and the goons running amok in this country, I'm called to start composing my thoughts on the wider world into essay – this excites me, the kid who graduated from The Defense Information School's 'Basic Public Affairs, Writer' course 14 years ago – yes, some dots take a bit of time to connect, but here I fucking am, living in the mountains, writing a novel – and now, essays for publication: life is getting exciting.

I've also a very exiting book / literature project I'm announcing soon, which, I should think, will be as important to my identity and burgeoning career as my essays.

In other news, I've reconnected with LeighAnn, a girl I dated for about a year when I lived in Milwaukee at 26. We were good to each other. It ended badly, but it went well. Can't believe that was just five years ago. Unreal to think what I would go through to get here. But here I am. Naked, high, happy – once again no longer creating zemblanity for myself.

In short, I'm safely back in the land of Serendip, where things make sense.

Timer

Timer,
Ticking, tock,
Brains and a cock
Fuck you thought?
I'm no moralist,
Not one for Jesus or Mohammed –
Fuck that noise – lies
Man is as he tries
We can all respect all without giving, Credence to lies –
Man is as he tries
We all die,
With or without these thighs –
No one's saving us
We are because
No divine mother,
No brother –
We are without each other
When beauty's become a lie,
We all try
Timer

A guap of bubble hash in this cone,
Hoping by the time this paper plane lands,
I’ll be back home,
We’ll see how the poem goes,
But I might just move in:
The ghost in the guest room –
Where I go get stoned,
And visit my demons –
S’wear I wrote a version of this three months ago,
When, in self-exile,
I wanted you to go,
And I sat and got sad,
Beneath the Van Gogh,
Where tonight, I look to it and know,
Vincent was as I, no doubt,
Stoned and alone
For only artists, those irrational and naive enough to believe in this stuff,
Really ever love –
But I came here to be happy,
So I am,
Because a room is just a room