If You Look Out Your Rightside Window, You See We Are Approaching Summer. The Captain Has Turned On Your Grow-Your-Hair-Out Sign and Bare Legs Will Be Coming Down The Aisle To Get Tan and Sweaty.

I was born under a summer sign. Everyone I know seems to have been, as well. I mean, everyone. When the stars come out at night, they align in a question, a movement, asking after a direction. You feel lost and found at once. You feel an energy gathering, like inertia and moment in the air asking you to dance.

It’s not fair, the way the world begs you toward this. You wake up languid, filled with expansive airs, a kind of firey torpor. And something wants to go. Go! Let’s Go!

The news comes on the radio, always on in the back room, where dust gathers and we go to prepare ourselves to march on the day. And the radio man says, ‘of course all of you out there are lazy, too lazy, far too lazy to be industrious and get to work! You are the parasites of this tick-bath dream deep in the mediated woods of the universe. Of course you offer nothing to the dream! How dare you hear my voice and…”

But I am floating through rooms like the corpse of a wolf bursting in accelerated time lapse, coming to bloom, nurturing soil and the time at this speed looks… so mean. In an hour or two I’ll show flowering and the rain will make the petals dance like a drum beating thing.

I wake up and my first thought is connection. And the intricacies of my intentions have my scattered mind like the stanza- cadence- schemes- the RULES of a sonnet baking my tiredness into a sewn together raggedy doll that my bullet-shattered mind drags through this shadow-sunnied howse like a companion of the promise of a regulating pulse beneath a blood pressure cuff where today I don’t want to make a rise out of the other monsters in this hut, I don’t want to go yelling my mind away at the screen, I want the shaman secrets, I want the corrugated congregation, in the long hut, the sacred spaces, the coming together with the voice of generations, I want to see this whole spaced out space and blue sky ministration, melt down, arise, (concentrate! [shun]) 100% pure juice…

SING.