I make a lot of educated guesses. It's in my nature. A hypothesis is a statement, not a question, and also, I like to sound like I know what I am talking about, so...that said, most of the time I don't feel like I have the answers. Hell, I don't even have any questions. I FEEL like I AM a question. I feel like a question that is always being answered by a stubborn world. Sometimes I am a hard question. Sometimes an easy one. Mostly easy. But I do get misunderstood a lot. And I like those that see through my speak to my heart. They know my weakness, and my yearning to love and be loved. I try to keep them close, though some tire faster than others. My best friends know when to tune me out. They exist in a raptured state, as I like to put it. Neither here nor there. Between Heaven and Earth. Always looking to discover. Bored with fear. Or rather, always looking to take a bite out of it. When I was younger I was perhaps more like them. Now I struggle to roll over, much less Think. That's why I flap my lips so much. I think with my tongue. But I'm learning. And I am drawn to those who are more pragmatic, those who are IN the world around them, and not OF it. Especially the women. I have been with some far out girls, man. Some of them are my best friends, to this day, and no other unearthly relationships have done more to make me than my relationships with women, except for my relationship with God.

I am not a reader. But I will herein attempt to tell it as I see it, as is the banal and fruitless pursuit of so many blind fools before me, and, as I am sure, since. Being blind, I can only be accountable to a loose description of those patterns that dance on the back of my eyeballs in the darkness. And furthermore, I am slave to a dark and ancient series of chemical reactions and can promise no more validity to anything I write than Moses could promise the children of Israel. God's promises, I will say, are those that withstand the test of time. I may write some down by accident, but don't quote me on it. I am from the South. That is worth mentioning because being Southern is a complicated and glorious burden to bear in these modern times. A burden I bear with pride. And it is by this burden I write to you now, knowing full well the implications of place, the sacredness of it. It is also where our stories begin. I was born in Memphis, Tennessee. This is a hidden place. It is on the map, but some great voodoo has affixed its eye on Memphis, and is churning up soul, and the cloud of cotton fields and slash pines and soybeans hide it from all but whom she chooses to see, and once you go there you are very lucky if you are not drawn back, and each time changed. Some never get out. But God granted I should be born there, and I am thankful for it. So these posts will be tainted what by my upbringin, and my blood and my place.

BY THE SAME TOKEN + u crossed a different bridge, headed across the hatchie and the loos, two rivers youll likely never step in again. And you took your lugage with you, and i took mine. And when u left me there well on the other side and sped off with my stuff, i kicked the dirt. You can have it babe. Champion some other cause and sing about it on my guitar. Sleep with my dog in another mans bed. Yer still beginning again is all. And if youd have turned back around I would have been gone. Im still gone. Gone from the soft kiss we made into a bed, the chance we gave the grass to grow. Gone from the smack of another man's reflection in the mirror. Id give you my self, chopped up on a platter in hot sauce, alone. Its no good to me anymore. I have chewed on it long enough. But u took it with the rest of my baggage when u left. Now its just me n God out in the ether, soakin up the sun. Dont bother sending me anymore peices of your burden, wrapped up priority. Save your money next time. I have no forward address.

LETTER TO A LIONESS + I would tell you to pounce on the road ahead as if prey, hope that u heard over the full charging paws and the growl under your breath. I know you are stronger than you let on. In the brief moment in the wood when you held my gaze i thought you wrote quite the story, your face full of twists and turns, full of characters, conflict, and resolution. Why you picked me to walk past i'll never know. Maybe it was only that i had been so quiet for so long. Maybe just because of the spot i was standing in. When we made love your face gave me reason to believe in myself again, to reason away all this silly loneliness i feel. Even now that you are gone i do not feel lonely. I spose it is enough to know that you are somewhere prowling around, smelling the air, and all the while being wild and intuitive. I bet u could find a rabbit hole with your eyes closed, skin it with yer teeth. I bet you would know which of its babies to eat and which to let live, without even knowing their names. I saw your truth i think. Maybe not, but if im right, i got to see a rare thing, the real weakness of a lioness, the humility of a queen, the burden of a fairy, which is what gives title to your pride, and makes you worthy of so much more that my trust, my love. This rare gift, that you gave without words. I want more of it. I want to be a lion, and to walk with you in the night, down the road, towards some new scent. Youre in charge. Just tell me when. ill pounce.

WHO'S TIME IS IT ANYWAY + I am subject to the inertia of this world spinning off its stand. Questions about God, finding happiness, love, decidedly wrought with sadness, anger, fear. I cannot help what i see with my eyes, cannot help the past, cannot escape God's judgement. But must remember that it is not mine to judge, is not mine to give to those who do not want. I am out of answers for them that are weary. Must be able to close my eyes, turn my head, see another horizon, one where there is bacon on the hog, butter in the cow, syrup in the tree. Another green world where there is better weather, and not this grey cloud hovering, this burning sun. I am the question. This life is the answer. What can be asked but me. What can be the answer but this life. I am letting go finally, of u, of me, of distance, of closeness. I cant fix it, it must fix itself or not be broken at all, but just be. I remember that my favorite hat fits my head, not the other way round. I remember my fingers were dirty, not the other way around. I remember the rain falls on me, not the other way around. Getting my self together means tearing everything else apart, this dream i have made that is not real. I am broken hearted by this waking life, seeing the sadness in eyes. Seeing the commitment to sadness in the habits of men. Can we indeed be happy? Can we indeed find the way? Where is the gate i must walk through? Show it to me and i will pass through it, though it be locked and boarded up i will find a way, but though ive looked i have found only walls to keep me out. Walls to keep us all out. These are the things i see and they bring me sorrow, and if you lead me to water, i believe i would drown in it from thirst.

MOTORCYCLE + it was bright harley orange, like the 883 but bobbed. Had taken a beating. Certainly wasnt new but it shown like a dream in the morning light. I couldnt stop walking round it, anticipating its first words. I had called Austin and he showed up to check it out, wearing that concerned look of a doctor about to tell a patient some bad news. I rode it up n down the street fer a minute, explaining over the patter of the motor that the throttle was rich, that she had plenty of gas but was runnin dirty and weak. He had had plenty experience with these things, and as soon as the tools were out she was sounding better. I shut her down, tried to prop her up on the stand, n it seemed she wanted to tip easily. O.T. explained that she was the only bike of her kind that had to be propped up backwards, turning the wheel the other way round. We examined the forks, which were somehow disconnected from the handle bars, would have been a bad way to go. Austin snapped it back in place but that made the alignment all jankey. Some adjustments were in order, so i took the time to replace the scratched up plastic bug screen with a metal mesh, that would protect from nothing, but would have better served to hem in a chicken. At last she was ready, and i returned to the backyard to shoo away the guests that had filtered in from the party at the zoo, mostly people i didnt really know, but seemed to recognize. Inside were more of the same, more reluctant to leave than there outdoor comrades, but my father, lounging in the back room, assured me that he would hold down the fort while i was out. I got dressed. Leather jacket was buried under a pile of drum parts, gloves were in the silverware. Now the helmet. I could not find it. Id had it only a moment ago, in my hand, my salvation. Now it was lost. I dashed about frantic, lost in the anticipation of the ride, of the drama, the romance, the fate. Caution thrown to the wind, i could not wait to be on that bike again. But the helmet. I knew it was close. Back outside near the bike? Over by the pool? In the music room? Shit. Wait there it is, deep in the dark green bushes by the door. Wouldnt you know it. But now a new problem. A short in the helmet light, a short in the mic, tiny low voltage sparks flying and the dull tinge of current in my fingers. I tried to put it on anyway, but was only more frustrated. The sky was dark now. The guests had all gone back to the zoo, and somewhere inside my father was taking a nap. I couldnt see the wires clearly, for the lining of the helmet, the darkness i was standing in, the sparks flying freely into my eyes. I grew impatient, and began to tear away at the makings of the helment. Peices of it were all around me on the ground, in my hands, still sparks. Id abandoned logic, abandoned the light, even of the porch, and in my frustration had rent the helmet to peices leaving only the hard brightly colored shell in my hands. Shall i ride without it? Keep tearing at it till my fingers are bleeding? Sweat was rolling down my arms under the covers. My feet were tied in a knot. My brain, awash in the liquids of fear, in the land of dreams, had been so lonely without my heart there to put everything at ease. My head on a plate would have no less been ravaged by the beast of death than in life by my own foolishness, brightness be damned.

SOME TIMES + You remember that u are not the center of the universe, that u are just some tiny speck on a tiny speck lost in the vastness of tiny specks and that u have no name, no care that is felt on the other side of the center. And when you remember this you can see things as they move, learn things you never knew about people you thought you did, hear sounds you never heard before in the silence, some voices so loud they seem deafening in the center, but become only white noise in the turning of the cheek. I have so many books in me, books of words, of acid, of numbers, given over to the edits of time. It is hard to admit the truth when lies have bent you over the knee of God, but i am not above the law, have no recourse in the story i am writing, am not beyond reproach. And the truth is only another step away, that this body has its weakness, that the mind is attatched by a thin cord, that reason stands to seperate the spirit from the body, unless that reason is allowed to swirl around in the vastness, and is put in its place. Then it can be a vehicle for healing, for revolution, and we have seen this in the example of our spirit guides, our Jesus, our Buddah, our Muhammad. They reasoned that if we are only a part of this vast conduit, only a tiny peice of God's creation, then we must sometimes let go of our facts in order to see the truth, that we must be free of the self, and its fears, and let this hugeness push us around, become a part of the essential movement of the stars, the planets, the winds, the people in our lives that are there for us to love, and be loved by. We must become a part of ourselves again, that part that was never seperate from the center, but was always pulling us back there, on that thin cord that connnects our feeble mind, with the rest of the universe, and God.

CHRISTMAS EVE + Done playin santa. Done makin lists. Done channelling the christmas spirit. What i need is to be alone, else i wouldnt be. What i need is forgiveness, else i wouldnt be getting it. This world, with all its answers. Bah humbug. Celebrating the birth of the risen lord. Somebody tell me where the celebration is. I have only seen pain and fear, even in the eyes of the ones i love, and as for the ones that love me, they are doin their own thing, far from this place that i tried to love. People say im better than that, people say im worth more. To who? There is no one to serve but God and he asks me to feel this lonliness in my bones, that i might serve him better? Learn better how to love, how to be patient. Honesty she says, tired of the tricks, scared of me, scared of me like i would ever do anything but give myself over to anyone who wanted it, but i just lost everyone except my family, but they are busy being a family somewhere else, also scared of me, scared of what ive learned, what i have to say about the way they serve each other. I am tired of being confused by the words love, forever, God, peace. I have asked God in my prayers for mercy and gotn stepped on, asked for love and gottn judgement, asked for peace and gottn insanity. I still believe. I am not pretending for anyone, not asking anyone for any favors, not trying to fool anyone, been so damned honest, maybe to a fault, but no one cares to hear what i think, or they do until it doesnt suit their ideas, their comfort zone, and as far as mine? Ive tried to learn, to be.a question worth answering, tried to give what i have to give, and my humanity is brimming over, my death mask is not hiding anything, my life is not shared by anyone, even when i go out of my way to serve, and when i ask for what i want i get told im crazy, angry, scary, stupid, or worse. I got put in jail for being honest, for giving the pain i feel away, and no one wants it. Is it strange that i feel empathy for the estranged gunman, at the same time as i consider his actions an abomination? I see old men around me sad and alone, young men who are well on their way. Why do i wanf to play this game anymore? Why do i get pushed away for being transparent?  Everybody has there own story to write, but who is writing mine? Me? Im lost, no resolution, no end in sight. No one has any faith in me, and it seems for good reason. Even my dad, whom ive walked all over for favors, been there when all i wanted to do was run, stuffed my wants and needs into my heart to honor his, even he stops short of giving me my due. Im tired of being the butt of everyone elses jokes, everyone elses pain, everyone elses fear. I want, just one time, not to be mistaken for a god, not to be known as a good man, but just as a man, with a good heart, and a good mind, and a strong body, worth serving the good of my family, of a girl, of a child. I had the opportunity a few times and my weakness made people run, made them fall away scared, like my wounds were staining their pretty whites, like i am a facist, racist, chauvinist, rapist, womanizer, and i am none of these things, i am just a guy, sitting alone at home on christmas eve, cause im to scared to reach out to the ones i love, cause i know they have been to hurt by the world to trust that part of themselves that could love me, that has been hurt by the world as well. Merry christmas you crazy world. Im gonna go where there is nobody there to remind me that im special, so i dont fall for the same ol cosmic joke again. I know youll get along fine without me. You always did.

I know i might as well be a BITCHASSMOTHAFUCKA + to be breakin windows. I might be made to fuck some shit up but its on a whole other level. And here im speaking directly to you, my mirror, that you might know the depth of my strength. Its all i ever wanted you to lean on. I should have would have could have enough. Hated yer tits, loved u fer loving them, dont give a shit what yer wearin, loved you fer wearin it. Couldnt stand that you cant cook, wouldnt cook, bought life at a convenience store and shoved it down yer mouth like veggies were yer worst nightmare, loved that you had a nightmare at all. Cloudy fuckin mirror. Saw myself all wrong, to many metaphors, to many mistakes. I saw yer soul n you saw mine. Loved it. Take that.

12.12.12.12:12 + Well, thats it. Its over. And if there is some great awakening goin on, a shift in consciousness, then its into a low gear, so as to haul humanity up out of self hatred, out of self centeredness, out of dellusion and into a freedom of the body and mind, not so much from ourselves or another human oppressor, but from these ideas, these abstracts that keep a good man down. Now we have no excuse to be afraid, to be angry, to be trapped, even in a cage, even under torture we can choose to forgive, each other and ourselves. The good Lord's Mercy has come in the form of clear vision. Look around you. See the truth, the veil is lifted. There is no seperation from the soul, from the truth. Your circumstances ARE you, and you are your circumstances. I know we all like a good metaphor, but reality is the expanse of our total experience, the great equallizer.

I drive sometimes, walk others, crawl too. Sometimes i take a pill. Sometimes i drink water. These are the things that are making me. My dog, my cat. My lover, my friend, my family. I am in control of nothing, not even myself, but am as a question, always being balanced by an answer. I have no excuse to seek control, only to observe both sides of the equation, and know that God has crafted the math itself, and that what i am experiencing is only his Mercy, even in the midst of Wrath, his Love, even with so much hate. I cant stop watching, cant turn away, edge of my seat, falling in, waking up to a cosmic show, tuned out to the tune of a world spinning beyond the boundaries of the spirit and the body, into the frontier of the true covenant between me and God, the end of times, the beginning of eternity. Here we go!