Sunday, October 12, 2008

my friend...

Caress the Sleep of Mortals

Bound to the Mast of Longing

Friend, tie me to the ship's mast
To ride to the rim of life.
Wounded at the ear's edge
Branded in burnt blood.

Friend, do not let me leap
From love's fierce sensual fire.
On dark horses of rising tide.
Brave breakers in beauty's risks.

Friend, if I am empty, embered.
Fill me with your wild cleansing.
Let your siren song of exile
Heal these stripes of wounded will.

-ron atkinson

Friday, October 03, 2008

a smoldering fire...

There are really three gifts, simultaneous in their effect:
blind hope, fire, and craft (techne').They open up wonders-
and terrors-to human creatures, the wonders and terrors
of being fully cognizant and sensitive creatures of earth.

-eileen gregory (summoning the familiar)

I like the idea of knights, of cowboys, l like stories from
the great depression, l like the history of the gold rush.

Rob has lived in the gully on and off since he was seven, he use to run away
from home and hide there, sleeping under the tree branches.
He knows how to keep dry...

They change their camp every now and then, sometimes because of the city,
sometimes because of the cops, sometimes for a change of scenery.
Rob, Cindy, and Bobby, this was the core - everynow and then
someone else joins, another body curled up on the ground, the
disheveled head of hair sticking out like a scarecrow.

Rob's a good person, like's my dog, tells me stories that l haven't heard before.

I am welcomed when l visit their camp. On cold mornings and when there is
a smoldering fire we huddle around it, feels like a Louis L'Amour novel.
A sense of belonging, a sense of longing.
We need communities based on this...

and the road was like a ribbon and the moon was like a bone
he didn't seem to be like any guy she'd ever known