And here we might rest, except that the insistence of what follows will never allow it. Whatever happens, I am next.

Thus go I to Lisbon in a dream, so that I may be here with myself and not dying. The flap of the cover wears bashfully little. And many crannys yet undiscovered nooks yet just there like the road bending through the village again out of sight. Lisbon is a name to give a place without a name, a city known to others more deserving—that I may deserve that knowing, go I thus in dream to Lisbon. In Winter Gillespie pipes Olipso, paint peeling from the sides of the narrow trains, what so many are the names echoed from the sea to have said this gently, the mapmaker, that it is the place for sailors and poets. Thus dream I in a going to of Lisbon.

Hazuntah! Purple or Otherwise, Stated is Stated

Carried away and such. Being carried. Getting carried. Passive little baby all over the insistent here of always things. No matter where she is, she was brought here, must blame the carrying hands. I got carried away and such. Lost something like it. The novel eyes of wild conversation. Glasses clinking in the winter. It's easy to forget how far away so many things are when I am here all the time. Here in Boulder. Here on the Ship, circumnavigating the sun, a forgetful chore that gets done whether I commit to it or not. I have been looking around at Poetry. Here in Boulder. Here at the book store. Here in LuNaMoPoLiS. Here in love. Here in Boulder in love on the stairs down into the boogie ballroom. Here and there heads crested in rugged silver shroud yawps of desperation or sentience 3 of one half half a dozen of the other. I wish I could share this. I wish I could share with. Share this with. With. I can be home by then. Whenever is fine. I wish. I wish. I guarantee. With someone. Well we'll see. So strapped for time. Seven months. A good guy. He's a good guy. I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure. That's kind of nice. That's what I need. I wish I could share. They say in a loop by the windows all day long. And really I hear them sometimes. I have ears that way sometimes. It's sort of sad when I do. And I've been hearing them sort of back and forth in a thaw, too, when the wind picks up in Spring and all the good music breaks out spilling like rivers in autumn. The ghosts wander the open grasses asking for a partner to cry into the dirt with. And there is so much poetry. Here. So much that I must say something to it...