The poet is my friend - in the army together - roommates for a time in Seattle . . .
(I like personal poetry just fine . . . don’t saddle up unless you want a ride . . .)
He comes in like a tourist. He is not a stenographer and not a whirlwind,
but more s tourist who has walked the world
(where? - North Africa with Voorhies; Greece with Efferding . . .)
and talked (12-string guitar) over much of the Pacific Northwest
displaying licks of influences from Houston’s Beau De Glen Lipscomb and
other, more desultory artists (Berkeley, etc. perhaps - I am not versed in his biography) . . .
But, I am honored to be among those who can welcome his voice into my house as a guest.
And guest, while not quite right . . . interpreter . . . picture-taker . . . sage . . . maybe more apt.
Though he may have arrived as tourist, as guest, he has also flung his arms in a magic circle,
almost nostalgic, of recognition and acceptance . . .
like a hobo looking for remembered sustenance who finds instead
a feast, beyond the ken of mere memory, and sits with candor and care at the table of the host . . .
the perfect guest.
Peter may remain, more a guest than a citizen of the worlds he explores, but, if so, this speaks
more to the capacity of a human mind than to the temper of his poetry. He is a welcome guest,
at home . . . in the larger world.
Postlude: like Tocqueville, he may see us clearly, but not always with the same curved mirror
in which we see ourselves . . . though his view invites an expanding horizon,
a wider world than we most times expect to see . . .
he does not always see what we think we can almost see.
November 01, 2018
a sometimes song . . .Will you be there in the morning when I’m singing my song?
Will you be there in the morning when I’m singing your song?
Yeh . . . for fucking sure . . .
I’ll be there in the morning when you are singing your song . . .
I’ll be there in the morning - be there all day long . . .
Don’t stop singing, I’ll sing the chorus for your song . . .
I’ll be there in the morning singing all day long . . .
We can sing into the night . . .
We can sing and sing . . . and I will be there
September 20, 2018
I am an old man (75 years old this year) and still mostly white . . . in truth, probably as white as genetics might suggest . . . I continue to have an awareness and parents (of a sort) (borh almost certainly dead) who sometimes trusted me and on occasion may have taught me to live beyond a heritage of sexism and racism.
This is something that I sometimes don't remember with clarity . . . I do know that it is a message that A and I have attempted (and with some success) to teach to our own children . . .
My lesson, as I remembered learning it was that all people -- all people are equal . . . That's really the only message . . .
I mostly forget what Winnie & Ralph may have said to us as children about the possible creation-side of our existence . . . and it doesn't so much matter if you're standing up . . . I couldn't sing in tune with or without the piano.
And it wasn't of much use in the short run. . . nor, necessarily of great use in the longer run as I remember
It may, however unlikely, it may have helped in a short thereafter of some understanding . . . or not.
I seem to have my own evolving (over 75 years) and inconclusive appreciation of the Buddha as I've come to know his likeness . . . but who knows the winds of tomorrow . . . for now, I keep his likeness carved in teak in our main hallway.
It is a blessing of sorts . . .
September 18, 2018
Nightly scribbles are mostly nightly rambles as we allow our mind bits and scraps of worry about tomorrow's mostly unsettled mind. Advice (not that you need it . . . ): Don't take our word as gospel You may end tangled in confused bramples where no one seems to care We almost always make it up as we go . . . But not always . . . almost never always . . . but we go always somewhere.
September 17, 2018
But some days go beyond "some days" into other days when things announce themselves within the frame of my body . . .
Little things mostly . . no cancers yet just uncomfortable things possigle harbingers of more desparate tomorrows.
September 10, 2018
I write, mostly, as a way to move from before
a way to go from there to here.
There is gone; here is now.
Ok, that's all - that's why I write (mostly).
Sometimes I am too scattered to move
from place to place;
too present in now to move from then,
where I no longer am, to now
where I never quite arrive
in one piece.
It is not a circle.
I do not go to where I've been.
Neither is it linear, but more like multiple
possible points on a map
with no single possible destination.
September 09, 2018
I've moved from pillows sewn in sleep bags to twin bed pillows stacked to the ceiling to pillows covering corners of double beds before reaching a majesty of space in queen size pillows, but only living into my 70's did I approach true majesty, the king size bed (though the pillows continued Queen). Should I strike forth for a pillow that reaches beyond this world into new horizons of other exploding worlds that fit the size of my continuing modesty and contentment of time?
September 07, 2018
July 02, 2018
Some of us are still alive . . . and may keep attempting to write and guess about our circumstances . . . I expect to be there among that choir singing some possible tomorrows . . . the enlightenment is not over, we are still exploring passages forward even as we sometimes back-track to sullen yesterdays . . .