Well at least I’ve done this, at least I can say this, at least you can know this deeply with everything you are,
I am a writer.
Proudly.
Absolutely.
Unapologetically.
And it is my writing
that makes me powerful.

I want to love deeply.
Completely.
Explicitly.
Authentically.

Home is where the heart is
so why do you assure me it’s back West?
Why can’t I love it all,
through and through,
by and by?

I have so much to give, so many letters to write, so many songs to sing, so many scavenger hunts to build
give me a channel
bring me a vessel
build me a way
a home
for my never-ending love.

Running parallel to the double yellow I can’t help but wonder
is this the last time?
Our last trip North
up 31?
And where do the rolling hills go when we aren’t there to make them real?

Beauty is positively correlated with elevation.

I believe in this. In its importance and value and significance, I depend on this
And that’s why I care so much
that’s why I work so hard
Meaning + Passion + Love = Dedication + Frustration + Risk

There’s a colony of purple flowers where Joey died in 2023. He’s resting here, like I am, grounded in the sky.

I’ve taken you
breathed skyfulls of lyrics and
poetic solace.
What’s left, dear, in this vacancy?
This black Serengeti?
This sparkling void, green and sprawling and lifeless?

It may be beautiful, but it’s misleading. Really, each leaf is dying and falling one by one. We forget it’s a carcass when we focus on the color.

That’s the sinister beauty of beauty—it’s obstructive. That, or expository. It depends on your perspective.

I’m tired, trying to eternalize everything. I’d rather make things more deeply present. Commit to their fleetingness.
Accept ends as beginnings.

I’m no saint. But I strive to be.

It’s biting and bristled, the love you gave me. I shouldn’t have to reshape it.
I’m no potter.

I have 5 new book ideas so I guess I need to start writing…
That’s really the answer—start.
You’ll find your way.

Seagulls on the fishing pier
Dirt beaches
Rippling water leading to rippling treetops.
I like it here.
It reminds me how small and manageable the world I’ve constructed is.
I always have agency.

How much power I do?
How strong is my will?
What force reigns supreme?

Maybe you’ll understand this.
In Montana, wildfires will sometimes last through the winter, smoldering in tree roots underground. They’re impossible to find. Invisible until they come back to the surface in the spring.
And those fires, we have no way of finding, let alone fighting.

I’m curious.
What do you know?
What are you certain of?

Wouldn’t it be worth the journey even if this final scene
is only a few minutes?

I want to be taken back and out
Extracted from my body like a carrot from the ground
I yearn to be reborn
Recycled
Refreshed and
remade.
I remember how it was
what it meant
to be whole.

To be content is to be sturdy, no matter how often I try to forget.

What will I find in the north?
What was my soul designed to look out for?
How can I be made a compass?
Does destiny push
or does she pull?
And why should I let go
When she’s holding on
So tight?

The spite of the Earth is obscured by leaffall. Snowbrush. Redwater. Foresttouch. Rootbreath. Branchfire.
Wooden wells.

Autumn hills—like dollops of orange, marbled frosting.

Take this silver ring, a pocketful of my heartstuffs and return it to me only once I’ve forgotten about you.

I’m wearing rose-colored glasses today. They feel unnecessary.
Do you think it’s a coincidence?
Let me change your worldview.

I like to be sad.
I don’t want to be happy all the time.
Sadness is only painful, only lonely, against him.

I’m in awe of how big the world is and all the means I have
to explore it.

Oh how I would love to be a single, dying leaf
Off a mountain top
Before reaching the ground and decomposing.
One final flight and with it
one final good bye.

Break me in half, seal me in leather and chain me to the lookout.
I’ll be the lookout.

And I’ve finally arrived to the most beautiful place I’ve discovered yet.
At 2:23.

And all I want to do is share.