human ingenuity should not be under-estimated, we have a device for virtually any purpose and are working on the rest- and with every turn of every gear- with every flicker of electricity- with every pump of every piston, we lose a little bit (and by this I mean a very little bit- a millionth of a millionth of a millionth- even less- but I guess every bit counts for something still) of our humanity. Im not saying Im heading off to live out my life in some desolate mountain shack that Ive built with my bare hands, fashioning tools and crude farming implements out of animal bone and flint rock, binding the thing together with sinew and tree sap- no sir, this is not for me. But the constant drone of Lincoln avenue dulls my senses and forces me to consider a simpler existence. I shaved my head today as a gesture toward the realization of the fragility of life- to remind myself that we are still meat and bone- that blood still courses through these veins- that two arms, two legs, fingers, toes, and everything above, below, and inbetween is all we have. This is starting to lean dangerously toward the existential. This was not my intention. Another direction: an old ford lives as long as it is cared for- clean oil, plugs, wires, everything in its place- syncopated rhythms- clock work- spark and reaction- controlled combustion. To know this is to begin to forget how close our last breath may be. We are not so easily repaired. You cannot put a new transmission into a man. A dog dies when he is tired of living. We must all remind ourselves that consciousness is a gift given only to those who seek it out. My head hurts. I should do more drugs.

I've made an honest effort my whole life to decide which is which, and I only think of it now after reading some stupid short story about a hapless loner who falls in love with a slightly damaged princess- imagine that.  so which are the things that the sea steals away from you, and what do you throw overboard?  I've come to hope that she only takes what she needs and leaves the rest for me to decide. 

only a short while ago, I had written into my moral code a very simple rule- only own what you can carry on your back.  it was a good rule and served me well.  it was practical, really.  I hadn't lived in one place for more than a matter of months since I'd waved goodbye to my mamma's house.  I had no need for knick knacks and floor rugs.  I had no desire for permanence.  I slept only when exhausted.  I dreamt only in color.  I longed only for distance.  I worked only for sustenance.  I could have never imagined the enormity, the nearly unbareable weight of my love for you people.  this simple rule forced me to take notice of the people around me, and what they deem important- the terms they use to define themselves- the paths they'd beaten into the ground- and that my search for god, the universe, and all that follows after does not require a road atlas.

so what does she take, and what do you offer? 

(I'm almost certain that she gets it all in the end anyway.)

(b):  God, I have never considered myself, nor have I been accused of being, a spiritual man, but I know full well that this train don't have a utopia stop.

God:  If it seems like I aint been smilin' on you, that may be true- it has been a good stretch since we saw each other last.

(b):  there was a time when I thought I could catch up to you if I drove fast enough across black tar and blue lines, hands on ten and two- arms akimbo, no sounds in my ears only the pale rhythm of my own breathing.  I'd stop long enough to fall in love with any truck stop waitress who looked at me twice and kept my coffee hot.  I'd wait for you there by the side of the road while the early morning fog shifted with the wind outside Tillamook.  I ate tacos, four for a dollar, and drank warm bottles of twenty-five cent Tecate while I waited in Santa Rosa looking west as the ocean became a field of molten slate rock.  I waited for you as I slept on the hood of my old ford underneath those unbareable skies in the Big Horns.  I have never been so far away from you.

God:  you really shouldn't be so dramatic.

(b):  I thought I heard you there in her shallow breath against my ear while she slept it off.  I thought I heard you there, whistling through the alleyway as I adjusted my hat against the wind.  I thought I heard you humming through the neon signs just overhead.  I thought I heard you laughing as I did my little dance for her in the street.  I thought I heard you in the rain beating against her windows.  I thought I could hear you echoing through me as I explained to her that if I could pull my still-beating heart from my chest and tear her off a piece, I would- and without hesitation.

God:  that was me, but I wasn't talking to you.