What is language and why doe it rain on some and burn through others? What is it that we say when we speak? Simple questions given a thousand times to different answers. Memory has got to be the most sophisticated and overrated tool of the always backtracking mind. It’s enough to be here and alive; it is so much more to feel wind and hear elk fording a high creek at dusk, making sounds like an old man choking beyond a closed door. Mallards dropping into the water like dead satellites or lies. Deer moving like vapors, their black hooves clicking on the roadbed, matching note for note the drops of rain which fall upon your cheeks. And one horse, full of breathing fire, stirring his 20 peers into action. They become storm. Hearts are exposed. Soil is torn from the earth. Things arouse. A dance commences and is witnessed.
My arms tenuous coils that serve to rein the twin serpents of my hands. People ask for for terrible amounts of everything that there might then be enough to choose [from]. Choice paramount to freedom; to breathing.
Along the spine of the Tetons I ride, thinking none of these thoughts. Rain mixes with snow mixes with wind. It’s a good time to scream — may your hate be sucked into no one’s next life. A king sun sets behind the pawn of clouds. May marches. I live quietly.