CONFESSIONS OF A LONEY MAN (BUT NOT THAT LONEY)

How can a voice be interior, when vocalizing is the force of sound leaving a body? Yet here I am, talking to inside myself, a silent, impossible, flaking loop.

(Particle dustish truth ghosting particulars)

A whole body can only rise in the silence between rolled kombu

And it would be fully formed, should I let it, and I don't have to be patient

Family images and narratives saved to a meager digital archive

Come pouring back sideways as gobbing, rich, tropic rain

There's no use denying

In my best pure high lonesome tone

No immaculate conception

Dump it all on the table to scatter and crawl out

My new raw living sea catch.

This year, I'm giving a few things a chance:

1) Learn a new country song every off other day (craft and practice)

2) Read and finish a book (low standards, believe me I'm lower)

3) Organize my creative time and energies (true wishes, anyhow)

4) Capitalize on Msipellings