In the Kingdom of the Hollow-at-Heart, the insect is king. In the Kingdom of the Beyond, all lie where the ground is smooth. Everything’s what it seems to be, and a little less.
Why does each evening up here always, in summer, seem to be The way—as it does, with the light knifing low from right to left— It will be on the next-to-last one?
There is a consolation beyond nomenclature of what is past Or is about to pass, though I don’t know what it is. But someone, somewhere, must, and this is addressed to him.
Lord of the ugly chair and broken sofa, Lord Of mouse piss and pack rat shit, Lord of the badger bite and the pine squirrel nest, cleanse me and make me whole.
The Great Scribe, who remembers nothing, not even your name the instant he writes it down, Would like it up here, I think, The blank page of the sundown sky, the tamarack quill points, and no one to answer for.
We’ve got to examine truth. To me, writing, from the very beginning and right until this day, is a voyage of discovery. Of the mystery of life. I am one of those people who have no religious faith, I am an atheist. I believe there is only...
