the freaks come out at night

whew, just this last month kicked the shit outta us for reasons too complicated and too personal to list here. my reading and my movie watching and all sorts of daily rituals were thrown out of whack. not that i'm complaining. life moves at an incredible clip and sometimes the struggle to keep up can make you winded.

and but then today began with reading a little berrigan where i came across that quote i posted below. life sure is hard but it is a blast [as ernesto priego reminded me in an email, a blast both positive and negative] all the same. i'm reminded that sometimes, as our cat ernie tells us, you gotta stop and eat the flowers.

okay then the walk home was lovely. the rains have stopped for now and the clouds cleared to reveal a sky so blue and open that, as roger daltry once sang, i can see for miles and miles. the streets were packed with people enjoying the early spring evening. the grocery store and the tacqueria were jammed. it seemed, at least to this old coot, festive.

fuckin' a. praxis of life is poetry is life again. ain't it. at least for this old coot. almost old, i mean, half-way there. depends on one's perspective regarding age. but what the hell. even when i was young i thought i was old. the praxis of poetry is to make mistakes and keep on going anyway. the same goes for a life. i'm no longer interested in the well-made urn. i am fascinated by how the process of writing makes the poems and that that process is centered in how i live my life.

shit, all this useless beauty, as declan mcmanus once declared. indeed. and it is all i need.