At her funeral little was spoken but, “She was like many leaders, so self-fulfilling as if they were their own prophecies.” They learned not to romanticize or euphemize her legacy, which turned out “the best thing about her legacy,” their children would say years later. The youngest ones wouldn’t even remember the pivotal day their predecessors stopped deceiving themselves in the whirlwind of matter and things that don’t. When their own leaders stopped progressing time forward and began following light deep.
Her name: Read More
Holding my daughter
I read to you, my Baby In The Womb, your first book. It was Annie Dillard’s Holy the Firm. You may say I have great expectations for you, but really hardly less than the Lord your Father’s for you, Little One. You will learn this early on — and perhaps you already know (but most of us forget amidst the flashes and specks of this disco-ball world) — that God is perfect and so must be his Word. Therefore, the individual letters of the alphabet, or characters, are inherently essential and truth-giving: Read More
Daddy has a pen
This is the poem he wrote
Now we call it, ‘Home’ Read More
Sculpture by Mark Austin Byrd
Do you hear that sound?
Music no longer moves you
So an angel cries.
2017, Amaya Engleking
Grampa told Gramma,
“That boy sat by me all day,
Listened to me talk.”
“Our grandson learns abundance: Read More
He is a living God, so we don’t need your laws of nutrition and insurance: Whatever we consume with a prayerful heart, we get what we need Read More
Full circle—the world really is changing. I know because I’ve been there and remember how it felt just before the ‘big bang,’ the orgasm, the branching into the true unknown. Read More
Art by Amaya Engleking, pencil on paper
Mason Zhang and I in the alley last night with the laobaixing salt-of-the-earth, including the cook who proudly performed his version of ‘ABCDEFG’ for me last week. His friend—a taxi driver in his fifties, though by appearance I’d have guessed at least seventy, by his sunken face with a bulge under the right side of his lip—didn’t smile when he said he was pleased, nor did he do so when he sang. He took the old revolution songs seriously and lifted his left leg to motion a guitar while his foot tapped the beat. Read More
Photo: Joan Fontcuberta
The mind fragile; he crosses an ocean and all disintegrates into order.
Into her arms he goes; rip, decision, spill. Freeing the border.
The old line awakens into dance, A New One! The rhythm spins.
The beat of every blue shade. Simple: A new wor(l)d begins. Read More
What is freedom without discipline? A sloppy mess, like a Warhol painting. Piss with a little bit o’ oils. “Ooh, the quintessent frame of culture. Your urine streak there across the titanium white looks like a vice lord sitting legs crossed in a pew, twirling his thumbs while the priest breaks the communion bread. Then the drunk walks into the confessional and calls to the guy next to him if there’s any paper in that one.” Art at its most flamboyant. Read More