I can’t help but wonder if my whole life is being conducted at the intersection between life and death. Between city and town. Between waking and dreaming. I have to wonder if this whole living affair is nothing more than the hoax of a richly bearded king of farse and his partner, the ruler of Jupiter. You all think we can walk away cleaner than we arrived. You all think when this is over you get to walk on cotton wool and weathervanes, traversing your idea of heaven unimpeded by the cosmos and consequence. I am here to lead you to the center of it all and I don’t even know my own name most days.

The degradation of body is the obsession of the mind.

I’m mostly ghost now.

I can’t shake the scent of lime oil. It reminds me of the Bowie T-shirt I bought when I was 14. It reminds me of the store that understood the cross-section between flower child and dissident even before I did.

It’s time to record the parallel lives. Time to let the illusion of sleep die. Time to admit that this thing we are is pervasively sleep-allergic and people-allergic.

Today I shoveled a million buckets of hot fly-swarmed compost into my garden and barely scratched the surface of the pile filling my driveway. I sweat all the water from my body filling and dumping buckets of the aromatic ammoniated crap into the empty beds.  My back threatened to break, my skin threatened to blister, but my mind was keen and eager to empty itself of the angry stink. My power rises when I don’t require it to help me survive, it rises when others need it to envelope them in a protective dream. All my power draws itself from an instinctual charge of lightening.

I know all the languages in my dreams.

My spirit outgrew my body before I was born.

I’m all fire and charcoal earth inside.

Your minor principality is crumbling.

Burn sage.