the words were like a healing balm
for my heart.
I would sit
indian style in the corner of the couch
reading and waiting
every single night.
with the same Harold Budd song playing,
every night.
one cup of dandi-blend from the kitchen and
a one-hitter of a fire blend
fed - exed to a friend in York
from somewhere out in California.
Monica would ask me the name of it;
if I preferred it over the last -
honestly, I forget the names of both.
I just needed the final part to this container of the
inner peace that I build,
every single night.
this container to hold me tight,
with a book,
here on the corner of the couch
listening to Brian Eno and Harold Budd,
predictable, and as a healing balm for the heart.
two pulls off a nameless strain and it makes me
feel better when I smoke it so really
what else do I need to know?

I carried bowling bags filled with
singing bowls made of
bronze and
a thirty - two inch gong
inside a venue tonight.
downtown York where the hip and the relevant come
to train each other in the leading etiquette of the day.
I called myself a pack - mule
even though I was nearly replaced
by a wagon weighted for at least
one hundred and fifty pounds.
mules are more sure footed than a handcart,
but I’m a whole person
and you’re only as relevant as you
convince other people you are.
three shakes of the smoked salt and a
frozen shoulder at half capacity and its
only 8pm but
I’m so tired, babe.
tomorrow I’ll be fresh and ready to go because tonight I’m
sleeping through the night.
and if I don’t then at least you’ll have
the cooler
with the ice packs
next to the bed with the towell
and some tylenol
and my blue goblet of the midnight bathroom sink tap - water.

water retains all the love you can give it and turns it into
diamonds and snowflakes when you say nice things to it
and I’m made of almost 80% water so tell me you love me, babe.
turn me into a crystal diamond and get me my shoes
we’re walking ALL the way to market today.
no more silly talk of nabbin that abandoned wheelchair off the porch
up the street.
because I’m healing and you’re healing, do you see?
our cells know what to do,
we just have to think
happy thoughts now.
so bring on the serotonin and
some neuropeptides and
call me Peter Pan.

but he’s brooding
and in a mood today
and the sidewalk is made of
eggshells.
the sun is setting under a
harvest moon and
I think that
he thinks
that he’s still like that
old leather indian woman,
all hollowed out and
for ages
standing stiff
inside a crevice
in a cliff wall.
but that is a tired old tune and he’s been playing it for years and
somehow he still has a hold of that
rusted old flute his mom played
when she was in kindergarten.
only now it sounds like blowing hot air through a
broken toy train whistle.
yet the tune plays on and its shrill against the night but
at least we have each other
and at least we know we’re healing.

blessings and abundance rain down and abound.
the only proper response is gratitude.