There is something about all of this, all of it. Something that pushes me over the edge. And strangely that is ok. In fact, it is wonderfully ecstatic. How could anyone be fully, purely cynical or bitter about beauty?

Over the weekend I travelled to Richmond to attend a funeral. A close friend’s father passed away. To thine own self be true. I could see the snow falling on the mountain. And the sun still shines. And food is still food. And now is now over. As a gift, my brother gave me something I never thought I would see or have the time to look at. A copy of “The Floating Bear”—#18 to be exact—the poetry newsletter put out by Amiri Baraka and Diane di Prima. Is old news still important: Richard Nixon broke the law and William Taft was born in Ohio. The poems of David Meltzer and Charles Olson are on the pages in front of me. Isn’t now still then, once more unto the breach, dear friends, the same concerns for functioning poetically. Now. Is newness ever newly rendered. Is passing from one world to the next ruined by the same theme, the same news. Every time. Certainly, this is all very uncertain.

I am everything that I want to be.