ANNOUNCE:: new format.  ANNOUNCE:: new brew.  Tired of telling tales and urging more rigueur for sake of praxis.  ANNOUNCE:: prose rising.  I urged it!  I spun and run!  O praxis my axis!

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It’s as if the world had crumbled away and reformed itself, chunks in the air, babes in the streets, and why we move is a mystery that only motion can resolve.  To evolve is just an act of culination, feeding life into a sieve, passing and parsing and passing through, and who comes next is a new taste on the tongue.  What palettes we are, mess o’ muck splattered in cantankerous throes, and woe he who finds the muck amiss, for they’ll become a hedge fund for a cube.  What a move! and what a swing, deep breeze prowling down our souls, hair on end down the arms and lightning in the spine, how fine the measureless design.  We climb into light, canter and fling and too soon strength makes the cling to sight imperative, what shoes we have, what claws.  All raw hearts break asunder, and what luck, what a joy to those who wreak – calm beak, flung eye, talons in the wind, and all the light the heart cannot rescind.

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REFLECT ::  Great time reading a couple weeks ago at a benefit for Hot Mess Compound in Oakland.  Hosted by the fantabulous Ded Cooter, the evening featured acoustic sets by residents Anna, Nick, and Chris Christie, who kicked living ass on the steel guitar.  Evening ended with an electro dance party, and much spazzing and swirling with the many-gendered folk.  Happy times with good ol’ down home funmaking…

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Ruth move – who can blight and likewise harbor sight?  Only true sand streams the glass.  Only tempest will last in the final mind, where halcyon retakes the shine and is but image, but a tainted shrine.  Come back, come back and you shall have the chance to cup, and if you missed the first, your luck is up.  Apotheosis sings, but in the end it is the ruthful mind that leaves the lasting rend.

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ANNOUNCE ::  Excited about the SF release party later this month for Divining Divas:  100 Gay Men on Their Muses, a new anthology edited by Michael Montlack.  Whole buncha folks from the area and beyond will gather to release their divas on the world.  Looking forward to getting down with all that divatacular energy.  Reading deets on the Events page, and book details on the Anthologies page.  Come on by and check it out!

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Back from the battle and twice as mean, we gather streams in cupped hands and hope for meaning.  Unless of course it is enough to take a draught, splash the face, and grimace at the sky.  From far horizons fleet flocks of starlings navigate toward, and soon become planchettes darting through each others’ paths directly overhead.  Directly above the top of the skull.  What well releases when we open head to air?  What rare stream comingles with the sky, with flocks of birds and other sheer intelligence?  Soon a perfect whirlwind forms, not of wind but of our fine kinds, and all the battle lifts and scatters into shreds the spread the countryside, so many puffs of bread waiting for the birds.  We stand and shore, letting soil be our nerves.  We store – and inch by inch, granule by granule we take our hearts in hand through sheer breath of land, and undermine the makers of the mire.  We start a fire.

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Just a little kindling here, a kind bit of pour.  Sparks and wisps to bring us to the here.  August brings us baskets, we determine what they’re for.  Have a month, and have a sentient year.

Sincerely,
Richard