I saw a jet fly past the moon like Santa Claus in the movies. My sensitivity to persecution means I never enjoyed E.T. Dead flowers are so perfect but they definitely make weird gifts. We love a mundane problem for once let’s all fix this. I’ve been receiving letters lately, myriad legible thoughts. The memories one stoked were buckets in a drought. There was one that irked me weirdly, yet another, simply sweet. You’ll never make it up that boulder if you can’t trust your feet. The plums are tumbling out the tree. The garden’s overgrown. There’s nothing for their suffering but to offer up a kind of home. Collective energy is everything, so is being held. There’s nothing like community, there’s nothing like oneself.

This one is for you, current presumptuous mess that you are. For well you know that a garden untended suffers any myriad of fates. Too much sun, or rain, wild animals and tiny parasites, illness. I think of The Secret Garden, all the greenery in all directions, on all surfaces, hemmed in by stone walls. A garden will grow however it pleases without you. If you return years later, there could be thorns, brambles, leaves that cause you itch. You cannot lie comfortably where you once did, nor might you will the vines to make you a bed. You could hack your way through the overgrown paths, or recall that you are a tender of life and must be patient. This isn’t anything new to you, but you’re distracted of late, idealizing what is most dull. The truth is this garden always looks so appealing from afar, then shows not a care for your return. Rarely there is fruit, and without discernible pattern. Tremendous is the might of growth-driven things. In the entanglement now is a good place to grieve. What once was and couldn’t be, all the flowers you may not ever see, and the gardens you’ve left to thrive.

He’s easily discouraged cuz that’s all he’s ever been. You’re often quite unsure about the state your heart is in. He used his skateboard as a weapon. He can’t ride here anymore. The rodeo kid flashed bruises then claimed he wasn’t sore. If there’s anger in our earnestness it comes with the territory. We all have our own role in this. Ultimately it’s not my story.

The raccoons came back tonight. Two crept up on me while I was writing something else. We startled each other. I had to stand up and be big real fast in the middle of my spliff. Raccoon chitters are scary, and the arched creep of them is kind of ghastly. As I eyed those weirdos in the shadowy dark their defensive, awkward pugnaciousness brought to mind some students. Everyone feels cornered sometimes, teenagers most of all. Long after my heartbeat slowed, I thought of you. I write ridiculous shit, but I don’t believe most of it. I believe you love me when you can. I believe that shoveling the raccoon shit from the driveway was a smart move. I don’t mind taking direction from you. I wish there was more of it.

I met a random older fisherman at a bar in West Yellowstone. During his first triple shot of Bacardi on ice, I learned some and laughed a bit. Somewhere in round two, he suddenly asked me if I knew I’d broken hearts. He was sure I had, serious. I couldn’t laugh. I’d meant to become a legend. I didn’t intend to cause pain. A dream somehow realized that has been heartbreak for me as well. I never wanted to be known, only to be wanted. Now I am committed to work that involves being known and it’s terrifying and normal and boring and altogether the biggest adventure of my life. The first time I was considered brave for traveling I was baffled. “I was running away,” I tell people, “I didn’t feel brave.” Bravery is another person’s assumption that I had been known, somewhere at some time, and left it for unknowing. Most of everything I’ve ever known is unknowing: it took me a very long time to get acquainted with my self. To be alone in a strange place with few resources; to make my way on kindness, willingness, and open mindedness. To be “Good, Giving, and Game” in my experience of the world. That I am already in love with the unknown is a gift, I am sure. An expensive one.

listening to the raccoons chittering out in the barely dark. are you trying to have purpose or are you trying to make art. let’s try a different word. let’s seize another day. their neighbors have been bickerin on the cost of hay. he’s here just on probation. each must participate to pass. that one is my favorite: i’m saving it for last.