painting, and exploring in other mediums, like canoes and solitude.

the perpetual gypsy, slips out of his clinging bracelets and spies from behind the eyes of harry houdini.

she asked me what i was running from.

to, not from.

to myself, and i think i found him. briefly.

but here now, i find myself swimming against the tide and all the fear in the world is standing on the end on my frigid tale.

i dove into the ocean and it was warm. i skated on the moving water under golden gate bridge

i saved a monkey which treated me with disdain. the walls shook with abuse and i used the boardwalk in the peach flood of the afternoon.

there is an aching train caught in my throat.