The Folks I Read As A Kid

Growing Up, Catholic Church Really Was Such An Incubator For My Imagination, Because All Of Those Mysteries Felt Embedded In This Insanely Green, Tropical Landscape: The Ocean Nearby, The Giant Banyan Trees. It All Felt Part Of One Seamless Mystery To Me.

My Fingers Curl Through The Holes In The Wicker, Through The Wet Grass Beneath It, Trying To Hold Tight To The Sharp Blades Of The Present. Somewhere In My Brain A Sinkhole Is Bubbling Over, And Each Bubble Contains A Scene From A Tiny Sunken World ... I Have Never Been The Prophet Of My Own Past Before. It Makes Me Wonder How The Healthy Dreamers Can Bear To Sleep At All, If Sleep Means That You Have To Peer Into That Sinkhole By Yourself. ... I Had Almost Forgotten This Occipital Sorrow, The Way You Are So Alone With The Things You See In Dreams.

At The End Of The Block Where I Used To Live In Coconut Grove In Miami, There's A Swampy Area, A No-name Alcove With A Little Mangrove Estuary. It's Beautiful.

I Do Think There's Something When You Have An Unbroken Day, And It Feels Like You And Your Attention Can Just Be Together Like Birds Again And You Can Actually Think And Dream A Little.

The Girl Has A Funny Way Of Romanticizing Things.