Writing This From Bed

Like Truman Capote I’m writing this in bed. Writing in my sleeping bag, transcriptions from skull wall, elephant ears grow from memory’s heads…ghost fragments of all friends shivering me temples. A constant staccato signal stutters outwhere, of who, of how, of whispers under my covers. I, a child, am taught to think with a new body, an awkward body, a joyfriend body, reveling under fulling moon, just letting motion happen. Even with my graying hair the body moves mostly how I tell it…spine pain grinding away under the lunatic sky, but me, laughing at the sweetness of it all…rolling along on crazzy green wheels led by the 7 muses of Art, Insight, Nonsense, Strangeness, Light, Energy, and Yes. Chanting of nonScrit sanSense words had me hand over heart, hands in air, bellowing as a baby bellows first words, tossing them out like cheerios from my lunglipped bowl. The room itself chanted, vehicle of a hundred yogis bursting with Bhaktic glee. It was a mytheirheart situation, and it was good. It knocked my shieldface off. I was happy to give it all away. José on the cushion next to me, vibrating kindness in every direction, his smile alone beats back the snarling orca of despair. And still there was the strange dream, this morning, sitting on a cold ground next to a fence, watching an owl silently wheel in a field. It came straight for me and I tapped it with my sole, sending it caroming against bumpers of soft air. It came again and this time I tapped its forehead with a broomhandle, knighting it as it veered, turned, landed next to me. Imperturbable owl.