My Giant

Summer rain, melting Arctics and the lipids lining the nerves in your brain. These are the metrics of our times. Mere resolve is not enough to take care along the highway—you need wheels and prayer. When you realize there’s no there there that’s a scary day. End there. August, the extinction is terrifying. Quiet, too quiet. 100% humidity, not a single insect flying. Summer morning, summer evening, sighing the sighs of purgatory—grief without pain, death without dying. I’ve chosen the safety of these mountains and the beauty of their mists—such perfection which anyone can have for the asking. All you need to know is the names of things. Conflict, coercion, war, strife. Flying high in April, shot down over Germany. Have a good day. That’s life. Fix yr brakes. When I hit a pothole my fillings sing. Anything’s possible, it’s impossible to know what will happen until it’s happened. You can’t know what you’re doing until it’s done and even then you stare in wonder unmoved yet moved by the stillness a pure goodness, bone stillness, potential energy. You can practice it in the city or the desert. The wilderness or the mirror over your dresser.