Can hear the wind if eyes closed long enough and go to any old place in full spectrum tilt, pick a place you know well and the whiirrrrrr and whiiippppp!! of the genteel flits by your eyes like you’re there always never left.
self well I go to a place on a cold, black sidewalk between old Illesheim and Bad Win! in the dark pine of the Bavarian north where a connecting piece of the Natürliche Frankenhöhe runs between three farms and over a busy creek meeting the train tracks leading into town, place I spent a couple years
my whole life
lying in wait for the sun to set so I could howl at the moon when I wasn’t elsewhere howling at the moon, weekend after weekend after weekend after weekend.
usually in the middle of a circular grove cut out like a magazine where behind is the type of bald bulbous hill uses in photos, only a single tree up there, nothing else, maybe the long white beam of a midnight-farmer’s-tractor shone in the dark and up early to set the manure before the day lights, saw it every time I feel asleep woke up there too much wine.
other times winter white listening to Greetings From Michigan and stopping in my plodded tracks when I hear the mellow rise of “Vito’s Ordination Song,” feeling like xmas spat out in life form verisimilitude of the stories I always knew, finally at 25 a goddamned frozen pond, walking on it like the christ on water, this is my miracle.
It's All Freedom 