[Image: “Mixed Messages,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

From whiskey river (italicized lines) (and welcome back, old friend!):

Cabin Poem

I

The blond girl
with a polka heart:
one foot, then another,
then aerial
in a twisting jump,
chin upward
with a scream of such
splendor
I go back to my cabin,
and start a fire.

II

Art & life
drunk & sober
empty & full
guilt & grace
cabin & home
north & south
struggle & peace
after which we catch
a glimpse of stars,
the white glistening pelt
of the Milky Way,
hear the startled bear crashing
through the delta swamp below me.
In these troubled times
I go inside and start a fire.

III

I am the bird that hears the worm,
or, my cousin said, the pulse of a wound
that probes to the opposite side.
I have abandoned alcohol, cocaine,
the news, and outdoor prayer
as support systems.
How can you make a case for yourself
before an ocean of trees, or standing
waist-deep in the river? Or sitting
on the logjam with a pistol?
I reject oneness with bears.
She has two cubs and thinks she
owns the swamp I thought I bought.
I shoot once in the air to tell her
it’s my turn at the logjam
for an hour’s thought about nothing.
Perhaps that is oneness with bears.
I’ve decided to make up my mind
about nothing. To assume the water mask,
to finish my life disguised as a creek,
an eddy, joining at night the full,
sweet flow, to absorb the sky,
to swallow the heat and cold, the moon
and the stars, to swallow myself
in ceaseless flow.

(Jim Harrison [source])

…and:

Thank You for letting me live for a little as one of the
sane; thank You for letting me know what this is
like. Thank You for letting me look at your frightening
blue sky without fear, and your terrible world without
terror, and your loveless psychotic and hopelessly
lost
      with this love

(Franz Wright [source])

Not from whiskey river:

I was dozing in a dingy seat on a flight out of Cairo—forehead on the window and eyes squeezed shut against the harsh morning light—when a staticky noise jolted me awake and alerted me to the fact that I had no control over my life.

It was the pilot’s voice coming over the PA. “We will be landing in Luxor in thirty minutes, insha’allah,” he said. Insha’allah. If God wills it.

If God wills it, we will land in thirty minutes.

[…]

But then I heard a construction that didn’t fit the mold. As I was arranging an appointment, the man I was scheduling it with said, “I will meet you tomorrow at noon, definitely. Insha’allah.”

Definitely, insha’allah. I was flummoxed. It wasn’t a noncommittal pleasantry.

[…]

Why? I’d never find out. The only answer was to stop buying into the idea that the future was foreseeable, or that I had any real say in it.

This, I began to think, was all the man had really meant by definitely, insha’allah. By saying I will be there at noon, definitely, if God wills it, he wasn’t being pious or circumspect. He was just being honest. It was a simple recognition of the human condition: that we can never know what happens next.

(Samantha Childress [source]

…and:

I am proud of what mark I believe I am in that, in the book of the world.

The great, great run of us, in the tales told by winds and mountains and trees and cities and the sea and Leviathan and the abyss and by him, my erstwhile master then companion, of whom we spoke, are full stops. We are what happens in the infinitely small instances between one moment worthy of remark and another. We are specks. Milliards of us contained within each such tiny beady ink eye.

But I believe, and I hope it is not the arrogance of love that befuddles me because I do not say I loved him and I know he never loved me, but I believe that were he ever to speak of me, if he were to write the great book of his own life, when it came to the few years I was at his side, that he, for the curl of a moment, as if raising a finger, would pause as if for breath.

That I am one of the elect, privileged forever to be a comma.

(Keanu Reeves and China Miéville [source])