4.29.12 | Journaling

i'm writing this from my tiny phone screen in the back of a truck somewhere in the pacific northwest to the sound of eastern storm on western ground and irish folk music being sung by men with soft souls but rough faces. my friend is asleep on my lap. we are wrapped in Icelandic wool, heading north and the wind is very cold. I need a good meal but all we have is a bar of chocolate. I can sometimes see mt. hood in my view. what I really want is a bag of kettle chips and warmer hands. there is a man speaking about jealousy to a woman relating it, somehow, to democracy. he is sure, she is sure... and all i know is that it's good for my writing. 
I notice this, these little things and also that my hair is wind torn.

4.15.12 | 3 A.M., to say the least.

creature person, 

today was like ingot & hung in ochre by noontime. it left as an ingot again for the other piece of sky that blows westward. I napped with my eyes shut & palms in fresh water during the beginning to night with heavy handed light & looming thunder, under an awning. they were both like lullabies and spoke some ancient language my dreams know. in the woods, morels were hunted in the maze of brown & gloom. it was a vertical thicket where ground mud grew to bark that grew to vine until it was in branch form. all were disheveled like sleeping monsters in mammoth shapes. amidst that wyeth palette, a cardinal sat like a needle prick of red and fluttered like a pulse to the scenery - a breathing signature. there was no sound but hail in the high branches.