Auto-Writing I

Im on surround sound now and the winds are playing to me. When I was a little boy, I heard the story of why the snake swallowed the moon and saw it happen on a nearly clear night. And I knew all the stories of the earth were true, none less poetic than the other. For the earth is made of poetry hard and unyielding to the mind. Very supple for the heart. Because in the eyes of poetry the strong and the weak are neither to be envied. Envied be the mediocre. For to the ears of poetry, music is not in your hands. It is in your blood. And blood is that which courses through all. And blood is that which falls as tears. And blood is that which feels love.