the fiery promise of what can not survive

i don't want to let another day get away without writing...

i love you. 

so grateful you are still alive. 

thank you 

for going to parties 

and festivals 

and making art 

and staying alive. 

and thank you for going to the winter of our discontent 

and standing with the water protectors 

and making something change. 

something bulldozing its way across the consciousness of so many willing to frack 

and trump 

and tolerate the injustices doled out by the one percent 

to the rest of what exists 

here 

in the majority of hilary voters. 

we may be down, 

but we are not out. 

we may be dying, 

because we love music and art making and bay area living 

and doing things that can not be done--

but we are, 

also, 

doing the something that can be done 

in the face of these things that 

are whirling around in fake news 

purporting to be the kind of "get real" 

that we 

don't 

want 

to 

be. 

somewhere, there are the souls of the beings who perished--

in the oakland fire--

in all the fires that have ever burned artists

and witches

and wives

and beloved ones

and they are doing what souls do 

now that they are free of the body. 

they are with prince 

and leonard cohen 

and david bowie

and the rest of the ones making their way to the other side 

of this 2016 life--

and they are uniting with the undead spirit of art 

and music 

and healing 

and love 

and wonder 

and awe 

and whatever else heaven is in their experience--

it can only be here, in my mind, 

for me, 

while i am here. 

but ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh for the bliss 

they must have felt

in the jam of 

what 

was 

pure 

love 

for the music 

and the scene 

and the promise of everything that exists 

in secret, underground lairs and labyrinths 

when they don't burn up--

that, i pray, 

was worth it. 

worth the price of admission 

and the walk up the stairs 

and the hearts, 

beating with that way that hearts beat 

when every single one of them is beating to the beat of the same music--

inspiring the awe 

and joy 

and jumping 

of the yum 

of this thing called 

yes. 

this thing called life. 

this thing called miracle. 

this thing called each other. 

this thing called home--where ever you make it and find it and recognize it in the eyes of the stranger friend that makes the further possible. 

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. further.

i was not at that party--though i could have been. 

hell, it could have been at my place 

in the once upon a time of the poet tree house 

when we were trying that thing that people try--

to build community 

out of art 

and willingness 

and broken dreams 

and loving promises 

that don't have anything to do with commerce 

or building codes, 

but everything to do with the love of "doing it my way". 

i don't know the ghost ship guys. 

i scour the pictures of them and the lists... 

but i don't think i know anyone on the lists

of the dead or the lost. 

i am one degree removed. 

my friends have friends who died. 

people they knew, 

they went to school with, 

they loved, 

they were inspired by, 

they believed in, 

they desired to become....

in that way where the "safe" ones 

look up at and down on 

the edge 

of whatever doesn't cut them 

all 

the 

way 

open. 

how many were a real part of that scene? 

how many were tourists? 

how many were there on a dare? 

how many? 

how many? 

how many? 

how many people loved the thirty six? 

is it 36 now? 

how many people loved them? 

siblings 

and parents 

and grandparents 

and teachers 

and colleagues 

and students in their same middle school classes? 

my friend knew one from middle school.

one of the dead. 

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, 

one of the dead. 

i wasn't there. 

in part, because my life has moved all the way to the bonfire coast of pacifica--

almost all the way from the fruitvale memories 

of failed artist colony, 

broken friendships 

and dead art dreams. 

dead? 

dead. 

what dies when things die? 

ideas? 

possibilities? 

willingnesses? 

what dies, 

like the fruit, 

with the onset of the flies? 

i am here. now. 

i am here. 

and i wasn't there--but i was in vegas--

not becoming one of the dead, 

but attending to the celebration of life 

that was turning 80 and 50 and 25 altogether. 

the miracle of my lover's family 

and their strange claim of me 

as one of their own. 

i was dancing. 

i was watching the miracle of the dance floor 

as we all,

in unison, 

myself included, 

did the wobble. 

i was all smiles as the team of brandy's people--

the trio of brandy's boys 

took to the floor 

to do what only those who grew up fully celebrated, 

wholly seen, 

and powerfully loved 

can do on a dance floor 

populated by the others 

that were, likewise, 

fully celebrated, 

wholly seen 

and powerfully loved 

with a depth, 

with a width, 

with a breadth 

that is as wide and deep and alive 

as 

love

itself. 

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,

what a miracle this family is to me. 

i was alive in the miracle 

and not dead in the flames. 

i was alive in the miracle, 

not dead in the flames--

though i love what gets burned up in fire--

what gets freed from form--

what gets released--

to go into the air and atmosphere of all things--

the lungs that house the grief

in the part of

a particle of 

what is promised 

as renewal

that 

which goes up in the flames of over

is one day celebrated in the charcoal

possibilities

of the artist's 

hands

now

here

ever

moving

with the spirit and power and truth

of what has been real-eased.

oh.

real-eased.

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. 

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

real eased.

i am here now, 

with the glass of canned wine and my memories

tapping out this tribute to things now over. 

moving in the after midnight, 

over the rainbow 

of this rich and beauty filled life

that takes me to and from work in a way 

that makes me feel 

like i 

finally 

live 

in right alignment. 

i remember all i longed for from the streets i walked all over that sacred fruitvale ground. 

i bow and kiss the sandstone of these crumbling pacifica cliffs.

i remember. i am grateful. 

there, 

but for the grace of gawd

and all the gaudiness of a newly elected trump in his tower, 

am i

here

now

alive.

on this side of the ghost ship set ablaze

in the fiery promise of what can not survive

on this side

of the veil.

i let go of what goes away. 

i keep just this: 

love is everything. 

family is everything. 

celebrating is the only real thing to do 

with each and every 

single, 

precious, 

numbered 

last

and almost last

lasting 

breath. 

(exhale)

keep showing up at the party--

and keep ending up on the dance floor. 

there is something to being in the tribe that dances--

whether in a warehouse full of flames in oakland

or in the icy cold of north dakota, 

keeping the oil spill out of the water supply--

your lives matter. 

your standing matters. 

your dancing matters. 

your sacrifice matters.

your memories matter.

your work matters.

your celebration

reverberates

throughout this land

of the living.

(and the dead).

you are 

fully celebrated, 

wholly seen 

and powerfully loved 

with a depth, 

with a width, 

with a breadth 

that is as wide and deep and alive 

as 

love

itself. 

i am grateful. 

i am dancing. 

now and forever

in memory

of all the beautiful things

about all the beauty full

lives

given to the miracles

of the here and now

and the aftermath

of coming home.

in this air and atmosphere

of mourning

and celebration.

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. 

home.

home comings

and home goings

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh