I have spent my life leaving people, with the
expectation of arriving at myself. Each small town promises a better life, a new
beginning. There is a loneliness in my departures, a severing that untangles me
from the web of my family,
and thrusts me into self-reflection that drags my
sense of well being through gravel filled potholes.
I have paid a high price for my freedom, my soul restless like a tumbleweed, my heart boils with wonder, never giving in to what others expect of me. I have stared hunger in its gaunt face, dodging the artillery of those around me, my soul riding shotgun, money in the backseat. I have survived bullets of criticism, a dreamer, a gypsy, whose freedom hinges on obscurity, and stayed true to my writing. I have survived my break ups, and risen from my breakdowns, sidestepping the speculation by others of when I would fall again.
Poetry is my religion. It is the unpeeling of deceit, and all things that are superficial, and the resurrection of truth, the only truth, the heart.
It is the poets, writers, and painters, not the politicians, of this world, that heed the truth, that keep the world turning. Poets, writers and painters have the courage to cut the umbilical cord to societal conformity and resuscitate the still heart of being an individual, paving over broken roads so our children may travel more securely, and always with our blessing.
The highway is like a magnet to me. My dreams lie over the mesa, from the lips of Santiago, in a rocker of pine, under New Mexican sky, in a mug of cold beer, in the wild dog's cry. By my own design, may I never arrive.
