Everybody older is thinking about when they were younger. Time past is front of mind. The time I broke out of a Honduran prison. 26 cartel members and one poet—me. How a cluster of errands can total a day! Chased all the way to Panama by stolen shots, sticky rain.
Currently trying to write well enough to be parodied—a little butter on a slice of banana nut bread, and a little butter on a slice of pumpkin bread, oh man! You get parodied, you’ve arrived.
Panama’s pretty this time of year. And yet I dream of a time when there are no borders except identity, no national boundaries, but an international stage—except there isn’t an active ingredient in my body, although I’m experiencing the symptoms.
Thus, when I see the finches and sparrows splashing in the bird bath, I know my work is righteous and complete. I’ll keep blogging right up to the end. That is my commitment to you.
© 2020 Randy Stark