The mind turns toward the big picture, piecing it together. The soul tries to cushion itself in that zen posture where everything meshes old and new now and then crash and burn in and out up and down what goes around sometimes doesn't come back. You know, the great thing about poetry is that before and after it makes its appearance on MTV, it is totally human, a thing of tongue and air pushing against another's understanding with no need of assurance or security or status or mass-mediums. So anyway, one year stacked upon another. I know that part of what I have to do involves sorting socks just as much as it once required sweat and noise and trainloads of anger.
Courage is passed on in lots of ways.
Here it's done with words spoken. What little I've got was given to me by ghost cowboys of New Year's past.