Photo taken on the Tilikum Crossing — Portland, Oregon
August 14, 2019 — 7:00 PM (PDT)
The illuminated bulb you’ll see in the sky tomorrow night will be brightest around midnight. Referring to the moon, I’ll be running under it as most of you sleep.
Hooray if you’re doing weird shit like me.
My father was born under what they named the Sturgeon Moon. It’s the same moon I was born under, but a different month.
The running is a part of my excruciating meditations on the go. If you’ve read my story of funding Budd on the run, you’re getting the live show of how different I write.
I never believed in zodiac signs, but there’s something about the gravitational pulls of full blown planets in sight. Like a high tide, or low tide, something’s afoot. Ever heard of Saturn’s return? Google it.
I could be making this shit up.
I’m running under this full moon to show you all what you’re reading, who you’re reading, and the poetic story of words I’ll meditate to through exhaustion.
Back in March, beneath the Full Worm Moon, just after my last panic attack and losing book one’s manuscript, I howled at the setting of winter’s last full moon.
So, if you’re looking up to the moon tomorrow night, think of a bridge. How one man’s run might’ve connected you to the missed appreciation of its brightness, likeness, and overcoming of bullshit kindness.
Whether I’m running out of funds,
Or with six figures in Chase; I do it for fun.
Running for the arts,
Going for broke ain’t smart.
Overcoming though sets me apart.
Writing for help, funding my arc.
It is what it is.
A writer running his bridge.
Would you allow that bridge to melt?
My story’s all I share,
From my city I began this dare.
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