rumbleheart, i heard a rumor. i heard what happened today, i heard from a heard from a falling tree-bird that Trump trounced through the tumbled tundra today (it was important to hear and i heard it here first). i heard he’s bedazzled in glittering gold corpses and i heard today he said that he’d say what he said he’d say when he said nothing at all. i heard, i heard, she said, i heard. i hear the rumbling of something else, too – the hollowed shell of the sea, gurgling mermaid murmurs back through the mirror of the sun. i hear something else, too – the winged cry of my boy in the sand – singing carols to the crooning of the crabs. i hear another, and another. i hear things too. things more valuable than trumpeting tweets and teetering towers of tricks and treats. i hear things too – tiny and ringing – a frequency higher than the tongue of social media. i hear the breeze blowing chunks of cloud consciousness into my hair. i hear the silence of the stars still heaving. i hear the roots of the rooted-ones still resonant and resounding – reaching, reached; teaching, taught. i hear things too. things too tasteful for Trump to tout. i hear river songs. i hear hope. i hear bottomless beaches of people reaching our voices for melodies to sing. i hear people rattling the drums. i hear the drums rattling back against the horizon. i hear the Earth tucking in for the night. i hear women carrying cities on their backs. i hear minorities mounting high the momentous monuments of our own momentary history. i hear muslims praying perfectly; profoundly; presciently; perpetually. i hear gender-queer fluidity lapping like a shore, like a river, like an ocean. i hear the horizon widening. i hear people standing up, sitting down, taking no shit. i hear people speaking courage words. i hear a people rising. i hear a moonbeam cracking open its eyes. i hear a people awakening. i hear a surge of voices singing out in songs of sacred unity. i hear a chorus of creative hearts curling around the edges of a coronated, corrosive corruption. i hear disease being purged. i hear people rattling the drums. i hear the drums rattling back. i hear our bird-song-trills, rancidly beautiful and terrifyingly bright; resounding and rattling and resisting and raging higher than tiny tweets from the ground. tweets don’t fly, but birds do.
Play hookie and stay at the Hillside Schoolhouse, an 1884 schoolhouse renovated to perfection in upstate New York.
“It is so rare to find perfection in this world but here we are. The Schoolhouse is one of warmest and most satisfying places we have ever been. The way in which you have designed this oasis makes it instantly feel like home in a way that transcends the concept.” — Schoolhouse guest, Susan