Like two empty canoes we floated through narrow canyons of lost time oblivious of tall mountains hovering like dark foreboding giants waiting to pounce upon our reverie. But cold piercing rain came closing our solitude of memories replaced by a barren abandoned road wrinkled in empty time devoid of life but for sharp lightening filled unknown skies crashing down around us.
A fixer upper, she laughed,
driving by an old crumbling cabin
along a backroad outside
a mountain town deep in
the San Juan Mountains
Leaves were turning yellow now,
returning to the forest floor
ready for winter snow and cold.
Stopping to explore the site,
stories abounded from tired ghosts
roaming too long in
three shambling rooms
with curling wallpaper
Sears & Roebuck
when life was
What were those stories of
struggling simpler hard times
written somewhere in a long lost
Stories of small joys of
a wagon trip west,
isolation & love,
storms & heat,
cold & snow
dust & drought,
horses & cattle,
gardens & work,
living on the coast
with only faded family photos
of a wedding in Chicago,
a man and a woman,
of two children,
their stories lost forever
in unmarked graves
in a valley below
the San Juans
I prefer alone over crowds. I prefer quiet over noise. I prefer solitude over parties. I prefer sun over clouds. I prefer full moons over dark. I prefer hippies over conservatives. I fear loneliness when the sun sets when all goes away into the dark of night when meditation is alone. I prefer your warm body. I prefer your quiet breath. I prefer your fragrant scent. I prefer your unconditional love next to me in our soft bed sharing endless dreams.
Corruption. Retraction. Destruction. Construction. Distraction. Inaction. Contraction. Expansion. Build what is destroyed under cloudy skies when thoughts digress and judgement of someone’s dearth of death is lapped up by hungry dogs smiling all the way. Pant and paint with red squirrel brushes dipped in Cézzane’s oils while the jester juggles his nine angry balls and the fairy princessfloats in mid-air through the flaming red hoop. The wall is built. The celebration begins with green fermented potions to transforms lost souls into poets, artists, musicians, and sad society’s misfits who bring forgotten truth to the New York Times denied quickly by politicians protecting their golden villas from teeming unwashed minions in the Minotaur’s maze. Live in giddy sorrow that can only be denied when we wash our hands in our own warm cruor that frees us to love as the sick destiny of ancient ageless prophecies.
Deja Vu arrived today delivered by Fed Ex Fed Ex Fed Ex as always efficiently to my doorstep doorstep doorstep Just when I thought my package was there it came again again again over many lifetimes when time reversed itself running backwards away only to repeat mistakes mistakes mistakes Skewed perceptions locked in time and space alter alternative reality that all is at once allowing us to choose. But that sometimes sneaks up on the unaware that we have all been here before.
The skateboard king twirls his own
tenuous tricks to the sound of
one hand clapping alone
for his stupendous trove.
Achilles looked on with envy
cursing the arrow in his heel.
Paris smiled silently
at the shimmering seal.
The King’s last one slick snare
failed and bailed out to one
bright Pleiades in mid-day flare.
All clapping was finally done.
The poet has died, no more songs to sing.
No more profound words to write in
the tattered coffee stained notebook
with a worn out pencil he took.
He died last week a month ago,
a year or millennium so,
How did he live, how did he die?
Many are those who wonder why.
Had he written too much sad verse?
Were there no more poor rhymes to curse?
Did drugs take that deft mind?
Too many words he could not find?
No more, no more words of prayer.
No more words for high ladies fair.
No more words of life, death and love.
No more cooing songs of the dove.
Do all the poor poets who die alone?
Each now sit on a golden throne?
Do they rhyme in heaven or hell?
There are none to come back to tell.