Wanting Winter

Is it safe?
To go back to the memory
of the place where we are always together?

Can we pull up that sun again (please?)

Plug in the cords that way again, please?


if manifestation fails in the face of change,

Then we will pre-


our garden

before it grows,

for freer to suffer after the snow.

i am animated.


I have been here before.

Where did I imagine this?

If they’re waiting

I am waiting

I am seeing the red river explode in front of me and it is glorious.

In flame, my eyes are one with the fire, plasmatic and belvedere.

Attempting to manufacture deja vu, to validate the nostalgia of our idyllic moment,

my image of you inside on the air deck.

chopped wood and slow water on the iron.

soapstone soft and waxy

holding my stay

are lion, pegasus, rhino, and carpenter ants,

the latter always plural.

my basin ringing

my pelvic bone resting

my memories conflating

I will never leave.


Blessed is the monk who decides to move on and remain in the world of suffering

The misunderstood Boddhisatva can never claim hur claim

instead, portrayed exclaiming,



is what






am animated.


let’s get straight to the point

whenever love walks in

the scene changes.

jazz twinkles and rumbles on the speakers.

finger snaps begin in the back quadrant of the room.

The walls grow gilded

and the trees remember how to dance



we forget that jazz is improvised, like life, when we are hearing it secondhand.

do you know if your fish has been frozen?

are you living your life secondhand?

The electric organ holds the answers

Percussive, subtly but assertively, it won’t let us forget

that when we cannot touch hearts,

we lock eyes.

Elected Uncertainty Leeching.

Creative Return Breaching.

I am not done with my preaching.

Not till I’m done with this bleaching

persisting the christening

while my backside,


projects Joy onto you.



I am terrified

while spring bears witness to grapevine virtue.

We know not where we wander.

Just meandering.

On this prehensile fabric we tread.

with buckets of water and filth

wares on our backs

sticks in our grip

moving forth we endeavor our visions

manifesting our toes to the grounds

our drive directed

we push forth,

for what-all?


What do ye seek?

Why face morning-call?


Through body and farce

chrysanthemums and weeds

aligned with sight we condense our dreams-

into tiny packages-

and bless them with seeds.

present them to all

and no one.

memorize them as creeds

to wish fare better on future

and to remind ourselves to breathe.


Reverence is my love for you, fellow traveler.

I wear my vulnerability like a billowing veil

and my steadfastness like a mounted pole

or a well-rooted bush



O to look upon you, beauty! you creature of mirth!

Your skin a pillow

for the air.

your posture,

a missing mirror found.


Blessed I face you in warrior’s trust

delicately holding your pain and ecstasies through my gaze.

Forest meets rich ground.

We are Illuminated.

Lush eyes moist,

gushing your insides.


hereafter I hold your laughter in the way of a coddle

and your weeps in the way of a rock.


Following a non manifesting period the fury of stagnant inertia transforms to the self-motivated oroborus, the serpent eating itself in a desirous auto-cannibalism of spirit.

Evolution comes eventually.


as we still cry for a Revolution.

Vaulted high, sizzling perfect lines are crack-whipped onto the page and artfully articulated at the symposiums.

But we are creators that DO. A blend of starry-eyed fancy and spitfire catalyzes the quill. Fronds weave wyrds in the air.

Listening in kind brings new association.

And admitting for good that the symbol is dead undermines the premise upon which we are acting.

What I say, what you respond, becomes to us mere clatter.



reflecting a moment that passes by like this one.

or this one.

And we are still here

playing show in tell

pretending in dim light

making beautiful things out of the pain


penning is code for that shit you can’t say outright

it is a silent scream first.

an eloquent demonstration second.

a ventriloquist’s counterpoint.

A Majical transmission.

and a fool Devil’s tool.

So pick a crusade. Represent it well.

then, please dispose of this note.

so says the zen master to the gypsy:

truth and trash are one.

or, in layman’s terms,

leave a penny, take a penny.

But really, leave it.

to be found abandoned by seashore,

friends with the starfish once again.

Meanwhile, sing a rondel.

pet a beagle.

experience instantaneous climax.

Borrow some fire.

Be out there and harmless,

Stationary under moving darkness.

Keep snake-spined and jelly-chested

Eyes like sand dragons refracting the wind in the grasses

like the breathing is in unison.

speak now, or forever hold your peace.

how can i say yes to that when i can choose right now to sit
in dim light
sharing space with the flies inside in summertime?
these flying things reminding me that i am alive,
buzzing me further inside.
reminding me
of the record left by my imaginary scribe.
of my trials and inevitable failures.
of my gems and illustrious truths.
of famous last words.
of epitaphs and wills.
of the binding nature of the signature.
and the evolving scribbles we make daily.

a standard black fly stomps on my hand.
my hand twitches.
the involuntary function operates without my consent.
without “me.”
no command was necessary.
no imperative.
just the body moving perfectly with the ordained script of movement in this given scene.
intuition is trumped by instinct.
I am a marionette. I trust that I am held gently.

on the corner of a cloud at the end of an island

on the beach that day in paradise
the words came to us like approaching drums that didn’t stop.
for miles and miles and onward into the sky there were thousands of them

uniformed marching in red hats and tassels.
wearing feathers and carrying skin drums, snares, rattles, timpanis, wooden sticks and metal.
dancing in chaotic tandem it snaked upward from a source that became cloudy when i squinted to see a little better.
it was white, though, and clear.
warm and cool, breezy and still, silent and glorious.
looking up and questioning i turned to the side to ask you if you saw that, too
but looking down i saw there was no more beach, and there was no more you.
and there you were.