Through the leaves
a fusion in my eyes
summer's light
embraced within and
On the breeze
the warmth lingers
Like a kiss suddenly
On humbled mountains;

See there, the old
trodden path of the stars?
The cold black wings
of bats, emerging
from the earth?
I feel it in my bones
As I lie in the dust
I see it in my dreams
those broken memories
of Horizons of unbounded
entropy ever unfolding
Like a flower even
Beyond the final petal;

Summer is, sweet and bold
And full of life
Sharper than a knife
And equally as clean
Hanging there waist side
Ready for a fight.

Twenty hundo on the brass tho
and they wonder why I flash glo
******* walking through the grass low
and they wonder why they crass, tho.

Ate some sea food and an *******
Now I'm swimming is some glass snow
Brain so stirred, I'm talking fast slow
Starry night, just like a Van Gogh.

Like the moon, I'm casting shadow
Laced with oil colored pastel
Call me empty, I'm a vast shell
Alexander, call me Graham Bell.

My bones, know this mountain range
My heart beats like an owl’s wing;
Soft, at the ending of a day.
Summer is fading, surely
Over the empty scabs of spring
And yet, a few flowers remain;
Penstemons and asters
Though their petals litter the sand
Like forgotten feathers.
Who then, calls on the wind
The moon, to transfer the dead
To the field of stars? Who then,
With strong bones, tends
To the living.

Above, on the bleeding cliffs
Petroglyphs illuminate in the sunset,
I see them, the remaining images, linger
In the last light.

This star dust is litter
The last tree is hope
I held my eyes to the cold light
Of a burning cigarette.

A man with no legs
A mountain full of rain
Who then comes here
Without any pain?

Grasp all the open
empty branches of the mind;
Keep all that is wasted
In the warm sands of time.

Beyond the farthest horizon
Past all the known light;
Grows then, a simple memory
Of a sudden, single spark.

Beside the stream
of eternity, the long cliffs
march into the unknown;
Every rock and pebble sings
Thunderous and wild.

Within the forest of time
On branches of moss and ivy
Sits the old ancient owl;
Waiting for the small quiver
Of a mouse in hazy moonshadow.

Beyond the gardens of stars
An emptiness quakes and yearns
For flowers to be born
For mountains to break and bleed
And sing and cry.

The harbinger of death
Arrives in summer
On sultry wings,
A blessing of the winds
Frayed and torn,
Receiver of the ill and
Mistress to the moon
(A kiss from eternal worlds)
In the time of fire and flood
Dressed in a dusky robe
Appears out of the deeper
And darkest woods
On the earliest day of the year.

It’s a dream, they keep
In false eyes, memories
Of forgotten stars
On horizon’s edge
Fluttering like a great wave
Floating between two
Unknowns, fierce
And enduring.

Tree limbs on moon beams
Leaps so frightfully to the edge
Of ever existence, only then
Will the shadows finally fear us.

Look at the stars, the space between
The owl and the deeper woods, why
Then would one begin to say
That this day, is far too short?

But a snake in the weeds,
beside the barn, sliding
away down the grassy wood.

The red fox
That Lewis
Shot at
And missed.

A river
That snaked
Away into
Endless mountains.

Beyond smoke
Bird wings
Floated between
Broken desires.

And deeper
In brush
The shadow
Leaped away.

Down by the river
At dusk, where eternity
Tiptoes like a cat.

slowly
the tide turns
while the seagulls
ride the waves of air
above the dunes.
The white sails of
storms float on
and away, the broken
shell lays buried in the sand;
I grab it with my mind.
Beyond the dunes
in the cool, dark cedars
the old wind still stirs
salty and brash.

Laid down like a pine
after a mountain wind
after billions of years
the forest of space
is still widening

Sleet rain at night
From a cloudless sky
Was such a beautiful sight
To see you there smiling
Between the stars

On smoked tipped wings, the
Owl sweeps the empty forest;
Death’s sweet renaissance.

Moon climbs spring time smoke
Like a prayer I spoke last night;
The young aspen quake.

Openly devout
The empty branches exhale;
Only the wind sways.

Spring song is birdsong;
Gone, no rain but the old wind
Sighing so deeply.

What coarse winds, rise you?
Even to think, an untamed spark
May burn such sorrow.

Through the windows of spring
I’m going to take my time, now
Cleaning all these windows of mine;
It’ll take time, I will take the time, unforgivingly.
I’m going to stop to salute all the
Tender, murmuring purple flowers of spring
And all the blue birds in wavering branches.
Seeing the absolute, first star of night
Ah, my mind is open now, just come on home
Walking down dusk's open path,
I'll be there waiting, beside the stream of your choosing.

There’s no time left here to linger in this stardust
Any longer, the feeling is magnifying to extreme
The moon is low and quiet against the mountain.
And who counts the hours, the minutes? Only the lonely
Owl in the woods, only those beautiful, lost souls of the desert.
And like an old, battered lighthouse, our tender senses
Search the broken horizon for any sign of a white sail.

And then we say goodbye, despairingly
With the starlight still left heavy, within our eyes.

I think I see one now, gliding like some ancient memory
Through the fog, there among the breakers of my mind
At low tide.

I opend my cold hands to the old sun
Grasping a memory, I once touched;
A forest's edge, faded in the dark mist
Of dawn, oh sweet spring! Open your
Eyes, open your mouth and taste
The sweet decaying soil, the death
Of everything come to life again.
I closed my eyes and feel the sweet embrace
Of my mother and father, the unspoken
Love I came to appreciate; and all at once
Existence (the mother and father of all)
Became a solid, soft thing, while
Time quietly showered over me
Electrical and phantasmical.

There in the sun with eyes closed
And hands open, raised
I opened my mind; like a
Lighthouse on the rocky shore
Sweeping the broken, brash horizon
(and finding more than what was there).

Bluebird in the tree
Blue whale on the horizon, blue
Winter's shadow on white
Bleached sun song
Younger than time, the tune.
Here we are bird watching
In the space before love;
Strange how we read these rocks
The poetry of everything
We haven't said yet.
It's been a warm winter
The sky's tearing through
The binoculars, the soul;
Here comes the burning
Infinite again, like a slow wave.
Feathers ruffle, the day spins.

Ignite these feelings I have lost
Directly, against the strong pull
Of gravity, drag them out across
The Desert tonight like violins.
And in the aftermath of death
After the flames consumed you
And your bones became dust
I went out beside the red cliffs
To hold you once again.
And when I finally let you go
In the summer, between my fingers
In the morning sun, I felt the flowers
quiver in the breeze, I watched the forest grow
deeper in shadow.

In fall, when all the muscles and tendons
Of the mountain are struggling
To stretch out their bare stones, and
All the skies are waiting for the soft snow
To fall from those darker evenings;
I saw you standing there beside
The opaque lake, quivering in anticipation
Of what is to come, begin. And, and if the
Weight is to heavy to carry, to burdensome
To bear, then lean on those stronger slopes
Seize the moment of despair, and embrace
The grief of here and then. In me you have
Within in me there is, a way down to the valley
Where the desert begins, the red clay yearns
In such moments as these, sculpted as if to say
I too am standing, still.

Along the flowing path
Of illuminated light, smiling
Beside the stream

Among the smothered stone
Beneath the shadowless mountain
The burning sun rises

Bloodless as Osiris
Drinking in the dusk
And laughing.

My eyes, grey blue, have changed
And my vision, deep grey, has
Changed, much like the trees
On the mountainside have changed, much like the way the
Night fades into morning.  And
My mind has changed, has become a well tended garden.
And my tears, well they fall
As soft as the rain tonight, this
First day of October.

Burnt out arroyo's
Of centuries gone
Melt before the sun
Goes away,  before
Summer does. The
Carmalized scent
Of la chamisa
Dank and old
Reminds me of
A smile gone
A dream remembered.

It was never easy, no
to love you fall;
so dearly and deeply
as it was to sleep
amongst the tall
pines of summer
(that strong spine of fear)
but I will confess
no more or less;
that your scent of la chamisa
in the evening of half moon
was a chill my flesh has
never confessed nor condoned.

After the storm rolled by
The swollen edges of the swamp
Lifted their white wings to the night
In flocks of thousands. I watched
From the cypress as they became
The stars, burning in the farthest
Corners of my mind. Dreams
In the space between synapses,
Fizzled and died. Love was but
A question we hung carelessly
In the dense jungle air.

A hazy, senseless rain in the night
Steady, as if summer was, ah
Finally taking a deeper sigh
From its ancient, billowing lungs.
Entwined in the lethargic retreat of
Violins and a thousand dreams
Of death and love; what could be
More terrifying and exciting?
Bowing, as if to say goodbye
With shoulders bent and bruised;
I hold onto those tears I let go
A long time ago, but still so near.
A cacophony of dank mushrooms
And mossy stones (remembering now, a river sound).
And in the mountain of mystic slopes
Deep in some obscure aspen grove;
I wonder if a similar feeling stirs
And grows?

What remains in the space of death?
The crinkled mountains so resilient -
The battered shore ever-changing.
“A day full of rain”
“A net full of stars”.
In the distance, through the mist
The lighthouse rises and radiates
Warning of impending danger.
Through my fogged filled eyes
the truth pours out. A fern
begins to form.

Beyond the last breath
From the last wandering ghost;
Appears a flower of no color
Or shape.
I go there sometimes to escape.
Beneath the ravished moss covered pines
Between the sudden, golden mountains.

Summer is a snake
Crossing the smoldering road
Stretched out like an
Exclamation of death!
This moment gone forever
Screaming out onto the horizon;
The old windswept mountains
Like broken waves, frozen
In the boat shaped mirror.
All is green, and all is forsaken
Driving down this path of light.

Outside the hospital
Beneath the fathomless, burning rage of  a star. In February

The mountain rose like a wing.

An encroaching wing, like an
Owl's fateful flight, half the path

speckled in blood. Encircled by
the weight of parting, we waited
patiently, tiredly.

(Grief is but the path we blindly stumble)

Our tears, the briny residue
of electricity, poured out profusely
Like a thousand small rivers
Running wild in the desert

Yes, you think about those things
"The last time I bought this bottle of pills (you were gone)"... the mountain and its yearning. Knowing that the journey
Has been done, many times before.

What if, on the edge
Of oblivion
I spoke with golden eyes
Burning the horizon
Charting a new path forward
Through pain, joy?
What if, the mountain fell
Away into the flames
Of eternity, like the last
Embrace full of tears, sorrow?
Neigh, tomorrow the sun will
Rise, the clouds will grow
And in the thunderous chaos
Of this life, I will persist
Until the last word is spoken
The final breathe taken.

Yes the mountains in my mind
So ever rising from the horizon
Of my past, of my future
Seem to know no star, seem
To crumble in my waking, constantly.
What if, what if love held no fear
Like death, the way the stream flows
Forward and backward (remembering the rain).
The mud sun where once we came from
Rose up from the desert like a bruise
Like a black eye. And I remember passion
In strained muscles, exhaustion and composure
(the birth of an infinite healing) what if
That's how it flowed, reluctant?
The closing embrace of tears.

Like ships in the night
The armada of storms
Sail off across the horizon
Out onto the distant plains;
Booming and anguished.
I walk in the night electric
And feel a certain buzz inside
Cautious and wild, stirring.
The night is hidden from me
by the night, the young leaves ripple
In the empty wind.

the burnt forest
of time, we climbed
to watch dusk -
to become dust.
the old path
that stretches on forever
(that follows the wind)
over the horizon-
i can see him walking
there now, smiling
in a golden blaze

it's beautiful to look back
upon the canyon ascending
nice to dance among the stars
drink the shadows of mountains
I've known love, even more
the great ocean sipping the shore
the great swamp reverberating
like a distant drum. To see
the trees in dawn's empty light
to look upon the deeper forest
walk among the moraines
cry beside the sea, on the
evening ferry off island
traveling far far away

In the springtime after death
Like a flower in the blowing snow
I know, I know the way
The world feels – tired and anxious.
And time, like wine grows finer
With age (Can you feel it’s
Booming heartbeat) can
You taste its enticing bitterness?
The long sonorous days
Of dusk and love are near again
And the future tiptoes on the quiet shores
Of that boundless, nebulous sea
Exhausted but auspicious;
Like a shadow in the wind

Written into the sand
A delicate heart; the broken
Shape of a thousand footprints.
Sunlight moves like water here
Sweeping down the arroyo.
Carved into the sand
An open hand; holding on
To a thousand lonely stars.
The long-lasting embrace
Maintained through centuries.
-
I think to a time when
The bones of galaxies have faded
And all of space is abandon, in the evening of the end.
When there is no light left
To guide and the only
Sound is that of the dead
Tiptoeing on the shores of emptiness.

every inch of earth and more
i long to touch and love and know;
like dusk the quiet fingers hold
the nervous children laughing.

sleet, too wet for a bird's feather
drowned the cold sound of dawn;
now quiet only the sun shines
golden rays through hairy pines

the moon is a man who walks with open hands
down an empty narrow valley And
may is a way to say horray! here are the flowers
and here are the lovers, but don't be bothered
by the moon he's just and old restless spirit
(and spring is only a simple season) attached to the stern
of night's mortality And who is the me there
say in the waves waving so tiredly
so zealously but the you I and all of everything everywhere

It pours from our eyes
From deep within our memories;
These tears of summer clouds
This flood of our existence;
Eating away at the dusty rocks
Grinding against our bruised bones (these twisted epochs).
Ah, the flotsam of evening!
In purple and carmine streams
Marks the path through the reeds; Through the diluted dusk
To the windswept stars
To the elemental island of
Now

The corrosive canyon;
A precursor to hope,
Bent before me like a king
In dusty robes (how many
More years?). I felt the slow
Soft smile of the sunset
Slink away into the dusk
In one long smear of red.
I heard the coyote and the owl
Chattering back and forth
Beyond the broken horizon
Beneath the impalpable, stars.

The river at night
The river beside the cottonwoods
The river beneath the moon
The early spring night
The cold wet stones
The distant owl calling
Through ribbed branches;
All our dreams floating
Further down stream
All our dreams driftin away.

Spring, after all the breathless
Leaves have been covered
In snow and ice
(after all the tears have dried).
I feel the earth's straining
And touch its stone;
As light as a kiss
After a trembling wind.
To be bare and bound
To be ponderous and placid
(a forgery of entropy)
In these egotistical ties
Of passion. (in these empty
Tide pools)
Sensuous to even death's
wicked smile  unfettered
from the last embrace.

Death is the sun
Strained among brazen trees
Low in the sky and smoldering.
Burn away the cold
(oh even moon!)
Wash away the sorrow.
Now is the time for tears
Now is the time for growth.

At our saddest, the darkest
Of the night, we find our
Deepest purpose, the
Ultimate cause. Slipping
In and out of shadows
You once again become
Nothing more than a memory,
Colder than the emptiness of space.
(The sun rises again)
It was with burning tears
I kissed your forehead
And said goodbye.

All the ravens
at the end of February
gathered in the leafless branches.
I now know the sound of death;
it is deep in the throat
and sonorous.  

Then what happens?
The snow will melt
The river's will flood
The summer will open
Its reckless hands again.

The mind sleeps, slacken
Like a fish net hung to dry;
Catching the naked wind.